The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  Jonathon’s shoulders sagged, his knees bent as that envelope got heavier in his satchel.

  ‘Then again, it might be nothing,’ I said. ‘Remember when Weirton threw a letter at me, shouted at me to take it home. I worried about it all day and it just said my parents had to send some money for the next school trip.’

  ‘You saw how angry he was,’ said Jonathon, forehead crinkling as his lips drooped.

  He reached into his bag, drew two more sweets from the rustling paper: the sparkling silver orb of a chocolate football, and – delightfully studded with tiny explosive cubes – a fizzy cola bottle. Jonathon pitched both into the greedy brown water, which swallowed them with a gulp – the cola bottle briefly frothing before it was sucked down. Jonathon clasped his hands like we did in prayers.

  ‘Please Marcus,’ he said, ‘if you can, please kill both Mr Weirton and my brother; please, we’ll do anything to help you do it! If you kill them, I’ll give you all the toys I have! Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ I murmured.

  Though I mumbled my support for Jonathon’s request, my heart beat out my unease. I understood Jonathon’s hatred of the brother, but wasn’t killing your sibling a horrendous sin? Even the Bible stated, in clear black and white, its awful consequences. I searched my brain, tried to think of anything in the Bible about murdering a teacher. I couldn’t – so maybe slaying Weirton would be less of a crime. But, anyway, we were in Marcus’s presence so I didn’t blurt out my misgivings. I just stood quietly, and after a few respectful moments, we left the sullen pond and were soon turning back onto the main street. The dry weather had ended a good week or so ago. The grass of the gardens was water-beaded; in the fields, sheep breathed mist as they chewed. The rain-fat clouds scudded across the sky’s low dome. Could all that water bring death to the figures we detested?

  ‘You should’ve told him to sort out Stubbs too!’ I said, feeling the pleasant rush of my hatred of Dennis while not being able to stop a queasy quiver inside.

  ‘Well, I can ask Marcus next time,’ Jonathon said.

  We walked on, not pausing to look for the witch’s hand. The day felt doom-weighted enough. We passed neat houses, with their enclosed squares of earth; passed the wet twisted hawthorn – barbed-wire spiked – that sealed off the fields; passed the manure piles sending steam into the air and the boggy plains that stretched off to the legendary Salton.

  ‘Hey!’ said Jonathon. ‘Why don’t you come to my house for a bit? It might make Mum and Dad less likely to whack me.’

  ‘Could do,’ I said, ‘but I’ve got another idea – why don’t you just lose the letter?’

  ‘Lose it?’

  ‘Yeah, pretend you dropped it by mistake.’

  Jonathon pulled down his eyebrows, twisted his face up.

  ‘Could do…’ he said, ‘but I think they’ll find out anyway. Everyone finds out everything round here. I’m sure Davis would tell them in the shop.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘and remember when Stubbs got a letter to take home and he dropped it. A grown-up found it and gave it back to Weirton. Stubbs got an enormous walloping from Weirton and an even bigger one from his dad!’

  ‘I could, I suppose,’ Jonathon said, ‘just keep it in my bag, forget to give it to my parents.’

  It was the best we could come up with. I drifted with him towards his house – in the hope my presence might put off the inevitable. The wet streets seemed to harbour gloom; the lonely coos of pigeons called out dread.

  We approached Jonathon’s home. Its copse of trees stood behind it – skeletal branches beginning to bud, the occasional lacklustre pine adding a slither of dark green, all fenced off by barbed wire. We trudged up Jonathon’s path, passed his sad gnome, entered the house. We perched as usual on the floor of the lounge, where Mrs Browning brought us milk and biscuits. Rather than watch the cartoons, Jonathon suggested we went up to see his set-out.

  ‘Oh, you don’t want to bother with that, Ryan!’ the mother said. ‘Drive me mad, they do. All these building blocks and toys and whatnot swarming all over the floor. Won’t let me vacuum or owt – all that dust!’

  Leaving Mrs Browning chuntering, we headed for the stairs.

  ‘Well, it’ll have to be tidied up and put away sooner or later son, you mark my words!’ Mrs Browning called after us.

  We tramped up the steps, past paintings similar to those hanging in my house: scruffy dogs and orphan boys peering out of the pictures with their oddly large heads and bizarrely huge blue eyes. We got to Jonathon’s room; he edged the door ajar.

  ‘You have to be careful coming in,’ he said, ‘make sure you don’t knock anything over.’

  I squeezed between the door and its frame, shuffling around that wooden panel in inch-long steps. A vast city met my eyes. Of course, I stood only on the outskirts, but I followed Jonathon as he picked his way through the suburbs to the centre. We tiptoed over his roads, past factories and warehouses. Along the blue cord of his river we crept – there were barges, big ships, fat-bellied tankers, occasional interloping pirates with their cross-boned flags. The first of Jonathon’s bridges came into view, before which – of course – were the busy docks: the cranes, forklifts, patient lorries, porters. We moved on; the buildings got taller: lofty structures which would surely gash Emberfield’s low sky, bring down the deluge of God’s judgement like in the Bible. Perhaps if Jonathon had a Noah, his ark would end up grounded on one of those thrusting towers. Near the centre were shopping streets, parliaments, palaces, interspersed with trees, parks, lakes. One space had a circus tent, around which bright-painted wagons stood and elephants lumbered. Elsewhere was a fairground – a big wheel, roundabouts, the looping tracks of a rollercoaster. In other places, theatres, stadiums rose. It all seemed a lot more entertaining than Emberfield – if only I could have shrunk myself, morphed my flesh into plastic, made myself part of that city, submitted myself to Jonathon’s benevolent leadership. The wise ruler really had provided everything – on the city’s other side, the furnaces of industry flamed, chimneys climbed to head-spinning heights. Police cars and heavy tanks ensured order and safety. And spiritual needs were not neglected – as the centrepiece of his metropolis, his magnificent temple shimmered: a stepped pyramid tapering to a dizzying summit.

  ‘Wow!’ I said. ‘Your set-out’s grown – it’s great; don’t think I’ve ever seen it this good!’

  ‘I’ve been working on it for days,’ Jonathon said. ‘Weeks, actually, ever since Mum smashed up my last one.’

  The city seemed to sparkle in the electric light, to quiver in its glory, tremble in the knowledge of how brief that glory would be. Its buildings teetered in their imposing arrogance: an arrogance both reckless and resigned – resigned to the knowledge of their inevitable passing.

  ‘Thing is,’ said Jonathon, ‘when they read that letter, Dad will whack me and Mum will come straight up here with the broom.’

  Could the rumbles of Weirton’s rage extend so far beyond the school – even shake down the foundations of set-outs?

  ‘Still might not be as bad as you think,’ I said. ‘Just keep the thing in your satchel and they might never know about it.’

  Jonathon’s down-turned lips, his pale cheeks didn’t show much hope. I went on admiring his set-out – every time my eyes swept over it I saw something new. Gazing at its grandeur, contemplating its certain collapse made me think of the two cities destroyed in the Bible, and that brought my mind back to that book’s unfortunate brothers.

  ‘Jonathon,’ I said, ‘are you sure you want Marcus to kill Craig – remember what happened with Cain and Abel?’

  ‘Don’t know –’ Jonathon’s lips trembled ‘– he is dangerous though, getting me in trouble with Weirton. What an idiot – making me laugh like that! Why did he have to come and sit behind me? Don’t want to get on the wrong side of Weirton – you know what might have happened to Lucy and Marcus!’

  ‘Could just try to kill Weirton, instead?’ I suggested, thinking of the two tim
es now I’d swooped and plummeted, gasping to fill desperate lungs, feeling myself just beginning to slip from this life and towards the otherworld.

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ Jonathon said, ‘we still don’t know for sure if he killed those two, but … perhaps we shouldn’t take any chances. I guess we should keep trying to per-suade Marcus to bump Weirton off before he murders us! Wouldn’t want to end up like the kids in the Old School or Lucy in her cupboard! Imagine being stuck in school forever!’

  Mrs Browning phoned my parents to tell them I’d stay for tea. By the time she’d got the meal ready and called us downstairs, Jonathon’s father had got home. Like mine, he sat on the living room sofa reading the newspaper; like with mine, it was one of those from Davis’s shop. Like my dad, he skimmed the columns with hard eyes, tutted, sighed, scowled, turned the pages, before flexing the paper with a crack. His wife called him; to the kitchen table he came, half-muttering something about unions – whatever they were – strikers and prison. Opposite us Craig sat. As the mother went round putting the meat, peas and potatoes on our plates, the brother picked up his fork, started to shovel the food into his mouth.

  ‘Hey!’ said the father. ‘What’s happened to your manners? You wait till everybody’s served – especially today. Can’t you see we’ve got a guest?’

  He turned his stern face from the brother, tossed a half-smile to me.

  ‘So, Ryan Watson, how are you?’ he asked, in a semi-humorous tone.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I said, wondering if Mr Browning was the type to halve everything.

  ‘Nice polite lad, you see.’ He turned to the brother again. ‘You should take him as an example.’

  The brother manipulated his munching gob to send me a snarl. I knew I might get it later.

  ‘You’d have thought Mr Weirton would have knocked his manners into him by now,’ the mother said.

  ‘Long slow process,’ said Mr Browning. ‘Takes time to bring them up right, but between myself and Mr Weirton, I think we’ll manage.’

  He once more shot me a semi-smile.

  ‘So Ryan,’ Mr Browning said, ‘how do you like school?’

  Something in my mind cautioned me not to be honest. How could I convey to Mr Browning the leaden hours, the fear of Weirton’s hand?

  ‘I quite like it,’ I said.

  ‘He’s lying!’ the brother blurted. ‘He told me he absolutely hates school! He thinks it’s really boring!’

  Mr Browning twisted his head towards the brother.

  ‘One more peep out of you, son, and I’ll tan your behind! Why shouldn’t a nice polite lad like Ryan enjoy learning?’

  ‘He says he learns nothing!’ the brother said.

  ‘I’m warning you, son!’ Mr Browning brandished and flexed his palm, which silenced the brother. We chewed without speaking for a while before Mr Browning said, ‘And how about Jonathon? You’re a bit quiet – how was your day?’

  ‘It was all right.’

  ‘He’s lying too!’ shouted the brother. ‘He had a terrible day!’

  ‘Right! I’ve had enough of this!’

  Mr Browning scraped his chair back, ran round the table to the brother with hand raised, grabbed the collar of his shirt. The brother’s mouth dropped open as his dad screwed that collar up, pulling him off his seat.

  ‘You’re lucky I’m not gonna take my belt to you! But – by God – I’ll give you something to think about!’

  ‘Please, Dad, it’s true!’ the brother squealed. ‘Jonathon got whacked today and Mr Weirton gave him a letter to take home to you!’

  The father paused. He was frozen with the brother – one hand hovering, the other scrunching that collar and wrenching the brother up. The brother’s mouth fell back into its shocked gape. The father’s face flickered; he turned to Jonathon.

  ‘Is this true?’ he asked him.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Liar!’ the brother shouted. ‘Just look in his bag!’

  ‘You be quiet!’ The father swung his palm, gave the brother’s head a hefty slap. ‘Jonathon, please bring me your satchel.’

  Jonathon got up slowly, pushed his seat back. The chair gave an ominous squeak. He trudged to the door, shoulders gloom-heavy, and plodded from the kitchen. I still had my hopes – in that heart-pounding silence I wondered if he’d have the sense to take the letter out of his bag, hide it somewhere. But, of course, if it was found, he’d get an even worse thrashing. Mr Browning unwound his fingers from Craig’s collar, returned to his chair. Jonathon walked back into the kitchen, tramped the suddenly vast floor, placed a neat brown envelope in the father’s outstretched hands. Those hands tore it open. As he had with his newspaper, Mr Browning flexed the letter with irritated expectancy. A sharp rustle knifed the air. The eyes scanned Weirton’s pages. I glimpsed them – the paper was scrawled with furious loops of blue, splattered with the ink spots of the teacher’s anger. Mr Browning breathed out loudly; his face dropped; his eyes flared. He put the letter down on the table.

  ‘This is serious,’ he said. ‘Very serious …’

  He exhaled once more before muttering, ‘Respect … this is all about respect … how can we have any order without basic respect? That’s half the problem with this country today … no more respect, deference, obedience …’

  Mr Browning stood. He lifted the bottom of his shirt, undid the buckle of his belt.

  ‘Respect …’ he murmured, as if repeating magical words in a trance. ‘Lack of basic respect, that’s the problem … well, I’m damned if I’m going to see it in my sons …’

  He pulled at the belt – the leather slid through the hoops of his trousers.

  ‘I’ll beat any funny ideas out of them … won’t put up with it … not a lack of obedience, of respect … half the bloody problem with the modern world …’

  The last of the belt slithered free. Mr Browning clasped the buckle and the opposite end in one hand to make a loop. He thwacked it into his other palm, brought his head down in a satisfied nod.

  ‘Jonathon,’ he said, ‘come out into the hall with me.’

  The father led the way, the dread loop hanging from his hand. Jonathon trudged – back bent, shoulders drooping. The father pushed open the door, beckoned the son to pass through. Jonathon obediently walked under the arc made by that door and the father’s outstretched arm. At that moment, the mother leapt up, grabbed the broom that leant against the wall.

  ‘If he thinks I’m gonna put up with that mess in his room a minute longer after today’s shenanigans, he’s got another thing coming!’

  Armed with her brush, the mother dashed out, also passing under the father’s arm. Jonathon’s dad closed the door, leaving just me and the brother at the table. His mum’s rapid feet sounded on the stairs then came sounds of demolition from the room above as towers and temples tumbled, grand buildings were levelled, ships swept from the river by that avenging broom. The brother still shovelled food, but his chewing face smiled at each noise of destruction. Another noise caused us both to jump – the whistle of flying leather, the crack of it meeting bare skin. Jonathon screamed. The strap whistled again, slammed onto the buttocks. Jonathon cried out – a piercing sound that caused even the brother’s grin to quiver. His munching face now looked dumbly philosophical – as if wondering quite what he’d brought upon his sibling. He didn’t have to wonder long. As walls crashed and spires toppled upstairs, the belt whipped the air again; the smack reverberated as it collided with flesh. Another scream came which this time morphed into rhythmic sobs. The crying undulated – sometimes it would catch, judder in Jonathon’s throat, but after some stuttering it went on with its unstoppable tempo. The air whooshed, the leather smashed into skin, giving his sobs a sudden spur.

  ‘What did you do that for,’ I said, ‘go and tell on your own brother!?’

  ‘Dunno –’ the brother spoke through his food-stuffed mouth ‘– I didn’t mean to. It just sort of slipped out.’

  Another wallop echoed into the kitchen – we both s
huddered as the noise jerked through us. Jonathon wailed on; the sound of the broom sweeping rubble came from upstairs.

  ‘You bloody idiot!’ I blurted.

  The brother shook his fist; I slipped from my chair, backed out of striking distance.

  ‘Why are you so mean to Jonathon? Why did you tickle him in singing practice? Look at all the trouble that’s got him in!’

  The brother’s shoulders shrugged; he bit his lip as he pondered, sighed, then said, ‘I didn’t mean for all this to happen – I was just having a laugh. And … well, I suppose it was to get him back too – I’ve spotted him a couple of times trying not to giggle when Weirton was yelling at me.’

  Another thwack reverberated from the hall.

  ‘I’m … I’m sorry,’ the brother said.

  ‘I don’t think,’ I said, ‘sorry will be enough.’

  The final whack resounded. But Jonathon’s rhythmic bawling – the sink and rise of his wails – would continue long after.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  We had the Easter holidays, when we munched chocolate eggs in honour of the new life given us by the death of Jesus. After that, about four weeks went by, during which Jonathon copped two more whackings and I got three. Something had changed: the headmaster was really coming down on us kids – striding into Perkins’s class to grill pupils about the tiniest offences. He’d stand over us, voice rumbling as he drilled his first finger into the tops of our heads, as our hearts thudded and bodies trembled. This was a new technique I hadn’t heard of or seen before: Weirton must have recently dreamed it up. But there he’d stand, his finger thrusting down into your skull, making you feel like the bone would rupture. Waves of dull pain spread out from that point, and you’d wonder if the longed-for relief that came when the finger was jerked away would be followed by the wrist-clasp, the lift, the swooping hand, or by Weirton simply striding from the room. But, on other days, the vast face would beam – he’d pat our backs, praise our work, sometimes even make the kids being complimented stand in front of the class. When this happened to me, I’d look at the faces of Johnson and Stubbs, knowing they were eager to get me in a secluded patch of the field – as eager as they’d be if I’d just suffered the humiliation of a walloping. In those weeks, quite a few punches were swapped between Jonathon and I and those two lads – with the brother and Darren Hill often pitching in: sometimes on one side, sometimes on another. Yes, blows hammered down from the boys and hammered down from Weirton, but what Jonathon and I received from him was little compared to the more usual targets of the teacher’s rage: Stubbs got seven whackings, Richard six. And we’d hear the almost daily explosions through the wall from Weirton’s class: the brother topped his monthly record by reaching nine thrashings; Darren got eight; quite a few were handed down to other lads as well. I sat and shuddered when I thought how it would be to be under those eyes always instead of Perkins’s long blinking lashes. I shuddered when I thought of how treacherous time was inching us towards the headmaster’s own class. It was still more than a year off – an epoch away – yet eventually we’d get there.