Couldn’t wait to get out of that accursed school at the day’s finish. As soon as I could I picked up my briefcase, fled. As I drove home, I was disappointed to see the storm clouds had somehow drifted from my mind and up into the heavens. There they were – black beastly things, skulking on the borders of the clear happy sky. I knew we’d be in for a few wet days if those gathering monsters had anything to do with it. Shame really, but can’t expect much better around Emberfield. And sure enough, as I sit here and write, the rain’s hammering.
Wednesday, 21st September, 1983
More bad dreams last night – standing opposite the pond as the rain thudded and that pool overflowed, only this time those filthy waters were above my ankles. Driving around with Lucy in my car – which in this dream looked even more hearse-like – trying to find somewhere to bury her, but having nothing ahead of me except a road winding through never-ending flatlands. Another nightmare about the church at Salton – stuck on a pew, watching that gauntlet swing. Yesterday I was sad to see the rain, but last night I was pleased to have it pelting down. Crashed with such fury on the roof, it woke me a couple of times, rescuing me from my nightmares. But from the last dream – the one in the church – it was the phone that saved me. Device blaring its clear modern rings, jolting me out of that archaic gloom. Occasionally, just occasionally, I think maybe this modern world isn’t so evil. Anyway, it was a shock – jerked up just like yesterday, sweat-soaked, heart thumping. With barely a second to calm myself, I stumbled out of bed, tottered down the stairs, half my mind still in that dreadful church. My hand groped for the receiver.
‘Hello,’ I murmured.
‘Oh, hello, James.’ A well-spoken voice, which nevertheless managed to weave itself into mazes of hesitation, trip itself up over its own well-meaningness, came down the line. ‘It’s Rodney here … yes, Rodney the vicar … James, I know it’s frightfully early, I really shouldn’t have called, terrible blunder to do so now I think about it, I do hope you can forgive me, it’s just that … something rather unfortunate has happened in Salton Church.’
The vicar went on to say somebody had taken that gauntlet, swiped it straight out of there, leaving its hook dangling empty. My drowsy mind, still entangled in my nightmare, struggled to take it in. Rodney was clearly upset. To be honest, I don’t think he cares much more for that accursed glove than I do; he must – with his education – feel it a superstitious object that has no place in a house of God. I think he was more disturbed someone could bring themselves to steal from the Lord’s dwelling.
‘I wonder what our society’s coming to, James,’ he stammered. ‘What’s happening to our young people? I feel they’ve been brutalised … brutalised, James, jobs and opportunities taken away, communities destroyed, violence everywhere, and now it’s come to … this!’
I nodded as my anger rose. I wished I could get a whip, stride out into the street and flog the first workshy oaf or violent criminal I could find. Rodney’s right about communities being decimated by modern morality. But I tried to contain myself, speak with a calm voice.
‘It’s terrible news, Rodney, terrible. Is there any way I can help?’
Vicar asked me to talk to the kids, find out if they know anything. Promised I’d make an announcement in assembly. It’s not that either of us suspected any of them – I’ve got my share of rascals, but I wouldn’t have reckoned even Craig Browning or Dennis Stubbs would stoop to such wickedness. Told Rodney I hoped I’d pounded a bit of basic respect into them over the years, at least some reverence for the things of God. Said between the swoops of my hand and Rodney’s no-nonsense RE lessons, I was sure we’d done that. Said if it was lads at all, they were probably from that blasted Big School – no discipline in that place, headmaster’s a namby-pamby buffoon who hardly ever swings the cane. Hear parents complaining about it all the time. Rodney said he’d been in touch with the police. He told me their ideas about who might have done it – boys having some stupid joke, filthy gypsies who stole the thing for scrap, more sophisticated criminals who aim to sell the glove as an antique. Well, whoever might have been responsible, I told the vicar what I’d want done to them – horsewhipped then a good ten years of hard labour in prison then horsewhipped again before they got out. That would teach them not to violate our sacred places! Those Muslims might have the right idea about loping off thieves’ hands, killing blasphemers. As I told all this to the vicar, he gulped down the phone. Such a gentle man, Rodney is, can even forgive those scumbags who stole from his church. Good sort to be a priest, but thank God not too many people are like him – a world of bleeding hearts forgiving every transgression: we’d have chaos, anarchy! The only way we can have respect and order is if people know their place and what’s expected of them, and if they’re brutally punished whenever they step out of line! If they can’t understand they’ve done wrong via their brains, they’ll understand it through their bodies, believe you me.
Rodney switched the subject, asked how I was. Not good, I had to tell him – not sleeping well, tired and nervous all the time. Spoke about my recent appointment at the doc’s – doctor shaking his head, blood pressure sky high in spite of all the pills, cholesterol high too, same old problems with shortness of breath, heart not beating quite as it should. Doc lectured me about ‘lifestyle changes’ – told me to take things easy, not get too stressed. I’d like to see him remain calm when dealing with Darren Hill’s misbehaviour, Stubbs’s latest idiocies. Buffoon even suggested I changed jobs if I felt under too much pressure. Like it’s that easy – like I can just find some lovely relaxed post in which I’ll earn enough to look after my family and pay my mortgage. But the vicar echoed the doc’s words – easier to accept when delivered in his soothing voice rather than the doc’s hectoring tones. Asked me if I really thought I was right for the job, if I might not be happier doing something completely different, if my health problems were maybe not God’s way of hinting something was wrong. I’m a committed Christian, I love my Lord, but I really wonder why God can’t make things clearer! Rodney said the Lord’s ways are not ours, that His paths are mysterious and crooked, that we have to look for signs and listen with a patient open heart. That’s all very well, but I sometimes think my old heart will give out before I decipher any of God’s meanings.
We soon had to ring off as I had to get ready for work. As I had a wash and brushed my teeth, I couldn’t get the image of that damned gauntlet out of my brain. Still wasn’t able to completely wake up, get free from my nightmare. There the blasted thing was – hanging, swinging, in that awful church. I swear I almost saw it in the shower, not almost, I did – floating in the water-beaded air! It was transparent – I reached out to touch it, the thing faded away. Weird! I leaned on the wall to steady myself, sucked in deep breaths as I tried to calm my heart. Driving to school, I saw that glove hovering ahead of me in the slanting rain. I’d blink and it would go, but a couple of times it came back. Had to blink manically then shake my head to get rid of it. Not the safest thing to do when driving on a windy road with the rain pelting as water gushes down your windscreen.
Made it to school, by which time I felt slightly more awake, a little more into the solid world and out of my dreams. As I drove through the gates, I was disturbed to see that damned pond had grown. The rain must have really hammered in the night – the pool wasn’t far from its old proportions. Got past it as quickly as I could, went into the staffroom and made a strong coffee. Maybe not so good for the ticker, but I thought if I could drag myself completely out of my dreams, thrust myself into the clarity of waking life, it’d be worth it. As I sat there, sipping away, I thought about that glove. Though of course it’s outrageous to steal from a church, I couldn’t help feeling those thieves were welcome to that gauntlet! I hoped the thing would curse them, but – as long as it was far from Emberfield – in a way I was happy. With a bit of luck, I thought, the glove might be on the Continent by now, some Frogs or Krauts could be pawing the thing, murmuring in their damned langua
ges about the ‘genuine English antique’. I took more sips, took some profound breaths, getting calmer as my mind struggled into the day. The clock told me the kids would be in soon. Hadn’t prepared my lessons. Thought I could give my class some maths exercises though I didn’t remember what bit of my briefcase they were in. I bent down, randomly unzipped a section.
And there it was – that blasted gauntlet, looking straight up at me! I reeled back in my chair, heart pounding as sweat slithered down my spine. I ripped my gaze from that bag, from that glove, just stared at the white wall, taking big gulps of air. Told myself it was another hallucination. After all, there was no reason why that awful object should be in my briefcase. What I’d do, I told myself, was take some more breaths, steady my heart and look again. Like when I was driving, like when I was in the shower, the damned thing should disappear. I drew in, let out more air, got the speed of my heart down by at least a fraction and tried to have another look. Took some effort to force my eyes back to the briefcase, the last thing they wanted to see was another mirage of that gauntlet. Really thought I must be losing my marbles. Seeing things – who’d have thought it of me! I was determined to look again, prove that glove was just an apparition. I looked – it was still there! More damned solid than my previous sights had been. In those it had been wispy, ghostlike, here it appeared so substantial I could have picked the thing up. I sat and stared, hoping the vision would fade. It stayed as solid as ever. I jerked forward, clasped that briefcase shut, fumbled the zip closed. At least that removed the sight of the accursed thing. I concentrated on my breathing, sucking shuddering gasps, willing my heart to slow. Clock said there were just three minutes till assembly. Had to pull myself together – couldn’t let the little rascals see any weakness, not for one second, not even under these circumstances. Blasted clock ticked down so quickly as I wiped my face with a handkerchief, tried to still my shaking hands. After checking that briefcase was really closed, I hauled myself to my feet, took a few last deep breaths. Anger surged through me as I strode out to the rabble …
Chapter Thirty-five
We watched Weirton drive off, knowing he had the gauntlet. My heart beat doleful thuds; tingles ran over my skin. How easy it would be for him to zip open that part of his bag! I could just imagine the huge face recoiling – screwed up in confusion, white with shock – as he found the thing there. Jonathon and I began our trudge home from Marcus’s pond. As we turned on the pub’s sour- smelling corner, Jonathon said, ‘If he finds the glove, at least he won’t know it’s us who put it there.’
‘Suppose,’ I said, ‘but imagine what he’d be like the next day at school – he’d know someone had tried to kill him! He’d do everything to find out who – maybe he’d just whack and whack all the boys till someone owned up!’
‘And when he does find out who did it!’ Jonathon drew his finger over his neck, rattled out a deathly noise.
‘He might kill us!’ I said. ‘You know what happened to Lucy and Marcus!’
‘He might keep us! Show our skeletons to kids for years and years!’
‘We’ll be stuck in that dark cupboard with Lucy!’
‘Yeah, and another thing – now Weirton’s got that glove, it won’t protect us. It’ll protect him! It protects the person who owns it against all vio-lence and murders – we’ll never be able to kill him!’
‘Unless it slips on his hand, of course,’ I said. ‘That might happen – then he’d be sure to die!’
‘Can’t rely on that,’ Jonathon said. ‘It didn’t happen to us – and Weirton knows the legend so he’d be careful.’
‘Damn!’ I said. ‘We’ve got to get that glove back. Let’s hope he doesn’t find it and he brings the briefcase tomorrow – then we’ll steal it back! We’ll steal it!’
Having said those words, I glanced around, looked up. The day was still mild. A breeze ruffled the sheep-cropped fields, the lawnmower-scythed gardens. The smell of dunghills, dense and slightly sweet, wafted on the air: a scent not suppressed by rain or dispersed by strong winds. But I’d a feeling all this would change. Most of the sky was blue, spotted with light clouds. Just on the borders of that dome something more ominous had appeared. Darker banks of cloud were inching up over the sky. For some reason, I thought of a picture the vicar had shown us of Noah making his ark. The prophet was hammering at the hull as his neighbours laughed and mocked, as they pointed to the blazing sun high in the almost cloudless heavens. But wise Noah knew better. And – sure enough – dread clouds of black, bloated with the Lord’s coming vengeance, skulked on the picture’s edge. I knew it was sensible to keep an eye out for signs of God’s punishments, and those darker clouds did make me uneasy. I resolved to talk to Mr Davis. He’d know what to look out for, being – after all – one of Noah’s sons.
I shook such thoughts from my head and went back to discussing the gauntlet with Jonathon though we got no further with any plans. All we could think of was to grab the thing back when we saw an opportunity. Jonathon drifted off to his house, and I trudged on to mine, right on the town’s edge, passing our patiently fishing gnome to spend a nervous evening inside. I couldn’t stop thinking about that gauntlet. I thought of it lying in that briefcase, just waiting to be discovered. I sat in our lounge, watching the cartoons, but couldn’t concentrate on them. Mum brought me biscuits and milk, but my shivering teeth struggled to grind those cookies and – despite the milk – dry lumps of them kept sticking in my throat. My sister pranced around, annoying me, celebrating the whacking of Darren Hill, which she’d somehow heard about. I glugged some milk, gulped down a stubborn chunk of biscuit, and tried to focus on the cartoons and push that gauntlet from my mind. But – on this cartoon – a dog detective was taking the fingerprints of two cat criminals. I hadn’t even thought of the police! What if Weirton called them! I could imagine us all lining up to have our fingerprints taken by stern officers before Weirton’s rumbling voice would announce all the evidence pointed to me and Jonathon. Maybe they’d even discover we’d wanted to murder our teacher – we could be shut in jail for life! My heart lurched into a gallop. The only thought that could slow its stampede was my suspicion Weirton might not want the police poking around – considering what had happened with Marcus and Lucy.
Dad arrived home and a little later Mum called us all to dinner. I prayed they wouldn’t notice the tremble in my hand, the shiver of my fork, how I struggled to chew and swallow. I finished and got up to my room as quickly as I could. I hoped my parents thought I was just playing in there, but really I was praying to God, pleading with Him to keep Weirton from seeing that gauntlet, begging Him to help us snatch it back. Patters sounded on my window – rain. I ignored it, prayed some more then thought of all the land spreading around Emberfield, all that wide flat land quiet in the fading day. And a glance at the window showed that day would fade faster – those clouds I’d noticed earlier had conquered most of the sky, just leaving a patch of innocent blue and white around which drifted big-stomached black beasts. As the rain streamed down harder, I forced my mind back to those flatlands, thought of all the ghosts that haunted them. I asked for their help as well, asked them to do all they could to aid our struggle against our tyrant, to help us out of this terrible situation we’d stumbled into. I thought of Marcus in his pond – who’d hopefully be strengthened by the rain those dark clouds held, of the witch’s hand – as black as the skies which were giving us this downpour, of the kids trapped in the Old School. I let my mind float across Emberfield to the gates of Salton then let it wander down Salton’s lonely track saluting all the spooks along the way – Henry VIII, the hundreds of sleeping Scots, the Knights Templars with their ancient curses, the Drummer Boy, all the souls who rested around and inside the church. And I did feel some strength from them – a surge of strength telling me they were still on our side. It was like some force I could suck up from the soil, like water through a straw – I could almost taste it: black water with a rich earthy tang. I still fretted; my heart still knocked;
my hands and arms trembled yet at least I felt Jonathon and I had some friends, that in our struggle we weren’t alone.
And, later, there was more comfort. I lay in bed; sleep wouldn’t come. The rain hammered on the roof, bounced off the pavement below. With the rain bashing out its rhythms it took me longer to hear the familiar sound, but, gradually, through the noise of those drops, through all the gurgling in the gutters, I could make out the rattle of sticks against skin and the shake of an answering snare. Soon the beats of the Drummer Boy were mingling with the rain’s tempo: his rattles, thuds and clanks were weaving through, complementing the patterns that falling water rapped out. The Drummer’s playing swelled, got almost as loud as the rain before his rhythms faded – gradually surrendering to the downpour’s greater power, becoming less and less distinguished from the sounds of the rain until I realised his drumming had stopped. But that drumming – that sound of hope echoing through the deluge – had soothed my nerves, quelled my heart, stilled my shivering hands. And, soon after, I could sleep.
When I woke the next morning, it was still raining hard. I struggled to gulp down my breakfast, knowing that at school we’d discover if Weirton had found the gauntlet. I thought about pretending to be sick, shoving my fingers down my throat to bring my cereal up so I could stay off that day, but then I supposed my absence might be seen as suspicious. I tried to bolt my breakfast down, to convince Mum all was OK by the vigour of my appetite. With my anxious stomach, I really did feel a bit ill after that, but no one noticed I was any different. I was soon leaving the house, walking down the path of our front garden, with its rain-sodden grass, with the little pond of our gnome ready to overflow. I trudged along dodging the puddles on my way to Jonathon’s. Though I knew I shouldn’t be late, each step was slow – as if my legs had weighted themselves, the muscles heavy in their reluctance to get anywhere near the school. Another thought struck, quickening my heart. Could Jonathon’s nerves have led him to blurt anything out in front of his parents? Could a confession have been thrashed from him by his dad’s belt? I hesitated; my fist drooped, wavered before I could make it knock on Jonathon’s door. I ended up bashing that door too hard, startling myself. But nothing seemed different in Mrs Browning’s face when she opened it. Jonathon slipped out, for once all ready, for once not needing to be dragged from his encyclopaedia or books. Soon we were tramping down his road, the rain beating on our kagools, striking its sounds from the rooftops, the gnomes, the hoods of the fake wishing wells. As we needed to raise our voices higher than the rain, we glanced around, made sure no one was near.
The Standing Water Page 37
