The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  ‘Nobody in your house knows anything, right?’ I said.

  ‘No, yours?’

  ‘No. Just hope Weirton hasn’t found that glove.’

  ‘Well, if he has, we’ll hear about it in assembly.’

  ‘Yeah, when we walk into the hall, we’ll probably be able to tell from what mood he’s in.’

  We drifted on without speaking. We got to the main road, joined the procession of kagooled kids. We paused to look for the witch’s hand. It was there – a black shape in the air’s rainy grey. I hoped it wouldn’t be an evil omen. We mumbled a request, pleading with the witch to help us, before we trudged on. We also halted before Marcus’s pool. He’d grown with the night’s rain and wasn’t far off his pre-summer size. I hoped this was a good augury. We also murmured a plea begging Marcus’s aid. I pictured him skulking at the bottom of his deepening pond. Surely he’d be on our side; surely he’d love to see the man who’d murdered him, who’d trapped him in there brought low. We plodded through the gates and were soon in the cloakroom. I felt strangely still as the chaos whirled around me – kids squabbling and barging as they hung up steaming macs, Darren Hill gripping Stubbs while the brother ploughed punches into his belly, Richard Johnson trying to hang a squealing infant from a peg. All my actions seemed slowed down – the stripping off of my kagool, putting my satchel on the hook – as if my fear had placed me in a different time, formed a capsule that insulated me from the surrounding rumpus. I drifted towards the hall as my heart thudded – now we’d know: it’d all depend on how Weirton appeared. Passing through the doors, I glanced at the headmaster. He took long irritated strides across the front – just a few of those paces and he had to swivel round, march back the other way. I was struck by how the hall, which had seemed so huge just a few months ago, was actually quite little. It could be stridden across by Weirton in just eight or nine steps. My eyes inched up to the headmaster’s face. Rather than its usual ham-like pink, that face was red. The lips were set in a snarl – pulled back over the vast teeth. Fear tugged my stomach so low I thought it might drop through the ground. I filed in with my classmates. I was shaking; I prayed on one would see. Stubbs walked behind me, but he was spluttering, wiping his eyes after the brother’s assaults so I hoped he wouldn’t notice. When all the kids had come in, shuffled down to sit cross-legged on the floor, Weirton halted his march. He swivelled to face us, flung his pointing finger out over his pupils.

  ‘Children!’ the voice rumbled. ‘Children, there is something very serious I need to speak to you about. A most appalling crime has taken place! A crime so terrible it has not only broken the laws of Man but also those of GOD!’

  A gasp filled the hall. I glanced around – even Stubbs, Darren, the brother looked shocked. I forced my trembling face to mimic their wide eyes, open mouths. Seeing even those lads disgusted – and, now I thought about it, even those rascals wouldn’t stoop to offending the Lord, wouldn’t stoop to murder – made me realise how extreme our plots were. We’d tried to kill a man, even though that man was a murderer too. I gulped, tried to suck in deep breaths, tried to calm my shivering body. How much did the teacher know? He’d obviously found the gauntlet – had he any idea who’d put it in his bag? Had he done some investigations, talked to those old people who might have spotted us in the church? Weirton allowed a weighty pause before he went on.

  ‘Children, those of you who have visited the church at Salton will know that before the altar hangs a glove that once belonged to a noble knight. Or, I should say, it used to hang there! Yes, that’s right, that glove has been stolen!’

  Another gasp echoed out; Weirton’s eyes panned the hall. Those eyes rested on me. Those eyes stared; I flicked my gaze to the ground, but could still feel the headmaster boring into my skull. Would I hear footsteps striding down the aisle, feel that huge hand clamp my wrist, that awful wrench into the air? I raised my trembling head. The gaze had left me; it moved slowly over the kids, stopping on Darren Hill then Richard Johnson. Weirton flung his finger forward, flung it high.

  ‘Who could be evil enough to steal from a church!?’ he yelled. ‘A church of all places! Children, I will tell you more about this crime, but first we’ll have a hymn. It’s a good idea right now to pray to God, to sing His praises, to beg Him not to pour down His anger onto our community because of this despicable sin – this dreadful crime committed right in His holy dwelling!’

  The face was now maroon. Weirton waved a fist; that fist bashed his thigh.

  ‘If you’ve read your Bible, you should know how God punishes such outrages! At the time of Noah’s Flood, He drowned the whole world due to its wickedness! The two evil cities on the plain, as I’m sure the vicar’s told you, were burnt by God’s fire! And sinful Cain was branded with a mark for the terrible crime of murder – a shameful mark he had to bear for the rest of his days! So, let’s have a hymn children, let us give praise to God in the hope He will spare us His vengeance!’

  As we shuffled to our feet, as the hymnbooks made their rapid ways down our lines, I glimpsed Perkins and Leigh. They looked puzzled; their faces twitched as if they couldn’t quite be sure what they’d heard though Weirton had been shouting loudly enough. But Perkins turned to the piano, Leigh settled her eyes on her hymnbook and soon a swell of mournful voices filled the hall, backed by Perkins’s off-key plonks and Weirton’s baritone: a baritone quavering with a fury I swear shook the floor. The hymn was especially dirge-like, a lament begging God’s forgiveness for our many crimes, pleading for redemption as it urged us all to grovel before the Lord. As that sombre noise boomed, my mind rushed. What more would Weirton tell us about the crime after our dirge was done? I could imagine being skewered on his thrusting finger, pinned by his righteous eyes as he declared my sin in front of the whole school. I tried my hardest not to imagine what would happen after that. All too soon, the hymn was building to its thundering climax. And as our voices soared, as Weirton’s juddered harder, as Perkins bashed her keys, the outside world responded. The dark clouds hurled down more rain – sheets of it lashed from the sky. Through the window I saw it bounce from the concrete path, thud onto the field. Our song now began to fade – the kids’ voices sliding down from their dramatic peak, Weirton rolling out his last rumbles, Perkins plinking her final notes. Weirton nodded; we sat down, but the usual shuffling of the kids could hardly be heard above the rain. Weirton paced as it pounded the roof. When the teacher swivelled, flung his finger, delivered the next part of his speech, he had to shout even louder due to that downpour.

  ‘Yes, let us hope the Lord heard our sincere praises just now; let us hope He spares us his wrath! Children, I will tell you more about this disgraceful theft!’

  A pause: a pause that seemed to stretch into eternity, a pause in which I feared my heart would be heard above even that crashing deluge.

  ‘Yesterday, the vicar went into the church at Salton. As you might know, that glove hung on a chain, suspended from a hook. Well, the vicar was shocked to see the hook – with no glove dangling from it! He could only conclude that somebody, for some reason, had stolen that gauntlet!’

  Another gasp came from the kids. Was there now a little uncertainty in the teacher’s words? Was there a chance that gauntlet lay in his bag undiscovered? I leant forward, readied my ears as Weirton prepared to go on.

  ‘Yes, stolen!’ the voice juddered. ‘Of course, he told the police!’

  My heart, which had slowed, began to gallop. I gulped, tried to swallow, my mouth and throat were too dry.

  ‘Who could have done it!? Who could have committed the terrible sin of stealing from a church!?’

  The rain smashed even harder. Again I wondered if that dread finger would thrust at Jonathon and me, if Weirton might even stride to the staffroom, come back with his briefcase and produce the evidence of our crime right there. Weirton’s pause stretched on even longer this time. He glanced towards the staffroom, bit his lip as if thinking hard. The huge body turned; the feet took a step in that direc
tion. Weirton swung back, thrust his pointing finger over his audience.

  ‘The vicar and police have several ideas.’ The voice’s rumble was a little calmer. ‘It might have been kids – kids from the Big School – messing about.’

  I sighed with relief, letting go a gust of breath. I thanked God the hammering rain masked that noise.

  ‘It could have been stolen by people who wanted to sell it as scrap metal or maybe people who felt it had value as an antique. Who knows’ – Weirton began to shout again – ‘what goes on in the minds of such wicked individuals!?’

  ‘If you know anything, if you hear anything –’ the voice was now softer, the teacher glanced, just very quickly, towards the staffroom ‘– please, please do not hesitate to tell me or your parents. I’m sure all of you’ – the voice boomed louder as Weirton’s anger surged once more – ‘and every decent person in Emberfield would love to see these … these scoundrels severely punished! And punished I’m sure they will be because’ – the red sweating face turned; the eyes looked at the black clouds massing outside the window – ‘even if these villains evade the punishments of Man, they won’t escape those of God! There’s no avoiding His justice! Remember poor Lucy – most of you have seen how she ended up! Let us just hope and pray the Lord’s wrath doesn’t spill over onto the innocent as well as the guilty. Let us hope we are not all stricken with fire or flood like the poor people in the Bible!’

  A glance jumped between Perkins and Leigh – the teachers’ eyes flickered with what seemed like worry.

  ‘Well, yes children,’ the voice rumbled on. ‘Just remember to tell us anything you hear or know about this crime. And now, let’s have another hymn – let’s sing our praises loud and high in the hope the Lord hears them. Page 89 in your books.’

  Soon our voices were climbing, clambering as high as we could make them go, all of us building our shaky tower of sound as we attempted to appeal to the Lord so far up in the heavens. Weirton’s shuddering voice was that tower’s foundations. The Lord did not seem to listen. He just threw down more rain. The assembly finished, and – as we filed from the hall – I leaned close to Jonathon.

  ‘Phew! He doesn’t know where the gauntlet is. But we’ve got to get it back!’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jonathon hissed, ‘but how can we?’

  Even if I’d had a reply, I wouldn’t have had time to whisper it. The jostling parade of kids was a little subdued after the announcements we’d heard – there were only a couple of half-hearted prods and punches from Stubbs and Johnson – yet still that parade swept us into Perkins’s room, and Perkins herself hobbled in on her heels shortly after. Soon she had us sitting down, reading our books. As my eyes skimmed over another dull and unlikely tale of boy detectives, as the rain crashed on the roof, I thought of that gauntlet lying just a few feet from me. All that stood between me and it was blank air, a slim wall, thin leather, and of course the weighty barrier of Weirton’s wrath. If only I could sneak into his room, snatch the thing from his briefcase. Impossible! Even if I got in there, even if the teacher’s back was turned and I could somehow delve into his bag, grab the glove without him noticing, the thirty sets of eyes in his class would see all. The whole thing was hopeless. Sooner or later Weirton had to stumble upon that gauntlet, and then … There’d be yells shaking through the school, rage unimaginable, mass whackings, maybe some of us even meeting the fate of Marcus and Lucy. Who knew what techniques the teacher would use to squeeze the truth from us? Something had to be done, but what? Before I knew what was happening, I felt my hand inching up. Perkins was fussing around the class, pouring her criticisms down on Suzie Green. My heart beat as I prayed she would – and prayed she wouldn’t – see my hand.

  ‘Ooh, Ryan Watson, what is it? As if I haven’t got enough to do!’

  “Please, Mrs Perkins –’ my mind searched frantically then alighted on the same old trick ‘– can I go to the toilet?’

  ‘Eeh, I suppose so, but you’ll have to learn to control your bladder sooner or later. Mrs Leigh was just saying so many of you kids are like dripping taps and you’re one of the worst! Go on and be quick!’

  I glimpsed Stubbs, Richard smirking as I stood, took slow steps across the room. I didn’t know how I’d get that gauntlet – I prayed the Lord would cause some idea to spring into my brain. I walked with a nervous tread down the corridor. The door to Weirton’s classroom was ajar; just four or five feet from it his briefcase sat on the floor next to his desk. The briefcase was open. Weirton stood before his pupils. He had his huge back to me; his hands were waving, pointing, cutting down through the air as he explained some maths. The pupils’ eyes were all fixed on him – and for good reason. His face turned as his gaze panned over the seated kids, making sure he had the attention of them all. My heart rushed and boomed. What could I do? If I squatted down, unzipped that section holding the glove, it’d take too long – I’d surely be spotted. My body jerked into action before my brain could think. I lurched into Weirton’s room; I was falling, flying. I landed on the briefcase – a second of shocked silence then laughter echoed from the class. I used the cover of that noise to yank down the zip, lying with my body in a way that shielded the now flattened bag. I aped an idiot’s expression – gob open, eyes wide – to make more laughter roll as my hand delved into that briefcase. It closed around the gauntlet, whipped it out, shoved it under my baggy jumper as my other hand fumbled the zip closed. Weirton stood rigid, still facing his class.

  ‘What is the meaning of this!?’ The body jerked into motion; the fist shook as I shoved the gauntlet into the elasticated waistband of my jeans, which clasped it just under its first set of knuckles. ‘How dare you break into laughter!’

  The teacher must have noticed where his pupils were looking because he swivelled round, saw me sprawled on the floor.

  ‘Ryan Watson!’ Weirton yelled. ‘What are you doing down there!? You’d better have a good answer boy or this hand won’t be slow to beat one out of you!’

  ‘Please, Sir –’ there was no need for acting now: fear made my voice squeak ‘– I was just on my way to the toilet, and I slipped and fell. I’m very sorry, Sir.’

  ‘You clumsy oaf! You dunderhead!’ Weirton shouted.

  Laughter once more broke from his pupils.

  ‘Silence! Silence I say or it won’t just be Ryan Watson feeling my right hand!’

  ‘Please, Sir,’ I squeaked again, ‘it was only an accident!’

  ‘Stand up, for heaven’s sake, you idiot boy! Are you going to lounge on the floor all day?’

  I stood – I knew I had to do so rapidly if I had any hope of quelling Weirton’s wrath. I just prayed the gauntlet would stay where I’d stashed it. I felt that glove shift against my tucked-in t-shirt. I begged God not to let Weirton catch its outline under the folds of my sweater. Soon I was on my feet – the glove, thankfully, hadn’t tumbled to the floor. Weirton strode back and forth, his red face looking down at me. If Weirton wrenched me up, whacked me then the gauntlet would be hurled from its hiding place.

  ‘Ryan Watson!’ the voice rumbled. ‘Can you tell me what you should do right now?’

  My heart’s thuds jolted my brain as I tried to think. Such a question was not what I’d expected. Weirton’s face shaded to a deeper red. The classroom clock ticked as my mind struggled.

  ‘Come on, Ryan! What would any decent person do in such a situation?’

  My eyes flicked to the briefcase. Pens, rubbers, bits of paper had slipped out, scattered across the floor.

  ‘Please, Sir,’ I said, ‘should I pick up your briefcase and put those things back in?’

  ‘Yes, Ryan –’ the voice was calmer ‘– that would be a good way to make up for your carelessness.’

  I moved towards that briefcase, bent down, began to gather those stray bits of stationery. I felt the weight of Weirton’s eyes as my fingers fumbled, felt all the eyes of his class. Still bent over, my hands full of rubbers, paper, pens, I edged backwards to the briefcase, started
to slip those objects back in. The gauntlet pressed against my side. Thankfully, my stooped shuffling walk hadn’t dislodged it. I dropped the last of Weirton’s bits and pieces into that bag and readied myself to straighten up. I heard it first. The air whistled. Pain flashed across my rear. I lurched forward; shot my hands down to clamp my knees, to stop myself falling. The hand swooped once more; the impact resounded, made me totter a few steps in my crouch, but I didn’t trip. I felt the gauntlet shift under its elastic. Again that palm whistled – an extra hard one: this time it lifted me. I floated; banged down painfully on my knees. A little laughter squeaked from the class – laughter I was sure they’d been battling to keep down.

  ‘Silence!’ Weirton yelled. ‘Silence or – by God – I’ll give you some of the same! Ryan Watson, for heaven’s sake, stand up!’

  I clambered to my feet. The gauntlet had wriggled some way from where I’d stuck it in my waistband – now just the glove’s base was gripped. The huge face stared down at me.