The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  The war cry shuddered out; Stubbs ran to the pole, wrenched his lid free. He rushed to the front of the mob, again unleashed his weapon. Flung with all his strength, its snags and spikes whirled an inch from my elbow. The disc hit the pavement, bounced and rolled. I hopped over it, a movement that lost me a couple of steps. The mob now hurtled just three or four paces behind. My mouth grabbed at the air; my heart bulged and thudded; a stitch throbbed. I was now just two strides clear of those pounding feet. A punch was launched; I dodged it; another was swung; I ducked. One kid tried to floor me with a sliding football tackle. I skipped across his outstretched leg – his speed carried him into a spiky collision with a hedge. I pumped all my remaining power into my run, and the gap between me and my pursuers lengthened. They were flagging; home was just two minutes away. Johnson pulled back his arm, flung his hefty branch as if hurling a spear. That javelin crashed into the side of my skull, smiting my ear’s tip. The world was tumbling – road, sky, houses spun. Then came the scrape and tear of gravel, the smell of smudged grass from the verge. I looked up – Johnson stood over me: arms high, once more holding his cudgel. He swung that weapon down. I jerked my head to the left: the branch slammed onto grass, embedding its spikes in the earth. Johnson smashed down his club again; I rolled away, but now more boys crowded round. Sticks beat – one struck my arm, another my thigh, jolting pain through me. A heavy baton raced at my head, narrowly missing. There was nothing I could do but curl myself into a ball. Their weapons crashed onto my shoulders, hips, legs. One sod pounded my knuckles as my hands shielded my face, each strike jerking agony down my arms. My fingers burned as skin was torn, the flesh left raw to the air. The sticks hammered harder – bashing out their dull impacts. My mind searched for ways to escape, but how could I stand under that deluge of blows? Stubbs yelled, ‘Stop!’

  I heard the mob shuffle back; I looked up through my fingers. My attackers stood in a circle around me; some leant on their staffs as they waited for Stubbs’s next order. Was Dennis feeling some sympathy, did he know I’d had enough?

  ‘Hold him!’ Stubbs shouted.

  Johnson, Hill, three other lads grabbed me, hauled me from the ground, pushed me down onto my knees facing Stubbs. Stubbs brought from behind his back his spike-edged lid. He pointed its snag-toothed rim at me, moved it back and forth as he perfected his aim.

  ‘No!’ I shouted.

  The mob roared encouragement. Stubbs went on with his feinting motions.

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’ My voice trembled; I held out my shivering hand in the hope it might calm him. ‘Please, don’t be stupid.’

  Dennis – face set, eyes staring – just continued his movements. I writhed, bucked, but strong grips clamped my shoulders, heavy feet pinned my calves; someone clasped my hands, wrenched them up behind my back. As I twisted and wriggled, I stared at that weapon’s rusty barbs.

  ‘No!’ I yelled.

  ‘Go on!’ Johnson shouted. ‘Do it!’

  Stubbs hurled the disc. A scream rang out. I turned my head. Johnson hopped and hobbled in a squirming dance. Pain screwed his face; he screeched and bellowed. The spikes of that wicked wheel had punctured his mac, embedded themselves in his chest. The mob stood, open-mouthed, gazing at his torment. I took advantage of their shock and rushed at Stubbs. I swung a punch, caught him on the jaw. Stubbs went down; I leapt on him. My knees pressed his arms; my fists battered his face. As Johnson cursed and yelled, I hammered all my hate into Stubbs. It surged up from inside me; it wasn’t me – some strange mechanical force drove my hands. Stubbs’s infuriating face gaped then tears came – tears which made me drive my fists harder. I socked his nose; blood spurted, mingled with the red that seeped from my scraped knuckles. Something barged me from the side; I was toppled. I rolled on the ground, looked up to see Johnson seated on Stubbs. He’d yanked the discus out – a line of bloody holes pierced his kagool. He slammed his fists onto Stubbs’s face, inflicting blows harder, quicker than I ever could. The mob swarmed around those two boys.

  ‘Scrap! Scrap! Scrap!’

  Murmuring praises to God, muttering my thanks to all the spooks of Emberfield and Salton, I staggered away. A voice in my mind wondered what lies I’d tell my parents about my injuries. Pain pulsed from all the places I’d been hit; the clammy air did little to soothe my knuckles. But, all the kids’ attention now on the pummelling of Stubbs, I could at least walk home unmolested as the street and fields echoed to the lads’ chants.

  Chapter Forty-four

  I really wondered why people weren’t taking more notice of that beautiful shimmering arch God had stretched across the heavens, why they weren’t remembering that divine symbol of forgiveness and peace, but – whatever I thought – as the days slipped by, Weirton’s palm and the lads’ fists just battered on. And, to make matters even more confusing, Jonathon told me his encyclopaedia said rainbows happened because of some strange mingling of sunbeams and wet air, in which the drops reflected light like mirrors. I wondered if perhaps a rainbow could just form on its own without God’s help, despite what Weirton had told us after the floods about the rainbow heralding the Lord’s intentions. I even wondered for a moment whether many of the things we’d seen as signs from God were not just things that happened by themselves anyway. When I had these disturbing thoughts, one glance at Jonathon would set me right. Just as I’d predicted, the shameful mark of Cain still scarred his forehead. It was showing no signs of going away, just like the mark which had never disappeared from Cain’s brow in the Bible. OK, Jonathon hadn’t yet been forced to become a wanderer on the earth, but I had no doubts about God’s justice. I knew His will could work slowly and through crooked paths, but I was sure that eventually His will would be done.

  I still fretted about whether we’d have Bonfire Night. For some days, I anxiously watched the sun as that flaming globe burned less strongly and inched lower on its arc across the sky. But I had no need to worry. One morning we marched into assembly, and Weirton’s urgent stride across the front, his tooth nipping his lip and his blue eyes scrunching behind his glasses told me he had an important announcement. When we’d all got sat down, the teacher swivelled to face us, hurled his pointing finger out over the rows and let his voice boom.

  ‘Children! November the fifth is coming, and we all know what happens on that date – Bonfire Night! And I’m most happy to tell you the council have managed to find a field dry enough in which to hold our display! Yes, children –’ Weirton smiled; he waved his finger around joyfully ‘– soon we’ll be enjoying our huge bonfire, our fireworks, our mugs of soup and toffee apples. Yes, let us thank the Lord for drying up those waters He sent in His righteousness as a warning about our sins! Let us thank Him for permitting us to celebrate the wonderful festival of Bonfire Night!’

  My mind murmured praises to God, thanking Him for His great mercy in allowing us to do our bit to urge the sun on through the frosty dangers of winter. A never-ending winter could be as bad as a never-ending flood. We’d have to put up with frozen fingers, stinging ears not just for a few weeks, but forever – or at least until the cold sapped our lives from us! What Weirton had said seemed sensible to me, but I saw Perkins and Leigh exchange frowns before the headmaster went on.

  ‘And, as you also know, it’s our custom in this country to burn a man on the fire – or at least a pretend one, to remind us of that foul traitor Guy Fawkes who tried to blow up the king and the whole Parliament! Yes, it’s a fine old tradition our nation should take the greatest care to preserve! Now, every year, one primary school in the Emberfield area is asked to make the guy for the town’s bonfire, and this year – I am pleased to tell you – we have been chosen! We’ll make him on Thursday afternoon so please bring along any old clothes or hats or anything like that you can find at home. I’m sure –’ Weirton grinned ‘– you’ll all enjoy making that chap, just as much as we’ll enjoy seeing justice done when that criminal, that terrorist receives his righteous punishment by getting burned up in those flames!’
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  My lips curved into a smile as joy leapt from my stomach to throat. I was already thinking about how I could make that guy, about what clothes I could ask my parents for, about how I’d make him truly lifelike – as long as no clumsy buffoons interfered too much while I was creating that effigy. We belted out a hymn, Weirton led us in a prayer and soon we were filing back to our classes. Perkins’s lesson dragged, break came and in the corner of the playground – the field was still too sodden for us to go on – Jonathon and I got talking.

  ‘Great news about the guy, isn’t it?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jonathon, ‘and good news we’re having a bonfire. Hopefully, it’ll keep the poor old sun going round in heaven, persuade him not to give up if he gets tired in the winter. That’s, of course, if it’s really like that …’ Jonathon crinkled his nose, narrowed his eyebrows. ‘You never know … we could have got it wrong. Maybe I’ll check in my encyclopaedia –’

  ‘Of course it’s like that!’ I said. ‘It’s one reason why we have Bonfire Night, put up lights at Christmas. Anyway, should be fun making the guy.’

  ‘Suppose,’ said Jonathon, ‘though it was more fun making my robot. Maybe we should get back to it … we haven’t thought of any other way of killing Weirton.’

  ‘Hang on!’ I said.

  My heart knocked as I stood still and silent, my first finger raised as if ready to spear and capture a wicked idea that drifted just beyond me in the moist air. That idea was hooked by my brain, dragged into the evil chamber of my mind.

  ‘What is it?’ Jonathon said.

  I turned to him.

  ‘Got it! Why don’t we make the guy look like Weirton?’

  ‘What would happen if we did?’

  ‘Don’t you know anything!? If it looks like him and we destroy it, Weirton will get destroyed too! Haven’t you heard the legend that if you have a doll that looks like someone and you stick pins in it, the person will feel pain in those places? Well, imagine what would happen if that whole doll was burnt!’

  ‘See what you mean.’ Jonathon nodded. ‘But are you sure it would work?’

  ‘Dunno, actually.’ My heart had been beating high in my chest with wicked joy, but now my hopes sagged somewhat. ‘But I think there’s a good chance it could work. There is a legend about it, after all.’

  ‘There was a legend about the gauntlet too,’ Jonathon said. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to just shove Weirton himself into the fire? Then he’d get burnt for sure!’

  ‘We couldn’t get anywhere near it,’ I said. ‘Remember from last year – it gets so hot it’s like a wall of heat pushing you back. And even if we could, someone would see us do it and we’d get in loads of trouble! It’s safer to rely on magic.’

  ‘Suppose.’ Jonathon shrugged. ‘Suppose it’s worth trying.’

  After school, we searched our houses for things to put on the guy. We went to Jonathon’s first, where we couldn’t believe our good fortune. His mum had a look in their loft, and – rather apologetically – brought down an ancient doll, saying it was all she could find. That toy was crowned with thick blond hair. We scalped the doll, cut its locks, sculpted them into a rigid parting with some hair mousse we wheedled out of Jonathon’s mum. With a bottle of Tippex, we painted some strands grey to copy the colour which was flecking more and more of Weirton’s iron hairstyle. When Jonathon’s dad came home, our mouths dropped open with joy as he handed us a pair of scratched reading glasses. OK, their rims were dark brown rather than black, but the TV shapes of their lenses were similar to those of the teacher’s specs. Getting a suit was harder – Mr Browning refused to sacrifice one to the flames.

  ‘We could ask my dad,’ I said. ‘He’s got loads of suits – he hardly ever wears anything else. He must have some old ones.’

  We trudged round to my place. It was already getting dark – and cold: frost-gripped gravel crunched beneath our feet; clammy fog hovered on the fields and manure piles. As we neared my house, the orange light from the windows showed a skin of ice on the pool of our gnome. I guessed Marcus’s pond and the standing water that still skulked in some fields must have been ice-glazed too – I supposed this meant the poor sun was already weakening. We went up to my room and soon heard my dad come in below. It took time to summon the bravery to make our strange request, but we sneaked downstairs, crept up to the living room and gave a respectful tap on its door.

  ‘Hello there, lads,’ Dad said from his armchair, lowering his newspaper as we came in.

  ‘Hi Dad,’ I said. ‘Can we ask you for something?’

  ‘That all depends on what that something is.’

  ‘We’re making the guy this year at school for Bonfire Night. We need some clothes for it and were just wondering if you have a suit you don’t need –’

  ‘A suit!?’ Dad’s face jerked back, his eyebrows shot up. ‘Do you think I’m made of money!? Unlike some, I have to pay tax and I don’t get government benefits to fund a lavish lifestyle!’

  ‘Come on,’ Mum said, from the sofa, ‘it is tradition. We should encourage the kids to keep our traditions up.’

  ‘Aye, suppose you’re right,’ Dad said. ‘And it’s a great tradition n’all. Lots of fun, but it’s also got a serious side, hasn’t it? Shows what happens to cowards and terrorists and traitors! It’s a shame we can’t stick some union leaders on that bloody bonfire! That’d send a good message to all those lefties!’

  We tramped upstairs with Dad. He delved into his wardrobe and found a battered jacket and pair of trousers – thankfully in black. He also gave us a stained white shirt and dark blue tie. The shoes we got the next night at Jonathon’s – a scuffed pair his brother had grown out of. We spent ages kneeling on newspaper, scrubbing them to a shine.

  ‘Don’t know what you’re making such an effort with those old shoes for,’ Mrs Browning said. ‘They’re just going up in smoke anyway.’

  ‘We want our guy to look smart,’ Jonathon said, with a smile, ‘almost as smart as Mr Weirton!’

  Thursday afternoon came, and the two junior classes were put together. We covered the tables in Weirton’s room with newspaper, set about making our guy. A farmer had donated a couple of bales of straw, and Weirton himself had brought the sticks to form the traitor’s skeleton. We lashed those sticks together with strong string and soon had a primitive figure of wood, which we topped with an old cushion for a head. There was some competition concerning the clothes. Stubbs had brought a pair of scruffy dungarees, which he protested should be put on, while Helen Jacobs argued for her good-girl get-up of patched fake-scarecrow jacket and suspiciously neat checked trousers. We agitated for our suit. Weirton strode and pondered, grasping and stroking his chin as if this would help him decide. Finally, he said, ‘Let’s go for the suit. No reason why Emberfield’s guy shouldn’t be dressed up for his burning.’

  We joyfully slipped the shirt, trousers and jacket over the wooden poles though Weirton had to knot the tie. We stuck the shoes on the stump-like legs, plonked our blond wig on the cushion. Weirton smiled.

  ‘You’ve made a good effort, lads,’ he said. ‘Well done! You know, that guy reminds me of someone, but I can’t think who. Aw well, all that matters is we’ll cheer as we see that evildoer go up in flames!’

  The other kids had to add some stuff, which somewhat spoilt our effect. Stubbs insisted on jamming an old pipe in the guy’s mouth, creating that hole by gouging the cushion with scissors. And Helen trimmed that cushion with a long fake beard, something Weirton would never have sported. I hoped these extras wouldn’t get in the way of any magic. Suzie Green donated some gloves – useful imitations of hands, something we hadn’t thought of. Then all the kids crowded round the guy to stuff it full of straw, cramming that hay into the arms, legs and torso. In the scrabble, I did my best to shape the stuffing to make the thing look like Weirton – cramming it in hard to push out the bulging muscles, huge chest, sculpting a stomach to ape the teacher’s growing belly. When the guy was filled with straw and its sleev
es and trouser ends bound with rubber bands, Weirton stood back and gazed at that merry, but also somehow sinister figure.

  ‘It’s great!’ he said. ‘There’s just one thing we need. We have to give it a face, but it might be difficult to paint one on that cushion.’

  ‘Please, Sir,’ I said. ‘I know how to do it.’

  ‘Well then, go ahead, Ryan,’ said Weirton.

  I took a sheet of paper, picked up a stapler and – after yanking out Stubbs’s pipe and pulling off our specs – fastened that page to the cushion. I outlined ears, nose and jaw in thick felt-tip then went up to the paints Weirton had laid out, took some red, mixed it with white to get Weirton’s ham-like colour, and daubed it on the face. I painted in angry blue eyes, blond eyebrows scrunched together in a scowl, the red slash of an aggrieved mouth. I added dark lines to show a face screwed in fury. Finally, I wedged the glasses back on.

  ‘Good job, Ryan!’ Weirton’s palm slammed onto my back, making me stumble. ‘He looks in a bad mood, but then I suppose I’d be if I was going to be burnt!’

  Right under Weirton’s gaze Jonathon and I swapped smiles. Stubbs then stepped forward and thrust his pipe back in the guy’s mouth, spoiling somewhat my careful crafting of his resemblance to Weirton.

  ‘Well done, everybody!’ The headmaster twisted his beaming face around our group, looking so pleased I felt pangs of guilt about using the guy’s magic to kill him. ‘Very well done! Yes, I’m sure this will be a good lesson to everyone who attends our display – everyone will see the punishments God wants us to inflict on traitors, on criminals, on bullies, on murderers! You know, sometimes, like in the floods we just had, God sends His punishments Himself; other times He wants righteous men to act on His behalf! Yes, let no righteous person stay his hand when taking vengeance on evildoers!’

  I didn’t understand all the teacher’s words, but there was something about how he said them that made me nod and smile.