I walked to school the next day with my heaviest ever tread, but also with a giddy lightness in my heart. I was sure we’d killed Weirton. How could he have survived Marcus’s ravagings? Hadn’t I seen him twist and struggle with my very own eyes, hadn’t I seen the vicious monster that had devoured him, hadn’t I seen the rocking surface of that pond sealed: sealed with a tomb’s finality? It was a weird feeling to know I’d killed a man, even though that man was a bully and murderer the world was happily free of. It was like I’d passed some barrier, some stage. I felt flat and anxious all at once; the world seemed both more sombre and alive. I thought of the select band of which I was now a part – knights, warriors, pirates, criminals. It put a distance between me and the other trudging kids – I’d experienced something they’d never know: it placed me a mark both above and below them. My heart struck up its thud as I wondered what they’d find of Weirton – just his rod, chair and funereal car? Or would gnawed and shattered bits of bone be seen drifting in the pond? Would anyone dare go near that pool to retrieve those remains? I knew there was no way anyone could find out it was us – nobody had seen us and Marcus would have gobbled nearly all the evidence. Jonathon and I just had to keep our mouths clamped.
I tramped next to Jonathon, but neither of us spoke. My heart’s booms came faster, harder as we approached the pond. I couldn’t shake the sight of Marcus from my mind. What we’d seen had quelled all our doubts. What more proof did we need for our legends than the sight of that hideous charging ogre with his mud-caked flaps of skin? OK, he didn’t look much like Marcus had, but I supposed Marcus must have swollen and grown from all the sweets we’d chucked him, from all the rain that had bashed down on his pond. And I guessed his long months in the pool must have morphed him into a being made of pond-slime and sludge.
I glanced around the pool, its shore. I looked carefully, but there was no sign of Weirton’s rod or chair. As I walked through the gates, I saw his car had gone. Somebody must have taken them; somebody – at least – had to know about the death of the teacher.
In the cloakroom, I fumbled off my coat, trying to stem my anxiety and fear, which had surged since I’d entered the school, as if going into that building, Weirton’s own domain, had really woken me up to what we’d done. As my hands shivered, as my heart thumped, I prayed no one would notice I was any different. Surprisingly, no one seemed to. It was like there was some thick yet transparent substance between me and everyone else, some strange muffling barrier. Everything just whirled around me, going on in its normal course, like I was a numb observer of an average day. The kids shoved, teased and bickered; as usual they thronged around then bulged through the hall doors, carrying me with them into the assembly.
I glanced about – Weirton wasn’t in the hall. Instead of the headmaster, Perkins stood at the front. Leigh sat in her habitual place. On the hall’s other side was a man I’d never seen before. His manner seemed most inappropriate given the circumstances. He’d tipped his chair back in a way that was almost jaunty. His head leant playfully to one side and a smile even flickered on his lips. He was older than Weirton, with white hair and a moustache. Like our – former – headmaster, he wore a suit, but his was lighter-coloured, a creamy beige as opposed to the blacks and dark-blues Weirton had favoured. Even more puzzlingly, the top button of his shirt was open and he wore no tie. As more kids poured in, the children’s twittering got louder. Questions scurried around the hall – where was Weirton? Why was Perkins at the front? Who was the strange older man? Already answers, legends even, were being fashioned. My heart went on with its thud, tingles spread over my skin as I prayed no suspicions would land on us. As we lowered ourselves to join a cross-legged line, I looked at Jonathon. There was a tremble in his lower lip; he seemed sickly, pale, but not so much as to draw attention. As the kids’ chatter swelled, I even heard some speculations about Marcus – he’d finally grabbed Weirton as the headmaster, ignoring all warnings, had gone on fishing in the pool. I sighed, felt some tension flow out – if people thought Marcus could snatch and devour Weirton all by himself, maybe the police wouldn’t bother looking for any other murderers.
Perkins shouted for us to be quiet, clapped her hands. Lacking the dread rumble of Weirton, not being of his huge size, Perkins had to yell and clap for a couple of minutes before we settled. She said nothing of Weirton, but told us we’d have a hymn. The monitors passed the books down our rows, but not with the same scrabbling urgency as when under the headmaster’s gaze. Perkins tottered on her heels across to the piano and was soon bashing out gloomy chords. Wrong notes sloshed and eddied in a gushing torrent of sound. I recognised the tune – ‘The Water and the Blood’. Most suitable, I thought, with an inward snigger. I pictured those dark waters that had killed Weirton, that must have caused his blood to flow. But – the teacher’s hands stained by the blood of others – I wasn’t sure that even the waters of Marcus’s deep pool could wash his sins from him. A thought made me suck breath right in the middle of a line – maybe we were singing that hymn in mourning for Weirton! Afterwards, could Perkins announce his death, point a finger at us or invite the police to enter the hall with grim echoing footsteps to question the kids? I glanced around – the stranger was mouthing the hymn, but appeared to be taking it not quite seriously. His eyebrows shot up as if questioning – as if actually daring to question – the song’s sacred words. He gave a tired sigh before we launched into the chorus. But we kids did not share his doubts and – accompanied by Perkins’s high voice and off-key plonks – we were soon roaring out the last lines.
‘And by the water and the blood,
Our souls are washed,
Our souls are washed from sin.’
The final plinks trickled away, and the kids shuffled down to sit cross-legged. I shivered as I waited for Perkins to tell us of Weirton’s death. Instead, she made a few announcements – the school trip, swimming lessons for the top class – before leading us in a prayer then going back to the piano to plonk her way through another hymn. Only after the last notes had faded did she gesture to the stranger at the hall’s side.
‘Children,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid Mr Weirton cannot be here today. So, I’ll teach his class and my class will be taken by this gentleman, whose name is Mr Stone. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you to be good for him!’
We stood and filed back to our classrooms. For all of that walk, the kids’ twittering voices danced around my ears: ‘Where’s Mr Weirton?’ ‘What’s happened to Weirton?’ ‘Did Marcus get him?’ ‘I hope so!’ ‘Silly twit, fishing in that pool!’
Stone stood at the front of our room while we settled ourselves. He took the register – smiling as he repeated our names to help him remember them. He then said, ‘Yes, as Mrs Perkins told you, I’ll be your teacher for today – at least for today – as Mr Weirton can’t be here.’
Stubbs’s hand crept up.
‘Please, Sir, what’s happened to Mr Weirton?’
‘To be honest, Dennis, I don’t know. Maybe he’s sick. When I find out something, I’ll tell you.’
I shot a look at Jonathon – we exchanged trembling smiles. Our group ploughed on through the morning. Mr Stone was a better teacher than Perkins and Weirton – he was better at explaining; his lessons were livelier, almost fun. The atmosphere seemed incredibly light after the back-bending, head-lowering heaviness that had filled the school’s air under the headmaster. Mr Stone was strict, but – at least on that first day – there were no whackings. He had to blast Stubbs and Richard Johnson several times. Both boys shivered when the yelling stopped. I knew they trembled in fear of the teacher springing forward, yanking them up. But Stone just returned to the lesson and each lad was left open-mouthed, bodies braced for the thrashing that never came.
The work was still dead simple, but Stone noticed when Jonathon and I finished early. He came over and swept ticks down our columns far faster than Perkins ever had, nodding and muttering, ‘Eeh, you’re bright lads, aren’t you?’ By the aft
ernoon, he had extra exercises to give us while the others struggled to the end of their first ones. These additional tasks had more challenge: we even got one or two questions wrong. As for the thicker students, he told them just to be content to answer the first ten or fifteen questions of each exercise. He even praised Richard Johnson when he got more than half of that limited number wrong – something that might well have earned shrill cries from Perkins which would in their turn have triggered a walloping from Weirton.
‘God didn’t exactly bless you with brains, lad,’ Stone said kindly. ‘But at least you try.’
Johnson gazed up at him with a grateful smile. He even praised Suzie Green when that dunderhead managed to get one question right. With blinking eyes, Suzie looked at Stone, amazement dawning over her face as her mouth crept into a grin. The next day, Perkins again took the assembly. We thundered out a couple of hymns – during which Stone sighed and shot up eyebrows – before we recited some prayers. The assembly over, Stone led us to our room. He took the register, pointing at us, smiling and testing himself to see if he recalled our names. Then he frowned and paced for some moments before he said, ‘Children, I must tell you Mr Weirton is ill. He’s in hospital and won’t be coming out for some time. So for the next few weeks at least, I’m going to be your teacher.’
Smiles lit the faces of my classmates. But all I could think of was Weirton was alive, that he might be back. Heavy as a rock, my heart plummeted. My lips wobbled; I bit them, concentrated hard so as not to cry. But a tingly relief also surged through me, making me shudder. It seemed Weirton hadn’t told anyone about being shoved into the pool. And my hands weren’t stained by the blood of murder! Stone saw me and misunderstood.
‘Don’t be upset, now. I’m sure your teacher will be back, right as rain, before too long. I’ve got an idea – I’ll get a big piece of card from the cupboard, the biggest I can find, and we’ll make a great get-well card for him this afternoon. How about that?’
As soon as we were let out for break, Jonathon and I scurried into a corner of the playground.
‘How can he still be alive?’ said Jonathon. ‘After all that!’
‘Maybe he’s like Jesus and King Arthur,’ I said. ‘Maybe he can die and come alive again.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Jonathon. ‘When you die, you die: unless you’re someone really special like Christ or Arthur – and I don’t think Weirton is!’
We stood silently for a moment; our faces scrunched as we pondered.
‘But we saw him!’ I said. ‘We saw Marcus! We saw how huge and strong and horrible he was – charging out of that pool! How could anybody survive a fight with something like that!?’
Jonathon’s palm flew, slapped the back of my head.
‘Idiot! That wasn’t Marcus! It was Weirton! We just didn’t recognise him because he was all covered in mud and wearing that big waterproof. And if Weirton didn’t die after falling in the pond, it probably means …’
I nodded. ‘Marcus might not be in the pond after all.’
‘But do you think Weirton killed him?’ Jonathon said.
I jerked my shoulders in a shrug. ‘Who knows? But you saw how crazy Weirton was getting, the huge whackings he was giving out – I’m sure he’d have killed someone sooner or later!’
‘Let’s just hope’ – a quiver passed over my face – ‘that Mr Stone’s wrong. Let’s hope Weirton’s really ill and he’ll never come back!’
‘Yeah,’ said Jonathon. ‘If we’re lucky, he might die in hospital!’
That afternoon, Stone came into the class carrying an enormous sheet of card which he laid on a table and folded in two. He turned to me.
‘So, Ryan Watson, hear you’re a budding artist?’
I wasn’t sure what ‘budding’ meant, but I nodded.
‘How about you draw the main picture in the centre of the card then the others can add bits around it?’
‘What shall I draw, Sir?’
‘Good question – maybe think of an enjoyable time you had with Mr Weirton, something you did together as a class you all liked. I’m sure he’d be chuffed to see that.’
I decided to do a drawing of the last Bonfire Night. I sketched our guy, sat him on top of his pyre. I gave him Weirton’s rigid hair, black shoes, dark suit. The guy snarled as the flames licked around him. I wondered whether there was a chance – even a faint one – that whatever we sculpted or drew might come true in real life. Maybe by drawing Weirton tortured with fire, I could bring the teacher low or at least keep him in hospital for a long time. I sketched an explosion tearing from the heart, just like the one our poor guy had suffered. As for the blast that had ripped open the guy’s head, I just showed it erupting from the ears – so as not to spoil my skilful depiction of the face. I felt my rendering was so lifelike that – fearing a whacking if the teacher returned – I obscured my effigy by adding Helen’s beard, Stubbs’s pipe.
‘Eeh, you’re a talented lad, aren’t you?’ said Mr Stone. ‘Mrs Perkins told me all about the great guy you made. Sounded like fun – just a shame things went a bit wrong on the night.’
‘Sir,’ I said, ‘I’ve got an idea. The others can draw in the fireworks and maybe each person can sketch themselves dancing round the fire.’
‘Smashing idea, Ryan! Let’s do just that.’
The others were set loose with their coloured pencils and felt-tips. The sky behind Weirton filled with banging fireworks, with whooshing strands of red, turquoise, green. Stubbs mischievously drew two flaming rockets rushing from the blaze. I couldn’t resist adding the burning discus of a Catherine wheel chasing a boy who looked suspiciously like Dennis. I’d decided to have the kids skipping round the fire because I’d heard a legend dancing round something in a ring could raise up a weird magic. All the kids hated Weirton so perhaps by prancing round him our hate could grow, sneak from the card and somehow harm the teacher. And the card did begin to look strange – some of my classmates were so bad at drawing that rather than boys and girls it looked like a gang of goblins and imps were capering round the blaze, creatures with the most wicked sneers and terrible deformities. Creatures I’m sure would have delighted in the screams of the guy, in the smell of roasting man-flesh.
When we’d finished the front of the card, Stone got us all to sign our names and write a message inside. Most were boring and predictable – ‘Get well soon’ scrawled Stubbs. In her good-girl handwriting, Helen’s message said, ‘Missing you, hope you’re better soon’. I just wrote, ‘Dear Mr Weirton, remembering the fun times we had, Ryan’.
Days then weeks went by. Everybody got better with Stone – scoring higher in English, spelling and maths. Even the dimbos like Richard and Suzie improved. And not one whacking was flung down! In the first fortnight or so Stone shouted himself hoarse at Johnson and Stubbs, but such yelling became less and less necessary. A comforting calm filled the classroom, a reassuring peace that so enveloped you it felt like it hugged the skin. And we learned a lot. Stone told us some interesting things, stuff we could never have guessed before. For instance, he claimed – contrary to all logic and the evidence of our very eyes – that the sun didn’t go round the earth, but the opposite was true. He drew a diagram on the board, showing the vast sphere of the sun and the tiny balls of nine – not seven as I’d thought – planets circling it. He also said the sun wasn’t – as I’d reckoned – the size of our Bonfire Night blaze, but thousands of times larger than our earth. What he said seemed so preposterous we had to check it that evening in Jonathon’s encyclopaedia – and were amazed to see Stone was right! I’d have to change my ideas about us needing Bonfire Night blazes and Christmas lights to spur on the weakening sun. If the sun really was so big and huge, he wouldn’t need us at all – which was in itself quite a chilling thought.
Stone cleared up a few other mysteries. We’d always wondered where certain birds went in winter – Stubbs maintained they hid in bumps in the snow whereas Richard Johnson insisted they slept at the bottom of Marcus’s
pond. Stone made the staggering claim those tiny creatures flew thousands of miles to spend winter where it was warmer in Africa and places like that. I tried to figure out how those titchy wings could flap so far. I inched up my hand.
‘Please Sir, how can those little birds do it? Do they hitch lifts on aeroplanes?’
Stone laughed. ‘No, Ryan, they do it all by themselves. They were doing it millions of years before aeroplanes were invented.’
Millions of years? Obviously, we couldn’t trust everything Stone said. But the encyclopaedia that evening did confirm he was right about the birds’ travels.
Not everyone, however, was so pleased with Stone. One day, Jonathon and I went to Davis’s shop. As he served us – as usual, ignoring our pleas for chocolate footballs and the like – Davis said, ‘So, how are you lads getting on with our new Mr Stone?’
‘Great!’ said Jonathon. ‘He’s really nice!’
Davis winched his face around as the sagging jowls and folds of skin under his neck wobbled. His watery gaze gripped us.
‘There are folks who reckon Mr Stone’s too soft on you lot! And I’d have to agree. Not one walloping he’s given out in all the time he’s been at that school, not a single one! You mark my words, there’ll be trouble brewing!’
The Standing Water Page 51
