The Red Road

by Stephen Sweeney

  “Better hurry to dinner,” Baz’s father said. “Otherwise there might not be anything left worth having.”

  “There usually isn’t, anyway,” I chuckled, shaking Mr Green’s hand before the man got back into the car.

  I started off once more for the refectory, catching snatches of words of Baz and his father’s conversation as I went.

  “McDonald’s.”

  “Sweets. Proper dinner.”

  “Late. Long drive. Quarter Pounder. Milkshake. Please.”

  “Give them to Joe, then.”

  “Joe,” Baz called after me. “Do you want these, in case dinner is shit?”

  “Barry!” his father scolded.

  “Oops! Sorry, Dad.”

  I returned to the car, seeing Baz holding up a white plastic bag filled with an assorted of sweets – chocolate and other treats. They looked like they’d been bought from a petrol station. I spied a Lion Bar. I was sold. “Yeah, okay,” I said.

  Baz passed the bag over, but I hesitated to take all of it; it seemed somehow rude. I rummaged around inside, extracting a few snacks for later, before handing back what remained.

  “No, don’t worry,” Mr Green waved it away. “Share it with the other boys that are staying if you don’t want to eat all of it.”

  “Ah, good point. Thank you,” I said. I thought for a moment about taking the bag back to my dorm and locking it away in my tuck box for safekeeping, rather than taking it to the refectory with me, on show for everyone to see. It occurred to me, however, that I was hardly likely to get mugged for it on a night like this.

  Barry’s father finally started the engine. “See you later, Joe,” he said, as the car began pulling away. “I hope all of this doesn’t give you nightmares.”

  I chuckled. Yes, so did I.

  ~ ~ ~

  Dinner that night wasn’t actually as bad as I had at first feared. The cooks had produced a more than acceptable chilli con carne, not nearly as watery or tasteless as it usually was, and with a fair amount of spice for a change. The kidney beans, too, had been cooked properly and weren’t crunchy. Starving as I was, I polished off my first plateful rather quickly, returning to the front for seconds. There was more than enough to go around, what with only a few pupils remaining at the school. There were almost as many teachers in the dining room as there were boys.

  I counted about thirty boys staying at St Christopher’s for the night, a lot more than I had originally expected there to be. Ordinarily, we would eat our meals at tables separated out by our respective years, but tonight the teachers had us sitting together, regardless of age.

  No one spoke very much, and I noticed that some of the first years were taking great pains not to make eye contact with the sixth formers, staring at their plates most of the time. When you’re thirteen, small as you are and still growing, it was understandable not to want to cross a testosterone-fuelled eighteen-year-old whose only outlets tended to be punching small boys on the arm, smacking heads on rugby pitches, and attempting to talk to girls at the sporadic disco nights that occurred during term time.

  A couple of years before, when I myself had been in the first year, I had been rather like those at the table and avoided the sixth formers as much as possible. It worked in my favour for the most part, and while some of the other boys in my year had been known to have been beaten (and in some rare cases suffering broken limbs in the process), the sixth formers had for some reason never done anything more than just shout at me a lot. That wasn’t what had bothered me, though, as I could deal with the verbal abuse. What bothered me were seven simple words – I’m putting you on the Murga List.

  Thankfully, I was too old to be given serious punishments by the sixth formers now. They could only levy such penalties to the first and second years. I wasn’t immune, however. The teachers could still put third-year boys on the List, though it was rare and reserved only for the most serious of offences. By your third year, you should have learned your lesson.

  I had heard that some of the teachers were looking forward to seeing the backs of a number of the sixth formers when they finally completed their A-Levels at the end of the year and left for good. Apparently, they found some of the eighteen-year-olds a little intimidating. I never really got that.

  Edward Darwin, of Tudor House’s upper sixth, looked up at me from where he had been shovelling some tinned peaches into his mouth, slopping the juice half onto the table in the process. He was a scruffy-looking guy, his hair long and wild and in need of a cut. He didn’t look as though he had had a shave in well over a week, either.

  “You staying here tonight, too?” Darwin asked me. “Or are you just going home late?”

  I smiled to myself. It was funny how people like him became all talkative and polite when they were missing their friends. Staying here,” I said. “My parents are out of the country and won’t be getting back until tomorrow morning. They’re going to pick me up when they land.”

  He grunted his response and dug into his peaches once more.

  “You?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow morning. Train back to Edinburgh.”

  “You couldn’t have gone earlier?” I genuinely wanted to know.

  “They only go twice a day from Hallmouth.”

  That being as much contact with the lower years as he was apparently willing to subject himself to, and having now finished his peaches, Darwin dropped his fork into the bowl, picked up his tray and started away from the table. He paused by Mr Sutherland, maths tutor and housemaster of Enfield House, sitting on an adjacent table.

  “How long will the school be shut, sir?” Darwin asked the man.

  “Seven days, I believe the headmaster said, Edward,” Mr Sutherland said. “I think it might be a little longer than that, though. You’ll have to call up every few days to check and see. I’d estimate maybe a couple of weeks, myself.”

  “Because this could affect my studies and my Oxbridge application.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. They’re sure to take this into consideration.”

  Darwin nodded and trudged off without another word, stashing his tray on the empty rack and exiting the refectory.

  “Edward,” Mr Sutherland called after him, “where are you going?”

  “To my room,” Darwin grunted back.

  It was pretty obvious that he wasn’t. Most likely, he was heading out for a post-dinner cigarette. I found it funny how even the threat of a murderer on the prowl wasn’t enough to persuade the school’s heavy smokers to refrain from their habit for even one night. I half-expected Mr Sutherland to go after him, letting Darwin know that he knew he was going for a smoke, and to not leave the school building. He said nothing, however. He was probably too scared.

  But two weeks? No school for two weeks? It sounded great, but I knew it would ultimately mean pushing the end of term back, and that I wouldn’t be getting out of here until it was very nearly Christmas. They had done the very same during the hurricane of 1987. Oh well, I would just enjoy the time off and worry about everything else later.

  “Joe?”

  I looked over to see Mr Sutherland seeking my attention. “Sir?” I asked.

  “When you’re finished, could you please walk these boys back up to Butcher?”

  I glanced across the group, sure that some of them weren’t from Butcher.

  “We’re all sleeping in Butcher tonight, as it’s within the main building and easiest to secure,” Mr Sutherland finished.

  I nodded, finished my food and made ready to walk the boys to the west wing of the main building.

  ~ ~ ~

  That night, at around nine p.m., we sat in Butcher’s common room and, led by Mr Somers, my housemaster, we said prayers for the dead boy, his family, the other students, others around the world who might be suffering a similar loss, and all those people still fighting in the Gulf. St Christopher’s was a Catholic school, meaning weekday prayers and Sunday Mass (as well as the occasional weekday attendance) were a regular p
art of school life.

  I went back to my dormitory after that. The place was empty, all the other boys having left. I was a dormitory prefect this term, my second time as one. The dormitory I was in charge of was actually the same as I had been in myself, during my first year in Butcher. There had been some architectural changes since then, and the dorm had been split in two. I was looking after seven boys instead of fourteen, all first years. Some had come through from the junior school, but about half were new to St Christopher’s that term. I recognised none of them from my own time in the junior school.

  Next term, I would be shifted into a different dormitory, either to be another prefect (likely to second years this time), or to the third-year dorm. I hoped to be spending the summer term in the third-year dorm, so I would be able to concentrate on my studies without having to deal with excitable, irritating younger boys (and I knew they were, as I’d been one twice before, myself).

  A couple of the larger dorms in the school had two perfects. I was the sole prefect in here, the dorm containing only eight beds, including mine – two bunk beds and four singles. The beds were still all made, slippers, dressing gowns and a handful of other items such as books and alarm clocks remaining where they had been left that same morning. They would likely remain there until St Christopher’s returned to normal.

  The only person here, I put the radio on and listened to the DJ talking with a guest about something or other for a little while. I wondered as the news came around if they were going to mention the incident at St Christopher’s and that the school had been closed, but they never did. It was a long shot given that the incident had only occurred that afternoon, and that the station I was listening to, Capital FM, was London-based. The reception could sometimes be weak, but on most days it was fairly clear. I’m not sure why I listened to that station in particular; maybe it was because most others at the school did.

  I looked at a piece of work on my desk that I’d been doing before lunchtime – a large rectangular diagram of a plant cell. They were a little more complicated than animal cells, having a few extra parts to memorise and label. I always tended to get chlorophyll and chloroplasts mixed up, too. The rest I could remember.

  With little else to do, I considered quickly redrawing it, just to reinforce it in my mind. I gave up when I was unable to locate any pencils. Clearly one of the more boisterous of the first years I looked after in the dormitory had helped themselves to them, to do a crossword or something. I would have to make a better effort to secure them in future. I thought about hunting through the boys’ bedside lockers, to see if I could locate them, before I decided to just buy some more during the break.

  I switched off the radio as Take That came on, deciding that with the time approaching ten I should get into bed. I switched on my lamp and turned off the main lights, put on my pyjamas and grabbed my Wilbur Smith book. I wasn’t in the mood to read it though, and after about a page and a half, I set the book aside. I felt more in the mood for something light. I’d seen a copy of a film magazine, Empire or something else, floating around the dormitory the previous day that I felt was more apt. I got out of bed and had begun to hunt for it when there was a brief knock at the dormitory door. It opened before I could say anything, and I was relieved to see Mr Somers, my housemaster, in the doorway.

  “Hello, Joe,” he said, looking around at the empty beds. “Are you in here all by yourself?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Okay, well could you grab your duvet and pillow and come down the hall, to 2E? I thought it would be best if we all stayed in the same dormitories tonight, and most of the other boys are first and second years, so I need you to look after them.”

  “What about the sixth formers?” I asked.

  “They’re okay up in their rooms,” Mr Somers said, before indicating for me to come along.

  I got out of bed, locating my slippers and putting them on. I noticed as I did so how the bottoms seemed to be crusted in mud. How did that get there? I wondered. I hauled my duvet and pillow off my bed and carried them down the echoing hall of the silent first floor to 2E, the only other dormitory that had its lights on. Mr Somers followed me in, explaining to the boys already there that I would be sleeping in the dorm with them that night. Should they need anything, they were to tell me. If it was important, I should then tell him.

  I glanced around the dorm, recognising only one of the faces there – Neil Booth, a second-year Butcher boy who was almost as wide as he was tall. The other boys were from the other houses. I had seen them around the school in passing, though I couldn’t name any of them. Unknown to them, the younger ones looked at me with some trepidation, in case I should be one of those older boys with a quick temper; maybe even one of the more violent ones from Tudor House. I wondered for how many of them this was the first time they had lived away from home. Quite an experience this was turning out to be for them.

  “I’ll be sleeping in my room tonight, Joe,” Mr Somers said. “Mr Sutherland is sleeping in 1C with some of the boys there, and the other boys are in 2D. Father Matthew has also volunteered to sit up all night and keep watch.”

  All night? I knew that from time to time some of the resident monks stayed up late, treading the corridors of the main school until a little after midnight, but I’d never known them to be up all night long. I imagined Father Matthew would be patrolling the corridors with a lantern, much like the teachers did whenever we had a power cut. I had seen a significant number of those oil lamps during the Great Storm of 1987.

  “If any of you need to use the toilet in the middle of the night, please could you let Joe know, and he’ll walk you there,” Mr Somers said. “Even you, Neil,” he added to the rotund boy.

  “Yes, sir,” came a little chorus from the boys.

  A little extreme, I thought, as I bundled up the current dorm prefect’s duvet and pillow and set them on top of the linen pile in the corner. I didn’t have time to remove the bed sheet itself; I just had to hope that it was clean.

  “I’m going to lock the front and rear doors,” Mr Somers said. “I’ll unlock them tomorrow morning, and then we’ll all go down to breakfast together. Okay, it’s past ten, so lights out.” He clicked off the light switch and closed the door.

  The dorm remained as silent as it had been when I entered. I guessed the other boys just wanted to go to sleep and get the night over with. Good idea. I decided to join them.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Prefect ...”

  The pitch of the voice told me that it was one of the first years.

  “Hmm?” I murmured. I was a light sleeper, easily woken. Half-expecting to be called upon in the middle of the night, I had clearly been sleeping far shallower than most other times. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I need to go to the toilet,” the boy replied.

  “Okay, so go,” I said.

  “We were told not to go on our own,” he apologised.

  Damn, that was true. “Do you really need me to go with you?” I asked. I kept my voice even so as not to come across as irritated.

  “I don’t know where they are. I’m from Enfield.”

  “Ah.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “No. Let’s go.” I started to get out of bed, seeing the silhouetted form of the other boy as he pushed aside his covers. “Who else is awake?” I asked generally of the dorm in a hushed voice.

  “Me,” came another voice.

  “Who’s that?” I said.

  “Neil.”

  “Do you need to go to the toilet, too?”

  “No. I just can’t sleep.”

  “Okay. Anyone else awake?”

  No answer.

  “Will you be all right for a bit?” I asked Neil.

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Cool. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  I left the dorm with the first year, and we began making our way towards the toilets. The corridor was near pitch black, save for a little light filtering in from irregularly sized
and spaced windows along the way. They didn’t help much, though; the sky must have been quite cloudy. Out here, in the middle of the countryside, it could be difficult to see at night. I fumbled around for the light switch.

  “Shit,” I said.

  “What’s wrong?” my short companion asked.

  “Nothing, I just can’t see a bloody thing.”

  I tried to remember where the light switches were at this end of the corridor. I couldn’t remember if they were individual ones by the corners or if it was actually a bank of switches at either end. I slid my hand along the wall, hoping to feel a bump where the panel was. Nothing. We inched along, coming around the corner, where I once more looked for a switch.

  “Don’t happen to have a torch back in there, do you?” I asked.

  “No, sorry.”

  “Okay, never mind.”

  I walked slowly. Even though I knew the corridor would be empty, I couldn’t shake the ridiculous notion that a load of pillars and pipes could have magically appeared in the darkness, waiting for me to walk into. What was even more ludicrous was the misplaced belief that the floor had become a minefield of garden rakes, all ready for me to step on and make them spring up and thwack me in the face. I guess it could have been worse – it could have been an army of pale-white goblins lurking in the gloom, waiting to drag me away and tear me to pieces.

  “Have you been here long?” the first year asked me. I could hear a small quiver in his voice. Perhaps he, too, was picturing something awful waiting in the dark for us; though he was probably picturing a murderer who had snuck in through a window, the same who had killed the boy on the Road.

  “Over six years,” I told him. “Did you come from the junior house?”

  “No. I went to a local school in Kent, before.”

  “Okay.”

  “Six years. That’s a long time.”

  I know. Too long, I thought.

  “I never wanted to come here,” he went on, as though finding comfort in the sound of his own voice, “but my parents made me. Are you going to do your A-Levels here?”