The Red Road

by Stephen Sweeney

  My illusions of all this were shattered the following year when I was collared into helping some workmen carry a new sofa into the place. Contrary to the images in my head, the Common Room was more like a poorly converted barn, dank and dark, with small, old windows through which not much natural light was able to enter. The carpet was horribly stained and in urgent need of being replaced, while the walls themselves were chipped and cracked, paint peeling off and gathering in small flakes on the floor, which no one had bothered to clean up in months. I never saw the bar, as it was shuttered when I struggled inside the Common Room with the huge three-seater sofa. However, I was told that it wasn’t anything like the country pub cut-out I was expecting it to be. It was more like a regular tuck shop that also stocked cans of beer. Disappointment all round.

  I only got to stay for a few minutes, helping to position the sofa, before I was grabbed roughly by one of the upper sixth and frogmarched back out the door. I had seen all I needed to, though. The place was far from the utopia it had been made out to be.

  “She is so bloody fit,” Rob said again. “In fact, they all are, even if the other two are gingers.”

  Now that I could see the other two a little more clearly, it appeared as though they were sisters, possibly twins. The blonde had finished her beer. She put the empty can in the plastic bag she had used to carry her lunch in from the supermarket, along with the stray wrappers, before standing up and brushing something off her thin white trousers. I caught a glimpse pink underwear over the top of them, before she made adjustments and it was gone. Rob looked at me with a grin and raised his eyebrows.

  “Which one do you like?” he said, sounding as though he was trying not to drool.

  “I’d be happy with any of them,” I admitted.

  “Really?” Rob asked in surprise.

  I only shrugged. Well, what the hell else would I say? I had been at an all-boys boarding school for six years. I rarely, if ever, spoke to members of the opposite sex. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  “Well, I suppose the gingers aren’t all that bad. Still, I really hope they all look like the blonde at the dances.”

  I chuckled. “Probably not.”

  Dance Nights (essentially just a fancy term for a disco) were events organised by St Christopher’s for the benefit of the sixth formers. Being populated by nothing but boys, the school had appreciated that, at some point, interaction with the opposite sex would become necessary. After all, it wouldn’t help for all of us to leave and head off to university, only to encounter other human beings that had breasts and weren’t obsessed with Baywatch, cars, video games, rugby, or cricket. To deal with this, St Christopher’s had arranged with some local girls’ schools (who would be suffering the same issue) to bring both sixth forms together for an evening social.

  Though the dances were only for sixth formers, word of the impending event would send a ripple of excitement through the entire school; more so if the girls’ school was considered to be of higher quality than the norm. The excitement would be most prominent with the second years, who would have survived their first three terms at the school and grown confident enough to hang around near the front entrance, to check out the girls as they arrived and find out exactly what the reward of a three-year tenure at the school might entail.

  Sometime after seven in the evening on the night of the dance (always a Saturday), a coach would pull into the school grounds, transporting the aforementioned sixth form girls. A handful of sixth formers would meet them and take them into the refectory for dinner (or whatever passed for it). I imagined that apologies for the quality of the meal would be the first thing that many of the boys would find themselves saying to the evening’s guests.

  I remembered that in my first year of senior school, there had been an oddly held perception that as the evening wore on, the dance would dissolve into some kind of messy orgy of beer and debauchery. Not that anything like that ever really happened. The teachers on duty would constantly walk around the couples to ensure things didn’t get too out of hand.

  The week following the night would then become a Chinese-whispered event in which we would hear about who pulled, who got a snog, who got a phone number, etc. That was all by-the-by, with some expressing their disbelief that some of the less attractive members of the sixth form had pulled a girl. There would also be much ridicule for any boy that ended up with whichever of the girls had been unfortunate enough to be deemed unappealing.

  “Joe?” Rob said.

  I snapped out of my daydream. “Eh?”

  “I said, what do you think you’re going to study at A-Level?”

  Whatever the local sixth form college offers, I thought. “Oh, I don’t know, I haven’t really thought about it yet. I haven’t decided what I want to do when I finish school or what I want to do at uni, either. How about you?”

  “English, French, and maths,” Rob said automatically.

  “Oh? What are you going to do with those?” I asked. He had answered quickly; he clearly had everything all worked out.

  “I don’t know,” he grinned, chuckling. “I just find everything else a bit crap. Art, crap. History, crap. Geography, crap.”

  “Economics?” I suggested. “You’re doing maths, after all.”

  “Sounds boring. I can’t think of what I’d do with that, except become an accountant or something like that. That would be dull as hell. Do you know that Stuart Evans isn’t going to uni?”

  “No?” I asked, picturing the often long-haired sixth former from the preps he used to take when I was in the second year. He was a nice guy, quite relaxed and enjoyed playing the guitar. I regularly saw him with a copy of NME. “Why’s that?”

  “He says he wants to focus on his band more,” Rob said with a hint of scepticism.

  “He’s in a band?”

  “With some people from home, he says. His parents don’t care – they’re rich as hell, and he could afford not to do anything for the rest of his life, to be honest. Lucky bastard.”

  “A bit like Timpson, then,” I pointed out.

  “Who? Oh, him. Yeah, probably. Just not such a little prick.”

  We watched as the group of five picnickers packed up and started off out of the park, before we left ourselves. Another attempt to get into a pub followed, before we each returned home.

  ~ ~ ~

  Rob called me early the next day and invited me to come out with him on our bikes. He proposed we just go for a ride around the fields and countryside. It was a nice day out without any threat of rain, and so I went to collect my second, home bike from the garage.

  Unfortunately, my good bike was still at St Christopher’s. The other I had left neglected in the garage for far too long. Having not made an effort to maintain it over the past three years, the bike had rusted and the air had come out of the tires. I hunted around for a time, to see if I could find a way to fix the punctures and undo the damage the rust had caused, but I soon admitted defeat.

  In the end, Rob went out on his own. I would catch up with him that evening, if my parents weren’t too bothered about him coming around. After sitting about in my room for a time, dipping in and out of my book, I decided to go back into town and see if I could find any decent tapes or CDs for sale.

  I skipped taking the bus, choosing instead to walk and extend the budget for my music purchase. It wasn’t far, only about three miles or so, the same length as the Red Road. For some reason, I avoided looking into the foliage that ran parallel to the pavement, just in case I should see three sickly-looking, pale white fingers poking out of the bushes.

  About three-quarters of the way into the town centre, I found myself passing the local sixth form college. Having taken the bus the previous day, I had failed to take notice of it. Now here, standing in front of it, a compulsion overcame me and I wandered inside. I knew what I wanted to do.

  “Good morning,” said the chirpy receptionist as I approached the desk.

  “Hi,” I nodded back at him.

>   “What can I do for you?”

  “Er ... I, er ...” It had been so much better rehearsed in my head when I was walking in. “I was thinking of coming here next year, and I was wondering if you have a prospectus or something that I could look at?”

  “We certainly do. Quite a few of them right here,” the man said, standing up and starting to hand me a booklet from a pile just in front of him. He then hesitated, withdrawing the booklet as I made to take it from him. “Are you local?” he asked inquisitively.

  “I am, yes,” I said. “I live just up the road, Ropemaker Avenue, Wictedene, about two miles or so away?”

  There was further reluctance from the receptionist. I then grasped at his reasoning. Most likely, he was wondering why I wasn’t at school right now. With half term still several weeks away, he might be thinking that I was either skiving off classes or was having to repeat my GCSEs in my own time. The reception here both smelt and looked expensive. They likely had very high standards.

  “I actually go to boarding school. St Christopher’s, near Hallmouth,” I further explained. “But they’ve had to close the school for a few days, due to an outbreak of salmonella from some bad chicken. It’s affected about three-quarters of the pupils, including the staff, so they sent the rest of us home until everyone is feeling better.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Indeed,” I nodded. “I didn’t get it myself because I’m a vegetarian. It will probably only be a week or so, but I thought I should do something constructive and plan for my A-Levels while I’m here.”

  Yes, I could bullshit like the best of them when I needed to. Besides, it sounded better than telling the man the school had been shut because one of the boys had been found murdered.

  “Very wise,” the receptionist said, now handing over the booklet. “They didn’t give you much work to do, then?” he smiled.

  He sounded as though he was teasing me, and so I grinned back. “I’ve already done it. Did it before they sent us home.”

  The receptionist chuckled at that. “What courses did you have in mind to study?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said, casting an eye over the front cover of the prospectus. It was bland, but functional, white, with the letters B.S.F.C., the abbreviated name of the college, on the front as well as their emblem.

  “I’m still trying to work out what would best suit my career choice.” What career choice? I asked himself. Now you’re just babbling. I hoped I wouldn’t come unstuck.

  “You’re how old now?”

  “Sixteen,” I said. I was actually fifteen. I wouldn’t be sixteen until February. Sixteen sounded better, though. More mature.

  “Oh? So, you’ve already done your GCSEs?”

  “Not yet, no,” I said. “I’ll be doing them in the summer. I was sixteen last week, but the school says that I needed to be sixteen before the end of the summer term to have done my GCSEs, otherwise I go into the year below,” I hastened to add. I really should stop lying now.

  The receptionist nodded in understanding. “We have the same policy here,” he said. “Have you been predicted good grades? Because places tend to fill up quickly and so we only take the very best. I won’t lie to you – it can be tough, and competition for seats can be rather fierce.”

  I felt a small stab of panic, as I saw cracks starting to appear in my escape plan from St Christopher’s. “I’ve been predicted mostly As and Bs, including English, French, maths, and science. Individual sciences, not combined,” I added.

  “Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem, then,” the receptionist said. “Cs would probably earn you a rejection, but As and Bs are fine. The more As the better, of course. I would suggest you come in on one of our Open Days and speak to some of the tutors. You’ll find a list of our Open Days on the inside cover of the prospectus. In the meantime, have a look through that and see which courses you’d like to do. We’re looking to introduce a Computer Science course next year, although it might actually be the year after, depending on whether we can get the teaching staff and facilities.”

  I smiled. I might not know what I wanted to do with my life, but at least I knew that I didn’t want it to involve me sitting in front of a computer for several hours a day. “Thanks. Have a good day.”

  “Have a nice weekend,” the man said as I departed.

  ~ ~ ~

  The rest of the unexpected break passed slowly. Rob was around a lot of the time, but with little money to go and do things with, we would often walk the high street and discuss recent events. From time to time, we would throw an American football around in the park, but otherwise I found it strange how I couldn’t actually wait to get back to St Christopher’s, if only for something to do.

  After ten days at home, the school called to say that it was re-opening; everyone was going back on Sunday night. Lessons would resume on Monday afternoon, after a church service for Scott Parker, the dead boy.

  Yes, I was glad to be going back. Unfortunately, I discovered that the goblins had been waiting for me.

  Chapter Five

  Down the length of the darkened corridor I saw the shadowy figures of the stunted little beasts begin to elongate. Their shadows seemed somehow darker than they should be, as if they were consuming everything they touched and drawing it into an inescapable void. Their numbers, too, appeared to have swelled recently. I could hear their inhuman, bloodthirsty cries echoing down the passageway to my ears, almost threatening to shatter my eardrums. I turned and ran.

  I could see the doors at the other end, not far from where I was, but my legs felt as though I were pulling them through treacle. There was nothing around me, save for the dimly lit corridor, and though I tried to leap free of whatever invisible force was preventing me from escaping, I made little progress towards the doors.

  I looked about as the horde of goblins rounded the corner and came into sight. I caught snatches of gnashing yellow teeth as they howled, raised their little spears and charged after me.

  Still unable to move, I tried to scream for help. I croaked the request, my throat completely closed up. The mass of goblins were then on top of me, dragging me to the floor as their numbers overwhelmed me. They immediately began stabbing their spears into my legs, my stomach, my arms, and my back. I could feel my blood beginning to seep out of my body, my hands and feet slipping in it as I tried to stand back up and somehow escape.

  A tip of a spear was thrust into my ear, being forced deeper and deeper, as though trying to skewer my brain. I tried to pull it out, but my hands were being held fast by a number of the cackling little monsters. Claws were then in one of my eyes, digging in hard until they popped the eyeball and yanked out the fleshy remains, upon which the creatures began to feast.

  I tried to cry out again, before claws began working their way into my mouth, the goblins’ pale-white arms sliding down my throat, all the way into my stomach ...

  ~ ~ ~

  The dream ended. I found myself outside the school’s main entrance, standing in my dressing gown and slippers. How had I gotten out here? I must have been sleepwalking. I hadn’t done that in years, not since I had first moved to the senior school. It was quite chilly out, most likely what had woken me up. I glanced at my watch. It was just after three in the morning. I had been asleep for about four hours or so.

  I turned around and headed back through the door I supposed I had exited, actually the main entrance to the school. Someone had failed to lock it tonight. Either that, or I had somehow opened the door myself.

  I was surprised to discover how dark it was inside. Apparently, I hadn’t switched on any of the lights. How I had managed to negotiate the Marble Stairs and the near pitch-black corridors I didn’t know. That was dangerous; I could have fallen and broken something.

  I paused then, not certain I wanted to walk any further into the school. What if I was still dreaming? Would the goblins be waiting for me? No, I told myself. They’re not real. Even so, I walked stealthily through the school, making for the we
st wing, where Butcher was located, and looking for the elusive light switches as I went. I failed to find any until I was back at my dormitory. No one else was awake. I got back into bed and lay down, but I didn’t sleep.

  I wondered how often I had done that. I could well be doing it a lot, but just never waking up. Now I had an idea of how the mud and dirt had gotten on my slippers. It wasn’t the first time I had noticed it, and I had often dismissed it as having been trodden in on my everyday shoes and spread about that way. Perhaps not.

  I found that troubling.

  ~ ~ ~

  “You were sleepwalking?” Sam asked.

  “From my bed, down the Marble Stairs, and out the main doors,” I said. “In the dark.”

  “How the hell did you not break your legs?” Baz wanted to know. “I couldn’t walk down those in the dark if I was awake.”

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I somehow did, though.”

  “And you went outside?” Sam said.

  “Woke up just outside the main school entrance.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was cold,” I answered, a little incredulously.

  “No, I mean why did you go outside?” Sam said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I was sleepwalking.”

  “Were you having a dream?” Baz asked.

  “Yes, I was,” I replied, after a moment of hesitation.

  “What about?”

  I hesitated again at the question. I knew that even if I told them the truth, they would laugh at me. I didn’t want them to know the details of the dream, let alone the fact that they were recurrent nightmares.

  “I was being chased by someone,” I said. “It was probably me thinking that whoever killed what’s-his-name was coming for me next.”