The Red Road

by Stephen Sweeney

  “Do you still think about that? Seeing the body, I mean?” Sam wanted to know.

  “A little bit,” I admitted. “But not all the time, no.”

  Sam and Baz nodded, and Sam was about to add something else when my dormitory door opened and Mr Somers entered.

  “Ah good, there you are, Joe. Can you come with me, please?” my housemaster said, sounding practical and not inviting comment.

  I glanced at Sam and Baz. “Is this about last night? Because I was genuinely sleepwalking,” I said to Mr Somers.

  “No, nothing like that. Come on,” Mr Somers said, before coaxing me to follow after him.

  ~ ~ ~

  Despite reassurances from Mr Somers, it certainly looked as though I was in trouble. I couldn’t think of what I had done wrong, other than the sleepwalking. Sure, I had opened a door that might have been locked and, now I thought about it, hadn’t locked it behind myself as I had come back in. But I had been sleepwalking. That was hardly my fault.

  “Where are we going?” I asked my housemaster as we walked through Butcher and into the main school building.

  “The headmaster’s office. There are two police officers that would like to speak to you.”

  I came to an immediate halt and began to back away quickly. “I didn’t do anything wrong! I didn’t kill him!”

  “Joe, calm down,” Mr Somers said, clearly sure that any minute now I was going make a run for it. “You’re not in trouble; they’re not going to arrest you, and you’re not going to be expelled. They just want to ask you a few things. It’s a routine thing under these kinds of circumstances. You’re basically going to be giving a witness statement, that’s all.”

  The words did little to relax me, but I did stop backing up and reluctantly resumed following him. I wondered just what it was the police wanted to talk to me about.

  I saw as we continued through the school how many of the other boys stared at me. Some, the sixth formers and members of the Clique, watched me with scowls, probably wondering why an often squeaky clean individual such as myself was being escorted in clearly what was the direction of the headmaster’s office, by Mr Somers. Others were quick to avoid me.

  I saw a police car parked out the front of the school through one of the windows I passed. My eyes locked on the back seats, and I did my best not to picture myself sitting there later.

  We came to the headmaster’s office, Mr Somers knocking hard on the thick wooden door before we were called inside. The headmaster was behind his desk, while two police officers were seated in chairs parallel to it. A third chair, opposite them, sat empty.

  “Ah, that was quick,” Father Benedict smiled. “Come in, come in,” he added, as I hovered in the doorway.

  Mr Somers pushed me forward, yet I walked only a few feet into the office. The headmaster’s office was a place that I had only ever been in once before, and a room that most of the school preferred to stay well away from. The time before had been when I had been asked to talk about a very serious fight in the refectory one Sunday night, between two of the upper sixth. It was late in the evening, and many of the boys had already finished eating and left, meaning there were few to assist with breaking it up. It had been a particularly brutal attack, including hot black coffee in the face of the victim, as well as at least two stabs to the torso with a fork. It had led to an immediate expulsion for the attacker. I hadn’t seen everything that went on, but, along with several other boys, I had been asked to furnish the headmaster with as many details as I could. Being still in my first year of senior school, my responses had been intentionally woolly. I could do without making enemies.

  Now it appeared as though I was going to be asked to provide another witness statement, this time with answers not quite as vague as before.

  “Joe, this is Inspector Richards and Sergeant Jones from the Thames Valley Police,” the headmaster said, indicating the two men.

  The two officers rose from their seats, smiling and shaking my hand. While I might have felt quite intimidated by what was going on here, for these two men this was just an everyday part of the job.

  “Have a seat, Joe,” the headmaster said, his tone still warm and friendly.

  I did so, seeing Mr Somers walk over to a corner of the office, getting out of the way. I caught sight of another man then, sitting on a sofa with a cup of tea in his hand. He was dressed far more casually than anyone else here.

  “We just wanted to ask you a few questions, Joe,” Inspector Richards said in a pleasant and cheery voice. I nodded and said nothing, suddenly dumbstruck. “Don’t worry,” he went on, “you’re not in trouble or anything. We just want to ask you some simple questions about what you saw. Should only take about ten minutes at most.”

  I nodded again and answered the questions they asked me. They were as simple as promised – Did you know the victim? How did you find the body? Did you see anyone else there? What time was it? How often do you go down the Road? Can you think of any reason why the body might have been put there, rather than anywhere else? Are there any pupils at the school who you think might have reason to do something like this?

  There were a few questions that set me a little on edge, however – Why do you think no one else saw the body as they went past? Had you ever seen the victim before? Had you ever been in contact with them before the discovery?

  I looked at the headmaster as the questions began to make me feel uncomfortable, as if implying that I was the killer or in some other way involved. Father Benedict, however, said nothing, and neither did Mr Somers, leaving me to answer for myself.

  “Sorry for the questions, Joe,” Richards said as Jones finished taking down notes. “We’re in no way implying that you had anything to do with the murder, but we need to ask these sorts of questions as a standard part of the investigation. I think we’re done here now, Father,” he turned to the headmaster. “We’ll be in touch later on.”

  “Thank you,” Father Benedict said, rising from his chair to shake their hands and show them out.

  “Is that everything?” I asked the headmaster, keen to get away from the office and back to the sanctuary of my dormitory as soon as possible.

  “There is one more thing,” the headmaster said, indicating the man on the sofa behind me, who came over to where I was sitting. “Have you met Steve Martin, the school psychologist?”

  Eh? I thought, automatically standing and shaking the man’s hand as he offered it to me.

  “Ho ho, not that Steve Martin, I assure you,” the man said, wearing a beaming smile. “My stand-up career was quite short-lived, I can assure you. But no, I take my work seriously and don’t make fun of any of my patients.”

  “Are you new?” I asked, wondering if the school had drafted someone new in, to help any of the boys traumatised by recent events talk about it.

  “Mr Martin has been working with the school for quite some time,” Mr Somers informed me. “Luckily, he doesn’t have to make too many visits.”

  “I know that what you saw couldn’t have been a very nice experience, so I’m here if you need any help coping, Joe,” Martin explained. “I thought I would come by today to see if there was anything you wanted to talk about?”

  “Um ... no,” I said, looking to the headmaster and my housemaster. “I’m okay for the moment. Just want to focus on with my coursework and get ready for my mock GCSEs.” I hoped I wasn’t sounding rude by dismissing the man so quickly.

  “Okay, that’s no problem,” Martin smiled again. “It’s good to carry on and focus on your assignments. I don’t work far away and can be here whenever you want. You need only let the headmaster or the nurse know if there are things you want to talk about.”

  I nodded, but added nothing more.

  “Well, okay, I think that’s all we needed you for, Joe,” Father Benedict said, moving to the door and opening it to allow me to leave. “Thank you.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Some parents obviously hate their children, as they thought they’d leave
them here overnight, hoping they’d get fucking strangled, too.”

  I knew to whom the obnoxious tone belonged as I made the return trip to Butcher, moving past the Marble Stairs that led to all five floors of the main school building. I tried to avoid making eye contact with the three sixth formers walking up the stairs to the same level as me, but sadly I failed. Craig Priest, Orson Bishop and Stefan Blanc. It was Priest that had made the earlier quip. I subconsciously quickened my step to get away from them.

  “Oi, Crotty, was that police car for you?” Priest asked. I ignored him. “Oi, you stupid prick; don’t pretend you didn’t hear me.”

  I scowled inwardly and turned to face him. “Not for me, no. They came to talk to the headmaster and just wanted to know what I saw.”

  “Didn’t you tell them that it was you?” Priest asked.

  I glared, but said nothing.

  “Hey, Crotty, is it true that your parents never wanted you?” Priest asked then.

  “What?”

  “I’ve heard that they always leave you here on Exit Weekends and never want you home,” Priest said, looking to his two companions, who were grinning. “Did they have you by mistake?”

  “No,” I said, starting to walk away.

  “So why don’t they ever want you going home, or come and get you right away when Parker was murdered?” Priest asked, following after me.

  What was the guy’s problem? Was he seriously that bored with his life that he had to make himself feel better by talking others down?

  “Because they were busy working,” I said over my shoulder.

  “No, I’m not sure that’s the reason,” Priest continued on in his mocking tone.

  “Whatever.”

  “Le préservatif s'est déchiré,” Blanc said in his thick French accent.

  I had no idea what he had just said, but apparently Priest did, as he began laughing loudly. I ignored the three and carried on walking back to Butcher.

  I would be glad when the year was over so I could get away from people such as Priest forever. He had been a blight on my life ever since I had arrived at the school. For a fleeting moment, I found myself wishing it had been someone like him that I had spotted in those bushes. I pushed the thought aside quickly. I wasn’t that sort of person.

  Chapter Six

  It didn’t take long for the school term to settle down again. Less than a week by my estimation. I already had coursework and projects coming out of my ears, as well as an enormous and almost unfathomable amount of prep to do.

  It took me a little while to adjust to working in my dormitory. Unlike prep in classrooms, where we would be made to sit in silence, my third year saw plenty of opportunity for procrastination. I was able to listen to music as I worked, as well as read books and magazines that took my fancy. I could also sneak into Sam’s and Baz’s dorms when they were working for a chat. We were rarely ever caught either, the eternal excuse being that we were working together on a project.

  I also had the chance to witness the results of the first years’ first experiences of the Murga. Three from my dorm were made to attend the punishment the first Friday it happened, likely for no other reason than the school prefects wishing to break their spirits, and not because they had actually done anything to warrant it. I heard them getting up at five-thirty when one of their wristwatch alarms went off. They crept quietly out of the dorm to change into their tracksuits and made their way down to the main school gates. They came back in around seven-forty, just as I was returning from my morning shower. One of them, Gregory Miller, stank, apparently having been made to roll around in something deeply unpleasant. I sent him to the changing rooms immediately, so as not to dirty up the dormitory, promising to bring his towel and wash bag down to the showers for him. I found him crying as I did so, quite rattled by the whole experience and never ever wanting to go through it again.

  Only if you leave now and don’t come back until you’re a sixth former, I almost told him. I knew I would be seeing a lot more grim faces in the weeks to come; even more so when the winter set in proper.

  As well as dorm prefect duties (which essentially meant ensuring that the younger boys were in bed on time, didn’t fight, or continually lamppost or apple turnover one another’s beds) my third year in the senior school also opened up a new realm of other responsibilities and opportunities, taking charge of and proposing optional activities within the school, some of which could turn out to be quite financially lucrative when done right.

  Probably the most profitable activity in the school was dealing with one of the tuck shops. There wasn’t any real trick to be had for making money there. It basically boiled down to selling overpriced crisps, chocolate, and drinks to the younger boys, and getting to travel out to the wholesalers with the teachers once in a while, to buy up a load of sweets at knocked-down prices. This was largely the realm of the sixth formers, who would delight in charging two pounds for a can of Coke and a (small) bag of Wotsits. Naturally, I avoided shopping there as much as possible, unless someone I trusted was working the window (and even then, the ‘discounts’ were rare). I tended to bring my own treats in from home, locking them securely in my own trunk, which lived under my bed. Sometimes I even sold what I had to the other boys if they were feeling hungry.

  The second best activity to therefore get involved in, as far I was concerned, was the so-called “World Film Club”. The idea behind this was simple – every other Tuesday night a foreign film would be shown, picked by the boys that ran the club. The club would have three main draws – first and foremost, it took place during evening prep, meaning that instead of studying, we were permitted to go and watch a film. Secondly, the film was shown in a building that was somewhat detached from the main grounds of the school and wasn’t frequented by the teachers all that often. The film would be set up, and the teachers on duty, having made sure everything was okay and we had everything we needed, would then leave us to it. And the third reason? It was world cinema. Non-English. Underground art house stuff. And to a group of thirteen and fourteen-year-old boys, that basically meant porn.

  Sign-ups for the World Film Club at the start of the year would be huge, about thirty or forty boys parting with twenty pounds each to join. These came mostly in the form of the first years and any new arrivals to the second year. For the price, the attendees would get to watch the film and enjoy complementary snacks. The snacks rarely happened, and while some likely expected bottles of Coke, popcorn, crisps and chocolates, what got laid on was more like boiled sweets and mints.

  I didn’t get a chance to run the club myself. Two boys, Rory Smith and Marvin Trent, took charge from the previous administrators, choosing as their first film a movie called Delicatessen.

  The initial turnout was huge, more than forty boys cramming themselves into the television room. The number halved within the first hour as people described the film as both boring and total crap. Some were also put off by the subtitles, an objection I found totally baffling given the name of the club they had joined. English might be widely spoken, but that didn’t mean every film would be in that language. In fact, few were.

  Hoping that some sort of pornography (or at least a naked woman or two, coupled with an explicit sex scene) might still be on the cards, the second film was attended by just eight, including myself, Rory and Marvin. Luc Besson’s Le Grand Bleu was the next film that Marvin chose, though despite this being an English-language film it still failed to convince most to stay. Out of the initial fifty or so boys that had signed up for the club, only two returned regularly.

  Oddly, no one asked for their money back. And after the numbers had dwindled sufficiently, we would indeed start to rent out the more sexy stuff.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Three tubes of Pringles?” I asked, as Rory began setting up.

  “No, just two; I’m keeping one of them,” Rory said. “The Barbecue ones,” he added, as I reached for the tube. That left the Original and the Sour Cream. Not to worry, I liked both. Ther
e were only five of us here tonight, three third years, one second year and one first year, so there were enough Pringles to go around.

  “What are we watching?” I asked. “Not another horror film, I hope.”

  “Are you still freaked out from Hellraiser?” Marvin chuckled.

  “Okay. One, that attic scene was gross. And second, I did see the dead body of a murdered schoolboy,” I reminded them.

  “Get over it,” Rory said, attempting to tune in the video that had, for some reason, been dismantled from the last time. “And, no, it’s not a horror film. We’re not getting anything else in English for a while. Handjob had a fit that we weren’t watching something in another language. ‘It’s world cinema,’ I said, ‘which means we can also get stuff made in England. And it was Halloween, too.’ He said it didn’t actually count. Best not to risk it again. I don’t want the club to be shut down.”

  “So, what are we watching?” I asked.

  “Spoorloos,” Marvin said. There was a twinkle in his eye.

  It was quite possibly one of the most harrowing films I had ever watched, much worse than Hellraiser. That the lead character was buried alive at the conclusion by the killer, suffering the same fate as his former girlfriend, was certainly not the happiest of endings.

  “Enjoy that, Joe?” Marvin asked, once the credits had started rolling.

  “Yeah, thanks, Marv,” I said. “That was precisely not the kind of film I wanted to watch tonight.” Marv and Rory only laughed. I wondered if they had chosen it on purpose. It was a pretty good film, I admitted, just not the sort I would have picked to show at this moment in time.

  “What did you think of the film?” Marvin asked of the first and second years. I forgot their names. They were both in Enfield House, though. I could tell by the colour of their ties.

  “It was good,” they nodded, though they didn’t add anything else. I got the impression that they came to the club both to watch the film, enjoy a few snacks, and listen to us talk about things going on in the school.