I glanced over the main drive leading up to the school. There was a considerable amount of snow there, I saw. Even so, I was sure that Father Thomas wouldn’t stop at just wanting us to clear the drive; he would also want all the paths around the houses, classrooms, and other important places that teachers and pupils would need to get to cleared, so no one slipped over and broke something. He corroborated my thoughts as we arrived at the gardeners’ lodge.
“Right,” the tall monk said, starting his delegation. “If some of you want to take some of the shovels and brooms and come with me, we’ll start clearing the path for the junior school and the routes to the classrooms. In fact, I think it’s best that I take most of the first years with me,” he added as boys immediately lunged for the tools, all knowing very well that to be under the authority of Father Thomas would be infinitely more pleasant than Lawrence.
Even so, it turned into a bit of a free for all, boys arguing and fighting over who would get to do what, and so Father Thomas took to directing who was going to carry various buckets and pales that the snow might have to scooped into, to be more effectively removed.
I saw Lawrence eyeing the number of available tools for the job. There was a significant amount, but still not enough to go around. He was probably thinking that he might be able to take some of those who were left with nothing to do on one of the sadistic alternative punishments that was festering in the back of his mind. I hoped he wouldn’t be given the chance. He might be smart, but he clearly had some deep-seated issues.
The tasks were allocated, and I was charged with working with Lawrence to clear the main drive, though I was thankfully handed a shovel by Father Thomas for which to perform the work. His plans thwarted, the seething prefect led us back down to the main drive to commence the snow ploughing operation.
Dammit, I realised as I took hold of the shovel’s handle. I had neglected to bring gloves. Walking from Butcher I had kept my hands in the pockets of my tracksuit, not thinking that I would at some point have to remove them. Now my hands would be exposed for however long this task took. Chilblains could well be on the cards for later.
The ploughing commenced, the boys in the years below working in silence, the only exchange of words being what was required to get the job done. I did likewise, concentrating only on shovelling snow. I was one of the two third years that had been sent back down here, the rather stocky Liam Duckworth of Cookson House having been taken by Father Thomas to help with some of the more challenging parts of the snow clearing at his end. The other, Jeff Barlow, also of Cookson House, wasn’t someone that I spoke to a great deal. He was quite tightly integrated with the Clique and so had little to do with me. Today, however, we were working side by side to get the task done.
“What did you do?” I asked as we scooped snow and tossed it in the general direction of the side of the road. One of the first years who had been allocated to the drive was using a bucket to shift the snow off the road. We were calling him over and dumping lumps of ice into it as we came across them.
“Told Mr Summers to fuck off,” Barlow said.
“Seriously?” I said, quite startled that he would do such a thing. “You told one of the housemasters to fuck off?”
“Not Somers, Summers,” Barlow repeated, shovelling a particularly large lump of ice into the bucket.
Ah, the English teacher. It mattered little who it was to be perfectly honest. The fact was that Barlow had sworn directly at one of the teachers.
“Why did you do that?” I asked.
“He gave me a B on my English Lit essay on Great Expectations,” he said. “It was worth an A at least, and I told him to change it, but he refused. We then argued about what the story was about, and he said that I hadn’t read all of it, so I told him to fuck off and he put me on the List.”
“Did you read it?” I joked.
“No,” he scoffed. “It’s fucking boring. I copied mostly off Doggy.”
The first year’s bucket was filled, and the boy headed off. A snowball struck him on the side of the face as he walked the short distance to dump it, making him drop the bucket, the snow and ice within tumbling out.
“Pick that up, you little shit!” Lawrence barked angrily, even though it was he who had just tossed the ball.
“Glad he’s not actually taking this thing,” Barlow muttered as we began to scoop and throw more snow onto the sides. “He’s okay most of the time, but he turns into a complete dick when it comes to stuff like this.”
I couldn’t say that he was ever a nice person. I continued shovelling, watching out of the corner of my eye as Lawrence began to roll up a new snowball, searching for another victim to pelt. With Father Thomas having taken the reins, the prefect had been relegated to merely overseeing and so would now be stood around for the next couple of hours with a face liked a smacked arse. I imagined he would find reason to put many of those here today on the List again next Friday, feeling that we hadn’t been punished enough.
Scoop, throw, scoop, throw. I began to worry if I was going to finish all this before seven-thirty. More likely, it would be around eight, perhaps even later. I didn’t have to hurry; I had a free period from nine until ten, which meant taking my time in getting breakfast. Even so, it would be good to get this over with as quickly as possible.
Paff! A snowball hit Barlow.
“Oi!” Barlow said, clearly forcing a jovial tone into his voice, even if his face was betraying it. He bent to respond to Lawrence’s attack in kind.
“Want to go on the List next week?” the sixth former threatened as Jeff made ready to throw the ball.
“Was only kidding, Mike,” Barlow grinned, throwing the snowball in the direction of one of the younger boys, missing by only inches.
“Good. Get on with it,” Lawrence pointed.
“Cock,” Barlow said under his breath as we returned to scooping. Another snowball hit him not long after that, but he didn’t respond.
With Barlow being so stroppy about his grades and Lawrence equally so, I would have thought the two would be getting on like a house on fire. Ah, fire. A nice hot fire. I could do with one of those right now.
Lawrence tossed a few more snowballs about before he started to grow bored. “Will you lot hurry the fuck up?” he shouted.
No one answered, all focusing on ploughing. We all knew better than to answer back.
“Oi, Jeff,” Lawrence then said, coming over to us. “I’m going for a fag. Tell The B.F.G. that I’ve gone to get a coffee if he asks, okay? I’m putting you in charge.”
“No problem,” Jeff said.
“And you,” Lawrence punched me on the arm, “work harder. I want more than half of this done when I come back.”
I turned to him, finding it hard not to glare. At the look, however, Lawrence took a small step back.
“Ah, it’s you, Crosthwaite,” he said. He struggled for something to add, then said, “Keep going, there’s lots of snow left.”
Interesting reaction, I thought as Lawrence headed down the drive towards the main gates, one of the many favoured smoking spots for those that did so regularly. The tall, thick bushes and trees there were an excellent place to conceal oneself, even more so now that they were covered in snow.
I heard one of the boys starting to sob as he continued to fill his bucket. Lawrence had earlier forced him to pack the snow in with his bare hands for a time, and I could see from here that they had turned a bright red. I had experienced something similar myself when I was younger. His hands would hurt like hell later on in the shower, if he didn’t warm them up slowly.
I recognised the boy as Gregory Miller, the first year who I had looked after as a dormitory prefect in the autumn term, the one who had stunk to high heaven after his manure and compost-rolling incident. He did like to make a fuss and was often picked on. I saw Father Thomas approaching then, bearing a steaming cup with him. Hot chocolate, I supposed – that was his favourite.
“Ah, now how are you two getting on?” he aske
d.
“Okay,” Barlow and I answered. ‘Can I borrow your cloak for an hour?’ I wanted to ask.
“Where’s Michael?” Father Thomas wanted to know, looking around for the prefect.
“He’s gone to get a coffee,” Jeff answered automatically.
“Hmm, he should be keeping charge down here, not leaving you alone while he gets himself a drink.”
“It’s okay, Father, he put Joe and I in charge,” Barlow answered once more.
Jeff Barlow, I knew, was eager to become a prefect when he reached the upper sixth, and as a result would big up any responsibility that he was given, no matter how small or trivial, to prove that he was worthy of the appointment. I didn’t know why he was trying so hard. Both his father and older brother had been made prefects when they had attended the school, making Barlow almost a shoo-in.
“Hmm, okay,” Father Thomas said, still disapproving of the decision. “But tell him to come and see me when he gets back.” He was then distracted by the sobs and snivelling he could hear and went over to investigate. “Now, Gregory, what’s all this fuss about?”
“My hands hurt, Father,” Miller sniffed.
The monk took the boy’s hands, examining them closely. “Have you been handling the snow with your bare hands?”
“It was the only way to get most of it into the bucket,” the boy whimpered.
“Hmm,” Father Thomas said, continuing to turn the boy’s hands over.
I saw that they were worse than I had at first thought, the redness spreading all the way up to his wrists. I suddenly knew what was about to come next.
Father Thomas manipulated his gloves and drew back a sleeve, looking at the time on his watch. “Okay, I think you’ve had enough down here. Take the bucket up to help the others clearing the path to Churchill House.”
“Churchill House, Father?”
“Sorry, not Churchill House. It hasn’t been called that for years. The junior school, I mean. You really shouldn’t have come out here without gloves. Let’s say just another half an hour, and you can go in. We don’t want your hands to get any worse and then need to spend the day in the infirmary. I’ll be back up in a minute to tell you when you can go.”
“Thank you, Father,” Miller said, still snivelling and picking up the bucket to start over to the junior school.
Barlow gave me an incredulous look. “Father, what?!” he said to the monk. “He’s only got to do an hour?!”
“Never you mind, Jeffrey,” Father Thomas said after Miller was more or less out of earshot. “Gregory didn’t have a very happy Christmas, so I don’t want to help compound his misery any further.”
Sure, I thought. I had a miserable Christmas, too. A massive argument with my parents about me wanting to get away from this place, but you don’t hear me bitching about it.
I continued to shovel, trying to disguise my obvious annoyance that the first year would be getting away at least half an hour before the rest of us, when I heard a cry go up.
Father Thomas, who had been standing around watching all of us shovel and apparently waiting for Lawrence to return with his coffee, looked over to the cause of the distress. I watched as a stream of boys who had all taken the opportunity to down tools ran over to see what was happening. They were heading in the direction of the sandstone steps that led to the upper grounds, where the junior school, the science labs and some of the other houses were based. Father Thomas started over, at an unhurried pace. Barlow looked at me, before we both put our shovels down and made our own way over.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Barlow said as we both saw what had happened.
Gregory Miller had apparently slipped on the icy stairs as he had made his way up them, tumbling over backward and bouncing all the way back down. Blood was running from his nose, where it had met with the exposed concrete. I wondered if he had broken it. I also wondered if Miller was genuinely in that much pain or if he was taking the opportunity to now exaggerate.
“Come on, Gregory, let’s stop make so much noise,” Father Thomas said, helping him up and sounding at first irritated. “Oh dear, that doesn’t look very comfortable,” he then said, seeing the state of the boy’s face.
Miller fussed for a time, slipping once again as he got to his feet. He was trembling, likely a combination of the cold and the shock of the slip. Father Thomas appraised the injury for a moment, before declaring that the first year was no longer fit to continue with the punishment.
“Could one of you take Gregory to see Sister Mary at the clinic, please, as he might have to go to hospital if his nose is badly broken,” Father Thomas requested. The words had barely left his mouth when the volunteers were voicing their offers to escort Miller. The volunteer could be there at least half an hour, more so if the night sister wasn’t immediately available.
“Father, I share a dormitory with Greg,” a boy by the name of Ian Daniels said. “I could take him and collect any of his clothes and wash bag if he needs to go to hospital.”
“That’s a good idea, Ian,” Father Thomas said. “Well volunteered, thank you.”
Well volunteered? I cursed my luck. I had been both boys’ dorm prefect not one month earlier. Had it been this term, the escorting could have been my duty, and then I wouldn’t have to carry on with this ridiculous punishment any longer. Sure, it could have been a lot worse had Father Thomas not intervened with the need to clear the snow and left the Murga up to Lawrence to dictate as he pleased, but I would still seize on the opportunity to end it as soon as possible. I only wished that something else could happen to end the insufferable task sooner. Maybe one of the local farmers might show up with a real snowplough and help shift the drifts in a matter of minutes.
I knew that that was highly unlikely, however.
“Right, let’s get this shit done,” I said, stomping over to my shovel and trying to work faster. Scoop, throw, scoop, throw, scoop, throw. I knew I probably wasn’t clearing it properly, but I didn’t care. So long as it wasn’t too deep and the cars and vans could still get through. They would just have to go a little slower, that was all. Barlow was still working at the same speed, which riled me a little. I wished he would go faster. I intended this to be the last ever major punishment I received at St Christopher’s, and the sooner it was over with the better.
Lawrence reappeared not a short while later and was immediately confronted by Father Thomas. The monk seemed quite suspicious that the sixth former hadn’t brought the aforementioned cup of coffee with him. He would obviously be able to smell the smoke on the prefect’s breath. Perhaps Lawrence was going to go with the old chewing gum and it wasn’t me, it was someone I was standing next to excuse. I couldn’t see Lawrence chewing anything. Nor could Father Thomas.
“So, Michael, where exactly have you been?” the tall monk wanted to know.
I grinned evilly to myself.
“I—” Lawrence started.
“Arghh!”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I growled as I heard the cry of another of the younger boys. “Is everyone going to start throwing themselves down those bloody stairs, just to get out of doing this?”
“Arggh! Father! Help! Father!”
“Oh my God! Father! Father!”
That actually sounded a little more urgent, and I felt my stomach involuntary tighten. The voices had an edge to them – one of fear and terror. I saw who was doing the shouting, two second year boys holding buckets and standing by the side of the drive that was dense with bushes. The two looked very upset, unmistakable signs of genuine distress on their faces. I once again dropped my shovel, running over to them, as Father Thomas commenced his trademarked unhurried, placid stroll to their side.
“Oh, Jesus!” I said as I discovered the source of the boys’ anguish. There, lying in the bushes, was the naked body of a dead boy. And next to it, the fully clothed body of an older one. The younger one appeared to have been strangled. The older one had had his throat cut.
“What’s happening?”
“Oh Christ, I can’t look! I don’t want to see it!”
“They’ve cut his throat!”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Ugh, shit, I’m going to be sick!”
The sound of heaving followed as one of the second years began vomiting into the snow. Another boy followed swiftly thereafter. Father Thomas raised his hands and began shooing away all those nearby, quickly summoning Lawrence over. The sixth former didn’t look all that bothered until he was up close and personal to the scene. His face drained of colour. Maybe he had expected to see a dead fox or a pheasant.
“Okay, Michael, I need you to call the headmaster for me, immediately,” the monk said, unfastening his cloak and spreading it as best he could in front of the bodies in the brushes, in an attempt to disguise them. “Quick as you can, Michael. Go.”
“Yes, yes,” the pale-faced Lawrence said, and darted away across the snow, towards the main entrance to the school.
“You two,” Father Thomas looked to Barlow and I, “get the boys back to their dormitories and then inform your house duty masters. Wake them if you have to. Don’t waste any time. Hurry.”
Barlow and I did so, Barlow hastening to go about the task. This, I knew, wasn’t because he wished to crow about the responsibility. He was clearly in shock and eager to escape the scene as soon as possible.
The news was going to spread around the school like wildfire. By eight, everyone would know. But what bothered me most wasn’t the discovery of the bodies, but the identity of one of them in particular – the older boy, the fully clothed one, the one who had had their throat cut. I had recognised them within seconds, even if no one else had.
It was Craig Priest.
Chapter Seventeen
A school assembly was held the morning of the discovery on the main drive, and in a repeat of the previous term, parents arrived that day and the next to take boys home. The school was to remain closed until further notice.
The Red Road Page 17
