The Red Road

by Stephen Sweeney

  Damn, I thought. Still, this might present an opportunity for me to exploit. If I could somehow schmooze my way into the French teacher’s good books by means of promising athletic ability, some well-timed jokes and helpfulness throughout the afternoons, then it could help my GCSE result. Should I find him taking my French oral in the real thing, as I had during the mocks, then he might be a little more lenient and forgiving when speaking and not be so rude. But then again, maybe not. After all, I reminded myself, he was French.

  “Why are you doing athletics, anyway?” I asked. I tried not to make it obvious that I didn’t exactly consider Rory the athletic type. He was quite chubby, and running any real distance tended to turn his face as red as a tomato.

  “Because it only lasts until three, and then we can go and do what we want,” he said. “Playing cricket usually turns into a complete mission, and we don’t get back to school until after six. I don’t mind the game as such; it’s just a little slow and takes up a lot of time.”

  “Are you still playing the guitar, then?”

  “Yep. Going to try and join a band when I get to university,” he said.

  “Isn’t Stuart Evans doing that?” I asked, remembering what Rob had told me back in September.

  “No, he’s not even going to uni. He’s just going to start a band with people from home and chance that. He’s an idiot if you ask me. He’s going to leave himself with nothing to fall back on.”

  “Sure, but sometimes you have to focus on one thing exclusively if you want it to work out,” I argued.

  “And what happens if it doesn’t, which is what happens to most bands?” Rory said. “You’ll have to get back to uni and end up as a mature student, and that would be shit.”

  “How so?”

  “Once you’re over twenty-five or so, you’re classed by the university as a mature student. You then don’t really fit in with everyone else, as they’ve all come out of school and are in the same boat, whereas you just look old to the rest of them. Think about it – everyone else is eighteen or nineteen, and you’re a quarter of a century.”

  “Sure, but you’re all studying together,” I said. “I don’t really see what the difference is.”

  “It’s just the way people look at it,” Rory said, shrugging.

  “Something like a clique?” I asked.

  “Something like that.”

  I nodded in understanding. It seemed that life would always be full of cliques, no matter what you did or where you went. Was that just general human nature? I wondered. A ‘them versus us’ mentality wherever you went? Surely not.

  We came to the athletics training field. We didn’t have a proper sports track, just quite a lot of land to practice on that some of the workmen and gardeners would paint running lanes onto. We rarely practised on proper tracks, as that involved a trip to Hallmouth, the nearby town, and the school wasn’t willing to finance the trip on a regular basis.

  I saw that Rory had been right as to who would be leading athletics today, and that Mr Bertrand was keen for us to practice javelin throwing, as well as the shot put. Fine with me. I always enjoyed chucking those things around.

  Charlie Moon was assisting Mr Bertrand outside the storeroom, removing the javelins and leaning them up against the wall. I saw the hunchbacked Quasimodo lumbering away from the storeroom, Mr Bertrand thanking him for opening it up. The gardener mumbled something in return, but did not look up from staring at the ground. I instinctively gave Quasimodo a wide berth as he passed me, even though I didn’t have anything to fear from the man. He didn’t look at either Rory or myself as he passed, appearing quite downbeat, and I felt a little sorry for him. It must have been awful to have been arrested and held under such suspicion. He wasn’t right in the head to begin with, so what might that experience have done to him?

  “Ah, Crosthwaite and McGregor,” Mr Bertrand said in his very thick French accent as we approached, “would you please take these to the field for us to use later. Please do not play with them, as they are not toys.”

  “Alright, Crotty?” Moon smirked as I approached, grabbing a handful of the poles and passing them to me.

  I had no idea why he was looking so pleased with himself. Along with Rory and Moon, I walked the javelins over to where the other boys were gathering for the afternoon’s training, telling the second years and the odd first year, who had some special reason for not playing cricket, not to touch them. Despite this, a handful of sixth formers came over and selected which of the javelins they wanted to use. I could have told them to return the javelins, but I knew my words would fall on deaf ears.

  “What are you smirking about, Charlie?” I asked Moon, who was still grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

  “Did you hear about that boy who got killed at Rowford?”

  “No,” I said. “Been sort of busy with what’s been happening here.”

  “A javelin impaled him,” Moon said, pointing to the pile.

  “Bullshit!” Rory said.

  “One hundred percent the truth,” Moon said. “He went to get his javelin back and someone threw one at him, just to scare him. It actually hit him and went right through him.”

  “Rubbish, that’s impossible,” I scowled at him. “Who told you that?”

  “What are you talking about?” one of the lower sixth boys asked. I forgot his name. It was either Crowe or Swann or Sparrow or something bird-related. It might have even been ‘Bird’. The guy was a bit of a loner from what I had gathered and spent most of his time in his room, reading fantasy books and comics.

  “Moon says that apparently someone was killed by a javelin at Rowford,” I answered, emphasising the alleged nature of the incident.

  “No, that’s true,” the sixth former said. “Didn’t happen recently, though. It was about ten years ago, back in the eighties. People like to exaggerate what happened. It didn’t kill him immediately; he died in hospital after a week. Blood loss or heart attack or something like that.”

  “But those can’t do that,” I said, looking at the javelins. “They’re sharp, but I’m not sure they would go into someone so easily.”

  “They go into the ground okay,” Rory said, driving one of the implements into the earth.

  “And don’t forget the speed they’ll have attained due to height and gravity,” the sixth former said. “If it came down from far enough up, pointed straight down, then it could actually go through you from the right angle.”

  It sounded plausible, I guessed. But it still sounded ... stupid.

  Mr Bertrand was done fetching the equipment and came over to us carrying a clipboard, a stopwatch dangling from around his neck.

  “Today, we will be doing the javelin and the shot put,” he started.

  “First and second years, too?” the special case first year asked.

  “First and second years, too,” Mr Bertrand echoed.

  “Yes!” came the exited voices of the younger boys.

  “But before that, we will be doing the two hundred meters dash, and I have also decided that we should do the one hundred metres hurdles.”

  “Oh, I love the hurdles. Not!” I heard someone say.

  I wasn’t fond of them, either. I spent more of the time knocking the damn things down than going over them. I would just have to get through it as best I could, so I could move on to the good stuff. Mr Bertrand began dictating who was going to be doing what and in which order, when I saw a latecomer approaching. It was Carson.

  “Ah, Mr Young, you’re late,” Mr Bertrand said.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t find where we were meeting,” he said.

  “Well, you are now here. Good. Now Sports Day is coming up—”

  “What?” Rory said.

  “Sports Day, 16th May. A Saturday.”

  “We’re still having Sports Day?” the lower sixth boy asked.

  “Yes. Why would we not be?” Mr Bertrand asked, sounding a little annoyed at our display of ignorance.

  “Well, you know, because of th
e murders and that.”

  “Pah,” Mr Bertrand said. “It is business as usual, as the headmaster has said. The school is the same as it has always been.”

  Aside from one-third of the boys having left, security patrols walking the grounds, restrictions on coming and going, and the constant sense of fear and uncertainty that lingers in the air, it’s exactly the same, I thought.

  “Sports Day’s a Saturday?” one of the boys then said. “Does that mean we get to go home afterwards, if our parents come?”

  “The headmaster is thinking about it,” Mr Bertrand said, completely non-committal and seeming not to care. “Young, you will help me to fetch the hurdles. The rest of you will warm up. Twenty sit-ups and push-ups each. King will be in charge until I get back. Make sure they do them,” he said to the sixth former.

  “Um ... sir, I could help with the hurdles,” one of the second years offered, clearly keen to get out of it. “It will take a while if it’s just one person doing it.”

  “Yes, come on,” Mr Bertrand said.

  “Sir, I can help, too!” other offers began.

  “One more, then. The rest of you will do the sit-ups. Start!”

  ~ ~ ~

  As it turned out, I wasn’t the only person at school who wasn’t aware that Sports Day was still happening, and many reacted in total surprise when Mr Somers told us during Butcher’s Thursday afternoon assembly.

  As always, the pupils would be travelling to Hallmouth on coaches. Those who weren’t participating would be expected to sit in the stands and support their house, cheering everyone on. I had learned very quickly that non-participation could lead to a very, very boring day indeed, not unlike what I had experienced while ‘playing’ cricket.

  I quickly sought out a duty, offering to run the four hundred metres. My decision to do athletics that term, as well as the somewhat undesirable length of the run to my fellow Butcher third years, meant that my offer was accepted without challenge. I had to hide a smirk when I saw the look of horror on Anthony Simmons’ face when he was forced to take part in the relay race, even more so when I saw Charlie Smith being told that he would be doing the hurdles. I saw Baz sigh with relief at that. I had urged him not to shy away and to offer himself up for the two hundred metres, so as not to get lumbered with any unwanted duties.

  All in all, I found the choices of Kenji Suzuki, our head of house, to be spot on. We actually stood a good chance of winning this year. In past years, the head of house had treated Sports Day as a source of amusement to himself and his fellow upper sixth. The previous summer, Neil Booth, the then obese first year boy (now a second year and still obese) had been made to do the hurdles, for nothing more than to see him attempt to lift his girth over them. The prefects had laughed from the stands as he had flopped, fallen and crashed his way past the barriers, later putting him on the Murga List for failing to come in first place. Yes, that had been fair.

  I trained for my four hundred metres at each athletics meeting we had leading up to the day, being joined on a couple of occasions by others in my year, who had left cricket behind for the day to practice. I helped them with their relay baton passes, before being scolded by Simmons and other members of the Butcher Clique for assisting the other houses. Despite it being a competition, I wasn’t willing to totally stick with one side. These were my friends after all.

  The big day arrived, and after a simple breakfast of cereal, tea and toast (I avoided the cooked breakfast, not wanting to run on a full stomach), I boarded the coach allocated to Butcher and headed for the stadium. I discovered that I had been wise in my choice of breakfast not long after. The school had shifted the event schedule around, with my four hundred metres being brought forward three hours, to midday. It meant that not only did I get my participation in the day over and done with, but I could explore the town afterwards.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Did anyone see us?” Marvin asked. He looked a little paranoid that one of the teachers might have tailed us out of the stadium. I told him not to worry.

  “Where are we going to go?” I asked. “To the shops, to get some sweets and magazines?”

  “The pub.”

  I nodded but said nothing. I knew how this would end.

  “Take your ties off,” Marvin then said, tugging his free and stuffing it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “If they see our ties they’ll know we’re from St Christopher’s and probably under age.”

  Yes, that’s what will give us away and not these obviously fake IDs, I thought, looking at my sixteen-year-old self in the photo. Twenty pounds this had cost me, and it was probably going to be confiscated within the next hour. Still, if by some random chance it worked ...

  “Is this how your next year will be? Living at home, I mean?” Rory asked me.

  “Walking out of school and going into town during my study periods? I think so,” I said, thinking back to the sixth formers that I had seen in the park back home the previous September. I imagined myself in the same situation in the coming months, drinking a can of beer, a hot blonde next to me, giggling at my jokes, anecdotes and charming mannerisms. Okay, that last one might have been stretching things a bit. Still, the whole boarding school thing might be attractive to the female students, intrigued to know what life had been like.

  “Are you definitely leaving?” Marvin asked.

  “Definitely,” I said.

  “Joe, you should stay,” Rob said.

  “There might not be a school to come back to after this term, Rob,” I reminded him.

  “Sure, but if the school stays open, next year’s going to be cool.”

  “How on Earth could it be cooler than being at home, learning to drive and going to classes with girls?” I asked somewhat incredulously. I had noticed that there was a divide at St Christopher’s as to whether those leaving after their GCSEs were in the right or the wrong. Were they cooler than those that stayed or were they losers and dropouts who never really fitted in? I wasn’t sure where I stood on that argument. I was glad to see the backs of some people and disappointed with the departure of others.

  “Well, we get our own rooms, get access to the Common Room, the bar, get to go to dances ...” Rob said, though he didn’t sound terribly convinced by his own arguments. They were terribly weak reasons, all four of us knew. He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself, than me.

  “Are you going to have a beer when we get to the pub, Rob? Or isn’t it sweet enough for your taste?” Marvin then chuckled.

  “Fuck off, Marv,” Rob glared.

  “Yeah, leave him alone, Marvin,” Rory chuckled. “It’s not his fault that he can’t handle beer and prefers girly cider, instead.”

  “But seriously, what will you guys do if the school does have to shut down?” I asked. “They’ve not found out who’s done it yet, the security group are still here, and they’re still locking the place up tight every night. Remember all the stuff that Mr Somers told me – Benny is having daily meetings with the police and the school regulators to keep the place open. That’s why he’s constantly so pissed off these days. If they close the school, then you’ll have to do your A-Levels someplace else.”

  “Have they actually been reported as murders yet?” Rob said.

  “It’s been in some of the newspapers, yes,” Rory said. “The latest one was in the Today. They got it wrong, though – they said that it was three first years who had their throats cut.”

  “That’s not good,” Marvin said. “Can they print stuff like that?”

  “The press can do whatever they like,” Rory shrugged.

  “Okay, so what will you do if St Christopher’s closes at the end of term?” I was still curious to know.

  “I ... don’t know,” Rory said, looking to Rob and Marvin. “I guess I would just go to another school.”

  “I’d probably do what you and Baz are going to do and go to a sixth form college,” Marvin said.

  “Rob?” I asked, looking at him. “I think there is still time to
apply for Baconsdale Sixth Form College.”

  “Sure, but I actually like it here,” Rob said. “Ignoring all the stuff that’s gone on recently, there’s not much wrong with it. It’s a good school, Joe; you get good education here. Sure, it could be better, but there are worse places you could go. You have no idea if BSFC is any good, either. It could be really crap, and then you’ll screw up your chances of getting into a good university. Remember that the admissions offices at the universities look at the schools you’ve been to and take them into consideration. You might not have brilliant grades, but when they see you’ve come from St Christopher’s you’ll stand a much better chance.”

  Marvin started laughing. “That is utter bollocks, Rob! I can’t believe you actually think that’s true!”

  “No, it’s true,” Rob said.

  “No, it’s not,” Rory said. “The school only say that to keep you here. The university couldn’t give a shit where you come from, so long as you have the grades they want. The only places where it makes a difference is Oxford and Cambridge. The rest don’t care.”

  “Really?” Rob looked a little dumbstruck.

  “Yes!” Rory and Marvin chorused.

  “My God, you’re gullible,” Rory added with a smirk.

  “Right, let’s try this one,” Marvin then suggested, as we approached a pub known as ‘The Peahen’. It being a hot summer day, the door was open to let some air in and create ventilation. The windows themselves were dark, making it hard to see who was inside.

  “I don’t think we’ve gone far enough,” I said. “If a teacher comes looking, then this is the first place he’s going to check.”

  “Don’t worry,” Marvin said confidently, fishing out his fake ID. “We’ll just sit in the corner. We’ll just have one and not stay too long. Agreed?”

  “Okay,” Rob, Rory and I nodded.

  We stepped in, my eyes darting over the patrons as we did so, my heart and legs both stopping as I spotted Mr Finn, Mr Carter, and Mr Summers seated around a table, each enjoying a pint of beer. Their eyes met ours.