The Red Road

by Stephen Sweeney

  “I think we’ve got everyone that is going to show up,” Mr Rod said, with a trace of apology in his voice.

  “Not to worry,” Adrian said. “I’ll start by introducing myself. My name is Adrian Willis. I have worked as a freelance journalist for the past twelve years. I was actually schooled here, up until the age of eighteen, when I decided that I wanted to take control of my own future and be my own boss.”

  That wasn’t true, I knew. He had been expelled for possessing and supply drugs. I said nothing and continued to sit in silence as the man spoke.

  “I chose to freelance, as there are aspects of the job that appealed to me – being able to work from home, choose when to work and how much to do, as well as get involved in a number of different subjects. There is also a great social aspect to the work, as it can involve meeting a lot of your clients in person, most of which will happen over a pint. Or six,” he chuckled, most of the classroom joining in.

  “So, what can I tell you about becoming a journalist?” Adrian continued. “Assuming that basic spelling, grammar and punctuation are not difficult for you, then you’re already on your way. The next thing to do is to read and write a lot! That’s probably one of the most, if not the most, important aspect of making it. You need to read a lot of published works to find out how to present a story, how they style content, and how they attribute and research facts.

  “To begin with, you need to write a lot so you can hone your own skills. I’ll not lie to you, when you first start out your writing will be of the most basic and perhaps even substandard nature. I have retained articles that I wrote many years ago that I find embarrassing to read today. Still, it was a start, and my skills have improved considerably since. To improve your writing, you should write every day, even if you do nothing with it but throw it away. You should probably aim for around two to three thousand words a day—”

  Gasps from everyone in the room cut Adrian off. That was a lot of words! I looked at Baz, who appeared equally stunned. That was my GCSE R.E. essay that I had spent over a month writing in one day! How was that possible?

  “That’s a lot to write,” one of the sixth formers echoed.

  “It sounds like a lot, but it’s not,” Adrian said. “You can write two thousand words in under two hours once you’ve practised enough.”

  “How?” another asked incredulously.

  “A computer helps,” Adrian smiled. “I don’t write by hand a lot any more, as it’s simply not fast enough. The computer can help with your spelling, and some of the newer ones can even help sort out your grammar.”

  “Really? Grammar?” another sixth former said.

  “It’s true,” Mr Rod said. “Father John has got a computer that can do it. It came with lots of desktop publishing software that he uses to write all the church bulletins and orders of service.”

  “How much did it cost?”

  “At a guess, over two thousand pounds.”

  “Two thousand pounds?” another of the six formers said. There were a lot of big numbers being thrown about tonight.

  “I can well imagine that it did,” Adrian said. “But, no, the key to success is to keep reading and writing.”

  He went on to talk a lot more about his experiences, examples of recent work he had undertaken, and the time that went into the career of freelance journalism.

  However, I was ashamed to say that Adrian’s presentation had totally put me off the idea of becoming one myself. It sounded as if you were always working, always looking for leads and stories, and needing to be on the go twenty-four seven. Sure, you could be control of your own time, but it sounded like there was a great deal more to it than that. I didn’t want that sort of life. I would prefer to go into an office, do the job, come home and forget about it. The way Adrian had described his life sounded like there was never any getting away from it, even on weekends.

  “Questions?” Adrian eventually asked.

  Wayland Hutchings raised his hand. “I want to become a writer when I finish my A-Levels. Would it be better for me to get a job in journalism, instead of going to university?”

  “Fiction or non-fiction?” Adrian asked.

  “Fiction. I want to write novels.”

  I saw poorly concealed grins from some of the other boys in the class. Evidently, Wayland was a source of ridicule for some. He ignored them as best he could, focusing on Adrian.

  “I don’t know a lot about writing novels,” Adrian said, “but I do have a couple of friends who do it. They’re full-time writers now, after five or six years of producing novels, and have managed to pack in the day job. From what I gather, the same is true of novel writing as it is with becoming a freelance journalist – read lots and write lots. Join writers’ groups and attend conventions whenever you can. Networking can play as big a part in your search for a book deal as your writing skills do themselves.

  “As for skipping university, I wouldn’t do that. A degree is still a degree, and you can work on newspaper projects and the like at university, to enable you to hone your skills. Skipping higher education might allow you to gain an income and professional experience sooner, but remember that you will be going to job interviews with no qualifications and only your own spare-time work to show. But as far as novel writing is concerned, do read a lot of the authors that are selling well, study the market and do what you can to emulate their style and approach.”

  “A bit hard to read a lot when the teachers keep confiscating my books,” Wayland muttered.

  “I don’t know anything about that matter,” Mr Rod said in response to a glance from Adrian. “But if your housemaster thinks that the material is not appropriate or is causing you to fall behind with your studies, then they have a right to take it away from you.”

  “Reading is still reading, Edmund,” Adrian said, using Mr Rod’s first name. “It’s subjective in nature, and you can’t please everyone. Some will swear by literally fiction, refusing to read anything but To Kill a Mockingbird, The Catcher in the Rye, Animal Farm, 1984, and The Lord of the Flies, while others won’t go anywhere near them and will prefer Tolkien, Iain Banks, Terry Pratchett, Michael Crichton, and Patricia Cornwell.”

  “Watchmen’s considered literally fiction by some,” Wayland said.

  “That’s a comic, Hutchings!” one of the sixth formers spat. The others laughed.

  Wayland looked rather abashed by the attack, but said nothing. I could see some determination in his eyes to push on to succeed. I only wondered if he would have the ability to do so.

  “The best way to become a writer is simply to write,” Adrian summarised. “And if that doesn’t work, keep doing it. No, it doesn’t make sense, but that’s just the way it happens.”

  There was bafflement in the room at the statement, but I could understand where he was coming from. No one is good at anything when they first start, but with enough practice, perseverance and due diligence, they will become better, and hopefully at some point, great. I raised my hand.

  “Yes,” Adrian said.

  “You said that in the first few years of doing it, freelancing won’t be your only source of income. What did you do?” I asked partly out of curiosity of the career itself, but also to know what Adrian had done with his life after his expulsion from the school (a fact that I would still keep to myself).

  “I applied for work at local newspapers and publications, and was fortunate enough to get a job offer quite quickly. I stayed for a number of years, improving my skills and making contacts, before then applying for higher-paying work with more substantial newspapers. After a few more years, I then decided to become a freelancer.”

  “And you didn’t go to university?”

  “No.”

  “Did that affect your applications at all?”

  “Not that I was aware,” Adrian said. “But this was over twenty years ago, and competition for jobs wasn’t quite what it is today,” he added with a sideways glance at Wayland. “I also didn’t apply for major publications to b
egin with. Start small, and you’ll get where you want to go.”

  “Twenty years?” one of the sixth formers asked.

  “Eight in various newspapers and publications, the rest as a freelancer,” Adrian clarified. “Sorry if that got a little confusing. I didn’t become a freelancer immediately.”

  “Any more questions?” Mr Rod asked as silence descended on the classroom.

  A few more followed, Wayland attempting to find out more and ignoring the slings and arrows of his peers. Eventually, the questions stopped coming, and Mr Rod wrapped things up, thanking Adrian and giving him a short round of applause for his time.

  ~ ~ ~

  “What do you normally do in the evenings here?” Adrian wanted to know, as Baz and I walked him to his car. It was a good deal more modest than I had been expecting. I didn’t know why, but I thought it would be a lot flashier than it was. Maybe it was because I was so used to seeing what most parents turned up in when they came to collect their sons and was now seeing what real people drove.

  “In the evenings? Not a lot,” I said. “Usually just hangout.”

  “Yeah,” Baz nodded. “We’ll probably just sit around in the mezzanine or go to the TV room or something. Or just play video games or sit about our dorms or something.”

  “Ah, not to worry,” Adrian said. “Next term, you’ll be able to make use of the Sixth Form Common Room.”

  “Not us,” I said. “We’re both leaving at the end of this term.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “A number of reasons,” I said dismissively. “It would take a long time to explain.”

  “Hmm,” Adrian said, taking a glance about. “Why don’t you tell me over a pint of beer?”

  “Pardon?” I said, thinking that my ears had just deceived me.

  “Tell me over a drink,” Adrian repeated.

  “Um ... we’re sixteen,” I said, looking at Baz. “We can’t drink.”

  “Not unless I buy it and no one finds out,” Adrian said. “Want to come to the White Horse with me for one? I’m not quite ready to go home yet, and I fancy a drink before I do. Besides, I’m only going to end up sitting in front of the TV, watching a repeat of Eldorado.”

  I felt for him in that. “We probably won’t be allowed in,” I said.

  “They still serve the sixth formers, don’t they?”

  “They do, yes. By special agreement.”

  “Then you’re now both in the lower sixth. They won’t ask too many questions if I’m with you, as they’ll just think I’m a teacher or something. Agreed?”

  “Sure,” I said, and made to open the passenger door of his car.

  “Not here!” Adrian said. “I’ll meet you outside the school, a little down the road from the main gates.”

  “We can’t get out,” Baz said. “The gates are always locked up after six every night.”

  I detected something in Baz’s voice. He was making excuses not to go and was sounding a little uncertain about all of this. I wasn’t sure there was anything to worry about. I held my composure.

  “When I was here, there was a side gate in one of those stumpy little lookout towers, a little way each side of the main gate. Is it still there?” Adrian asked.

  “Yes. Yes, it is,” I said, after pausing to think for a moment. “It’s a bit overgrown there now, so I don’t think it’s ever locked. We can go out through there.”

  “Good, you do that and I’ll see you in ten minutes,” Adrian said.

  “Got it,” I said.

  “Um ... are you sure this is a good idea?” Baz asked as we started towards the gates.

  “We’ll only get in a little trouble if we’re caught,” I said. “The worst that will happen is that we’ll be gated. We won’t get rusticated or anything. They won’t put us on the Murga List either, not this close to doing our GCSEs. Grades first, remember?”

  “No, I mean going with him!” Baz said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s invited us to get in his car!” Baz said, his pace slowing. “This is a really stupid idea.”

  “Why? He used to come here, he’s just given a speech on what he does for a living, and now he’s invited us to go to the pub with him. He also still comes to church. I’ve seen him about a couple of times. Don’t panic.” Though despite my words, I could understand where Baz was coming from. It would probably be wise to let someone know where we were going, but that could mean we would be denied a drink of beer.

  “I don’t think we should go,” Baz stopped.

  “Oh, come on, Baz,” I said. “Live a little. It’s only five minutes down the road in a car, twenty minutes walking. If anything bad happens, we’ll just run back, and that’ll take us about ten minutes.”

  Baz considered it for a moment. I wondered as to the images in his head. Was he imagining us getting into Adrian’s car, being driven to some obscure woodland, strangled and then chopped up? Adrian wouldn’t harm us; he had absolutely no reason to. The idea was absolutely preposterous.

  “Okay,” Baz eventually agreed. “But if he decides to attack us, I’m letting you get stabbed first, so I can get away.”

  “Sure,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  ~ ~ ~

  We slipped through the lookout tower gate, finding it even more overgrown than I had expected. Though it was still light, not yet nine p.m., we were sure that the security patrol guarding the main gates hadn’t seen us.

  We met Adrian a little way down the road and he drove us to the White Horse, stating that it would be a good idea for us to sit in the beer garden, out the back, where we would be a little less conspicuous. He also suggested that we remove our ties, to make us look less like the under-aged schoolboys we were. Adrian ordered three pints of beer, two pints of lemonade, and a packet of peanuts. The bartender looked suspiciously at Baz and I for a moment, before Adrian began to wax about career paths after our A-Levels the next year and the need to knuckle down in the upper sixth. He did a good job of pretending to actually be a tutor, and so the barman assumed everything was normal. He didn’t even ask for any proof of age. I would have to remember that one. Everything paid for, we settled down to make general conversation about the school, our plans for leaving, our reasons for it, and what we wanted to do in the future.

  “You’re not overly fond of the school, are you?” I asked Adrian. It was something that I had picked up on as he had spoken to us. He never seemed to be able to speak of something at St Christopher’s without adding something negative.

  “Not since my expulsion, no,” Adrian said. “Excuse me,” he then said, getting up. “I need the toilet.”

  “I feel sorry for him,” I said after Adrian had disappeared inside.

  “Why? It was his own fault,” Baz said. “He was dealing drugs, after all.”

  “They never actually proved that, though. They only found it in his room. I think he was set up by someone.”

  “Who, though?”

  I shrugged. I couldn’t say for certain. “Someone who was jealous of him, maybe?”

  “But didn’t he say he smoked it himself?”

  “Yeah, but not at the school. They only found out he did when they gave him a urine test. I think someone found out the school was going to do it and so planted it on him. Maybe the actual dealer decided to just use him as a scapegoat.”

  I took another gulp of beer. I had consumed a little under half of it. Adrian was close to finishing his first. I wondered whether I was drinking slow or he was drinking fast.

  “Hmm,” Baz said, remaining sceptical.

  I was, too, if I was being honest. Though I felt sorry for him, I was struggling to be totally sympathetic. Adrian Willis smoked cannabis, which was illegal. Whether he was doing it during term time or not made little difference to school policy. Immediate expulsion was the punishment for doing such a thing.

  “OI!”

  I jumped as the voice bellowed across the beer garden. I turned in its direction, the other patrons swivelling on their
benches to see what was going on. My heart sank. It was Michael Lawrence, the prefect that had initially been supervising my Murga before Father Thomas had intervened, the same day we had discovered Craig Priest’s body in the snow. Lawrence was glaring at Baz and I with utter hatred, our presence at the White Horse clearly offending him. Lawrence was best friends with Zackery Goodman, the head boy. I knew that he wouldn’t be far behind.

  “Oh, bollocks,” Baz said under his breath.

  I agreed.

  “What the fuck are you two doing here?” Lawrence called from across the garden, still standing where he had been when he spotted us.

  I felt the colour drain from my face as people turned towards us. We were in deep trouble now. The sixth formers didn’t often come down to the White Horse – it was a long way to go for a drink, and it was apparently more expensive than drinking in the Common Room. Just our luck they would choose tonight to do so. I moved to speak, to concoct some explanation for what we were doing.

  “Hey, what’s going on, Mike? Why are you shouting?” a voice came from behind Lawrence.

  Too late. The head boy had just put in his appearance.

  “Oi, what the hell are you two doing?” Goodman said, marching immediately over to us. “You’re not allowed to be in here!”

  Our pints of beer were in front of us, but so were our pints of lemonade. Unfortunately, where the beers were half full, the lemonades were still quite fresh, Baz and I only having sipped lightly at them. That we weren’t drinking alcohol and were in here for a soft drink was never going to fly with Goodman.

  “We ... we ...” I started. The excuses and explanations escaped me.

  “Right, come on, you can’t be here,” Goodman said, grabbing hold of my arm and pulling me up. “You’re going back to your house immediately, and I’m going to report this to Father Benedict and your housemasters.”

  “We’re in the same house,” Baz quipped.

  “Shut up, you arrogant fuck!” Lawrence said, coming over to assist with our humiliation of being frogmarched out the pub. “You’re in shit loads of trouble! And which twat bought you those?” he asked, indicating the beers.