The Red Road

by Stephen Sweeney

  “This twat did,” Adrian said from behind him. He had returned with a glass of what was either Coke or Pepsi.

  The two sixth formers whirled around, for a moment releasing their grips on Baz and I. They then tightened again.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Lawrence demanded.

  “I beg your pardon?” Adrian said.

  The head boy then released me and instead grabbed Lawrence, quickly taking him aside, wrestling Lawrence’s grip from Baz as he did so.

  “What are you doing?” I heard Goodman ask when they thought he and Lawrence were out of earshot.

  “Well, those little shits shouldn’t be here,” Lawrence said, not speaking quite as softly as Goodman had, the rage caused by our presence clearly elevating the level of his voice.

  “Yes, but you can’t speak to someone like that! He could complain to the school. Let me handle this.” Goodman returned to our table. “I’m very sorry,” he said to Adrian. “Mike has just had a very stressful day with his schoolwork.”

  “Is that the excuses you use these days?” Adrian said, taking his seat once more and returning to his pint. “If this is what you call stress, wait until you start your first job.”

  “Sorry, but how do you know these two?” Goodman wanted to know.

  “My name is Adrian Willis,” Adrian said. “I’ve just done the career talk on freelance journalism, that Joe and Barry attended. As they were so polite to me, helping me out with getting dinner, escorting me to and from the classrooms, and walking me back to my car, I asked them if they would like to join me for a drink in the pub and talk about their plans for the future. They said yes, so I drove them down here.”

  I grinned along with Baz. That would show them.

  “You’re not a relative?” Lawrence asked. He had returned to the table, still looking offended that we had invaded what he clearly considered to be his pub.

  “No, I’m not,” Adrian said, though without a trace of wrongdoing.

  Lawrence’s face suddenly split into a grin. “You got into a car with a stranger? What kind of fucking idiots are you?” he asked of Baz and I. He looked at Goodman. “We should call Father Benedict and get him to drive someone down here to get these idiots back to the school. In fact, I’m going to go and call a taxi. The duty master can pay.”

  “I’m not a stranger,” Adrian said, his patience with the sixth formers starting to wear thin. “I’m actually an old boy.”

  “Should’ve known better, then,” Lawrence said.

  At that, Adrian flew up from the table and walked in front of Lawrence, preventing his exit from the beer garden. “Yes, clearly having attended St Christopher’s myself I should be familiar with all the rules. In fact, it might therefore be appropriate for me to let them know that I saw you smoking on your way down here.”

  “Eh? I don’t smoke,” Lawrence said, glancing uneasily to Goodman.

  “Not tobacco at any rate,” Adrian said, lowering his voice.

  The coloured suddenly drained from Lawrence’s face.

  “It was a herbal cig—”

  “Don’t. Lie,” Adrian almost snarled, cutting him off. He paused between the two words for effect. “Do you think that I’m that stupid that I don’t know the difference between marijuana and a herbal cigarette? I used to smoke weed for years myself. It’s not a smell you quickly forget.”

  Lawrence looked stunned, and he glanced to Goodman for help.

  “You as well,” Adrian said to Goodman.

  The head boy said nothing in response. They had clearly been caught red-handed. Et tu, Brute? I had always thought that Goodman was squeaky clean. I wondered just how many of the party that had made their way down here had taken a drag on that spliff.

  “What’s going on?”

  I saw that three other sixth formers had appeared – Simon Ross, Daniel Gibbs and John Howard, all of Tudor House, carrying five pints of beer between them. They must have gone to the bar to buy the drinks, while Lawrence and Goodman looked for seats. They caught the sight of Baz and I and moved to say something when Goodman intercepted them.

  “Come on,” he said, herding them all away. “We’re going to drink inside.”

  “But—” one started, still staring in my direction.

  “No, let’s go. Come on,” Goodman added to Lawrence, his tone making it clear that he didn’t want to have to tell any of them again.

  Adrian returned to his seat once the boys had departed, ignoring the questioning eyes from the other patrons, who had watched the entire sequence in silence. We had created quite a scene here tonight. Word might well get back to the school no matter what happened. I considered that one of the more law-abiding or interfering drinkers might call the school the next day and report the possible misuse of drugs. St Christopher’s really didn’t need any more trouble.

  “There’s yet another fucking thing I hate about that school,” Adrian said. “Most of the boys have no respect for anyone at all these days.”

  I saw that his hands were shaking, as if the confrontation had rattled him somewhat. He took a deep gulp of beer. His mouth was maybe a little dry. It was the first time I had heard Adrian swear and mean it. Admittedly, I had only met him on one other occasion, but I got the impression that he didn’t swear a great deal. He had done so in the church as I was serving coffee and biscuits, but clearly then only for comedic value.

  “They’re just wankers,” I said. “They sometimes talk to the teachers that way.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” Adrian said. “Let me guess – richer than average parents, and all with straight As, even though they don’t seem to possess the intellect? A small donation to the school and your grades suddenly improve dramatically.”

  Baz and I looked at each other, not quite sure. Aside from Goodman, none of those here tonight were Oxbridge students to our knowledge. But, yes, they were said to be projected very good final grades in their A-Levels.

  “I hate Goodman,” Baz said, picking up his pint and taking a good gulp of the beer. “Why they made him the head boy is beyond me.” He took a second.

  “As I said,” Adrian said, finishing his pint, “supposed high flyers. It makes them think that they’re invincible, and that they can get away with anything. You’re right to leave; you’ll find the real world a good deal more satisfying than the life you’ve had here.”

  We changed the subject, Baz and I finishing our beers and turning to the lemonade to dilute the alcohol we had had. I could already feel it going to my head. A pint was a lot to drink, more than I had first thought. How some people did ten in a night, I would never know.

  We spoke about what we wanted to do once we left – learning to drive, meeting girls, returning to living with our parents, going to nightclubs, all the stuff we imagined that happened to normal sixth formers. Adrian wasn’t quite as upbeat as he had been, however, and he seemed happy to get away from the pub as soon as he had finished his cola and we were done with our lemonades.

  “I’ll give you a lift back,” Adrian said, heading towards his car.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We’ll walk.”

  “Best not to,” Adrian said, looking back towards the entrance of the pub. “They might catch up with you on the lane. Wouldn’t be a good idea to risk it if they’ve had a few.”

  True. It wasn’t as if either Baz or I were short for our age, far from it. There would be five of them, though; five drunk and potentially angry eighteen-year-olds. That wasn’t worth risking at all.

  “I’m sorry, guys,” Adrian said after we had gotten in the car and he had started the engine. “It just brings back bad memories.”

  “Did you go through a similar thing yourself?” Baz asked.

  “Yes,” Adrian said. “And it ruined my life.”

  We drove back to the school in silence.

  ~ ~ ~

  I was in bed, reading Congo by Michael Crichton, with my lamp on. It was a little difficult to concentrate on what was happening after the beer, and I realised th
at my mind was wandering and that I had reached the end of the page without a clue of what I had just read. I decided that I should reset my bookmark, set the novel aside and come back to it tomorrow.

  Simmons still had his light on, apparently studying. He hadn’t said anything about my absence for the past few hours, even though I had also missed evening prayers. He must have been quite worried about his exams. Maybe six weeks wasn’t quite as long as I had thought. The second year boys were whispering to one another, gossiping and spreading rumours about one of the boys in another of the houses, who had apparently been caught masturbating in the showers, earlier on in the week. Of all the places to do that.

  I switched my own light off and settled down, when I heard a voice out in the corridor. For some reason it sounded like it was meant for me, though I couldn’t quite be certain why. I then heard the door of the dormitory opposite open and caught the sound of my own name being called. Shit. Had one of the teachers been tipped off about Baz and I taking a trip to the White Horse? I had returned to the school fine, getting back through the gates without raising suspicion or being caught by security (bit lax, I thought), and no one had questioned my sobriety in the least. A couple of voices responded from next door, and the other dorm’s door closed. Mine opened. A figure entered and walked to Simmons’ end of the dorm.

  “Crosthwaite?”

  It was Michael Lawrence! What was he doing here? This wasn’t even his house, he was from Enfield! The jolt of the sixth formers’ arrival was enough to sober me as if I had just been given some kind of miracle cure.

  “Oh, alright, Ant? Sorry, I thought Crosthwaite was in here?”

  “Over that side,” Simmons said.

  Lawrence came over to me, still visible by Simmons’ lamplight. “Oi, Crosthwaite, are you awake?” he asked.

  “Yep,” I said.

  “Can I have a word?”

  I somewhat reluctantly clambered out of bed and followed him out into the corridor, ignoring the eyes of the second year boys as I did so. We walked out through a set of double doors, leading into the main school. Many of the lights were still on, but it was eerily quiet, even if it was only just past ten at night.

  “Are we cool?” Lawrence asked. His breathing was a little taut. He looked a little tense, too.

  “What?”

  “I said, are we cool? About what happened tonight with the whole,” he mimed smoking a cigarette, “I mean.”

  Interesting. “Sure,” I said, folding my arms.

  “Good. You’ve not told anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Good, good,” Lawrence nodded. His expression then darkened. “Because I’ll tell you what – if you do, then you might find yourself having the shit kicked out of you again.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I said, if you tell anyone about what happened, then I’m going to beat the shit out of you,” Lawrence said, his voice still quite tense.

  “Ha! No, you won’t,” I heard a voice say. I was quite surprised to discover that it had been my own, and that I was also grinning.

  “What?” Lawrence said, his face falling.

  “I said, no, you won’t,” I repeated, more assertively this time. “I have to wonder – you and what army? Because three tried last term and failed. So..?” I shrugged and left the question dangling. I wondered vaguely how and when I had become so ballsy. Was it perhaps now that I knew that I was leaving St Christopher’s and wouldn’t see people like Lawrence again that I no longer cared? Or maybe it was the beer? It did apparently give you extra confidence.

  Lawrence opened his mouth to speak. I beat him to it.

  “Because let’s be honest – if you attack me, then you’ll be rusticated or expelled for certain, and I’ll make sure of that. You don’t need that just before you do your A-Levels. Then you’ll not be able to get into university and will end up doing some shitty, low-paid job after you leave here, and every morning you’ll think back to that moment you decided to attack me and wish you could go back in time and undo it. Then you’ll shove on your black gloves and get back to scrubbing the vomit out of some piss-encrusted toilet.”

  Lawrence stared open-mouthed at me. “You little fucking shit!”

  I laughed. “You’re, what, two inches taller than me?”

  “Fuck off, you cunt!”

  I mimed smoking a cigarette. “I always thought that stuff was meant to mellow you out. You’re acting like a tightly wound spring. Maybe you should try knocking one out, instead.”

  Lawrence said nothing to that and only stood looking at me with a face like a smacked arse.

  “Look, I’m going to bed, okay?” I said, walking around him. “I’m not going to tell anyone what you may or may not have been smoking, because I frankly don’t care. And if anyone finds out, it won’t have come from me, got it?”

  “Did you kill Craig?”

  “What?” I said, pausing as I reached for the door handle back to Butcher.

  “Did you kill Craig? Craig Priest, I mean.”

  I looked back around at him, seeing him completely serious. His face might have been twisted in hate towards me, but his eyes were betraying him. He actually looked a little afraid of me at that point, as if I was the one who had somehow pulled Priest from his bed and dragged him down to the main drive of the school, before slitting his throat. Was this guy serious?

  “No,” I said, incredulously.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” I scowled at him. “Now fuck off and don’t get me out of bed again,” I added, pulling open the door and starting back to Butcher. Why did the idiot feel the need to ask me twice? Did he think I was lying? Or perhaps he considered that I might have somehow conveniently forgotten the deed. Stupid. That wasn’t something you would forget doing.

  Mud-caked slippers. I shook that thought from my head.

  I returned to my dorm, getting back into bed and fobbing off Simmons’ enquiries as to what Lawrence had wanted me for, telling him that the sixth former merely wanted me to type up an essay for him, in exchange for a few quid.

  I lay there then in bed, feeling my heart thumping away. I couldn’t believe I had spoken to Lawrence that way. It was completely out of character for me. Was it really because I was leaving and didn’t care, or was it the alcohol? Even so, I wondered if I had overstepped the mark. Could I expect a visit from Lawrence, Goodman, and a few of his friends in the next ten minutes? Maybe they would bring some cricket bats, just to make sure they broke as many bones as possible.

  I waited and waited. Simmons soon switched off his light and growled at the second years to shut up. I next heard the seven-thirty morning school bell ring, telling us to get out of bed, and realised that I had fallen asleep. No visit from Lawrence had followed. My head hurt a little, but I knew that was due to the beer and not for any other reason.

  Coward, I thought.

  ~ ~ ~

  As fate would have it, Lawrence was expelled the very next week, following a random drugs test that the school sprung on the unsuspecting sixth formers. I attracted looks of hate from the head boy the day after it was announced Lawrence had been sent home for being in the possession of illegal drugs on school grounds.

  “What did you say?” Goodman demanded of me one afternoon when he happened to catch me alone.

  “The same thing that I promised him I would,” I told him. “Nothing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I wasn’t entirely sure where much of the summer term went. Along with most of the rest of my year, I descended into a routine of getting up, washing, eating breakfast, revising, having lunch, playing sports, having afternoon tea, revising, having dinner, revising, socialising (only a little), revising, and then going to bed. That was how it went, Monday through Saturday. I revised on Sunday, too, Baz, Rory, Marvin, and I testing one another and sharing past exam questions that we had managed to acquire.

  Eventually, the GCSE and A-Level exam timetables went up around the school, appearing on Butcher’s mai
n notice board and several other notice boards throughout the main school. I borrowed one of them and took it into the school office, requesting that I get a photocopy. Many others followed suit when they saw it pinned to my bookshelf, the times and dates of my exams highlighted in green and orange (the latter representing the subjects that I would find the most taxing).

  Simmons grew less and less tolerant of the second years in our dorm, punishing more and more of them with lines and reporting their misbehaviour to Mr Somers on a fairly regular basis. At other times (and if he weren’t a part of the Clique), he might have been referred to as a sneak, a dweeb, or one of the many other insults that were common through the school.

  “You’re going to do those lines,” I heard Simmons say to one of the second years one night, who was largely defying his attempts to discipline him.

  “Sure, and monkeys might come flying out of my butt,” was the response.

  “For fuck’s sake, will you lot stop quoting Wayne’s World all the time!”

  “Oh, okay. Not.”

  “Right, if you say that one more time, you’re going on the Murga List.”

  “You can’t put me on the List.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “No, you can’t. Only a prefect or Mr Somers can do that.”

  “Do you want me to speak to Mr Somers, then?”

  “No.”

  “Then shut the fuck up and go to sleep.”

  I heard grumbling coming from the boy as he settled down.

  “Guys, seriously, we’ve got our exams starting next week, so we’re trying to get our revision done,” I said, opting for an approach that favoured reasoning over threats and abuse. “Everyone in the third year is really stressed right now, and the upper sixth are worse. I think it would be a good idea not to wind anyone up, because the teachers won’t take your side if anything happens.”

  “I don’t know why you’re so stressed,” another boy said. “They’re only GCSEs. If it were your A-Levels, I would understand.”

  “GCSEs aren’t that easy,” I said.