Man at the Window

by Robert Jeffreys

  Forty-seven

  Day 19

  St Nicholas College

  8.00 p.m. Thursday, 12th November 1965

  The boy felt the blanket before he saw it. It cut across his back like a scimitar. It was the slash of it that woke him up. It was evening; he was lying on a bed in sick bay. His body didn’t want to move. His eyes and ears travelled to the door, he could hear voices, then Mr Abbott entered and called back through the door, ‘His eyes are open.’

  The nurse pushed past him. She didn’t do it on purpose, she pushed everyone. She was round like a bowling ball and was known as Four Stars because she travelled to the four points of the compass as she walked. She’d been called that for generations, every boy’s father could tell stories about Four Stars. When walking on the quadrangle paths the little kids stood to the side because you didn’t know from which star of the compass she would attack as she walked past. For a while, the tough kids banged into her so she would swing a beefy arm at them and they would duck away laughing. Some boys she would chase for several steps swinging her arms. Everyone loved it when she clobbered another kid by mistake. It got so bad that a boy was suspended and a teacher had to walk with her. The boys, and even Four Stars it was said, missed the fun. It was whispered she had accidentally killed a boy.

  Four Stars pushed her face at the boy. It filled his vision, bright blue eyes surrounded by florid, puffy cheeks, thick lips around a mouth that never closed. Never closed on a barely contained tongue that seemed to breathe for her. To tell a boy he’d been kissing Four Stars was enough to cause a fight. She was so close the boy thought she might kiss him.

  ‘Where are you hurting?’ Four Stars demanded, feeling the boy’s head. My head, thought the boy as Four Stars bounced her knuckles off it as if sounding a watermelon.

  ‘Nowhere,’ he answered. He knew Four Stars’ cures were more harmful than all the ailments the second formers could think of.

  ‘Rubbish,’ she splattered. Each spittle had been equipped with a pick and shovel and they started about their task on the boy’s face.

  ‘Where did he punch you, Harper?’

  The boy looked back totally mystified.

  ‘How stupid is this boy?’ Four Stars asked as if vital to her diagnosis.

  ‘Smart enough,’ Abbott said.

  ‘Concussion,’ Four Stars announced and moved a finger back and forth across the boy’s eyes. The boy followed it.

  ‘Did he bang your head against the wall?’ Abbott asked.

  The boy stopped following the finger and looked back at Abbott and wondered if he should say they had the wrong student.

  ‘Concussion. I’ll undress him and put him into bed.’ The boy tried to sit up. One of the stories told was you must never let Four Stars undress you, no matter how many limbs are missing.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, just leave him with me for a few minutes,’ Mr Abbott said quickly.

  ‘Don’t let him go to sleep,’ Four Stars said and started tacking from the room, the boy watched her negotiate the doorway perfectly. If he had anyone to tell, they would’ve been interested in that sighting.

  ‘Can you sit up, Harper?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the boy replied before he knew if it was a fact. He managed to swing his legs over the side of the bed. The room moved for a little while before looking normal again.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the boy replied.

  Abbott raised his voice, ‘Harper, no one can help you if you don’t tell us what’s going on.’

  ‘I had a pain and then …’ the boy said and thought, a black river, so black it pushed at me like a big invisible pillow, pushed at me until nothing was left of me.

  ‘“And then”, what?’ Abbott asked.

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Where did he hit you?’

  ‘I don’t remember being hit.’

  ‘Platmore said Darnley punched you in the stomach.’

  Platmore was the sixth former who’d spoken to Darnley and the boy. The boy wondered why Darnley had hit him. But Darnley had been known to hit boys out of the blue and neither the boy nor Darnley would say why it happened. The boy thought Darnley had hit him for being . . . he started to cry.

  ‘Why did he hit you, Harper?’ Abbott asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the boy sobbed. Fat tears dropped and spread dark patches on his trousers.

  ‘Why are you crying?’

  ‘The blanket hurt my back,’ the boy lied, twisting. Tears fell with a plop on the blanket.

  ‘Darnley will be expelled this time, you can be sure of that. Hitting a boy your size.’ Abbott shook his head in disgust as he said the final sentence. This started a new flood of tears and the boy rubbed his back, pretending pain.

  ‘Darnley’s in detention. Don’t you go anywhere near there. Can you walk?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ And the boy was surprised he could. He took a step forward and backward to show Mr Abbott.

  ‘You don’t have to go back to the sixth form common room. I’ll speak to Carmody. He told you to stand there, right?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Why did he want you to stand there?’ Abbott asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the boy replied. ‘I don’t mind standing there.’

  Forty-eight

  Day 20

  Kilkenny Road

  2.45 p.m. Friday, 13th November 1965

  Cardilini had managed to garden all day. However, his mind travelled again and again over any possible hard evidence that could be presented in court. No identifiable gun, no identifiable shooter. The bullet. He knew he had to find it and that it had to match a St Nicholas’ rifle. He needed the names of the boys Edmund was abusing, one of them must have picked up the bullet.

  Standing, frustrated, sipping a cup of tea, he looked down one side of the house. The timber picket fence between his and the neighbour’s block was about a yard from his wall. On the other side of his house, the car could be driven to the rear past wild orange and lemon trees. He’d glanced in their direction a few times that day but didn’t feel any motivation to do anything about their lengthy, searching branches. Winter was the time for that, he reminded himself.

  Along the front of the house, a low brick wall barely contained a variety of dishevelled shrubs. He placed his cup on the wall, then saw another cup sitting there. A tremor went through him. He tried frantically to remember when he had placed it there. He looked inside it. There was a layer of dried and crumbled leaves in its base. He felt sick, his legs folded and he collapsed on the wall. Betty could have left it there. His chest ached, his throat convulsed, he put his hands out to support himself. He stared at the cup, convulsions running through his body as tears dropped onto the brickwork.

  He couldn’t remember crying sober, even at the funeral service. But now he found himself apologising through the convulsions and tears. Apologising for being so weak, apologising for being so selfish. His hand went towards the cup, then stopped beside it. He whispered his love to his wife, he made promises he let the sorrow take its course, he didn’t want to control it, and he didn’t want to run from it. He wanted to be honest with himself, Betty and Paul. He felt any future happiness depended on it. The dreams Betty and he had had for Paul depended on it.

  Twenty minutes later, spent of grief but still propping his torso on his outstretched hands, a ringing broke into his awareness. He let it ring out. He sat up and wiped his eyes and cheeks on his sleeve. The ringing started again. He left both cups side by side and walked into the house.

  ‘Cardilini, it’s Leggett,’ the voice answered.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Cardilini asked, spent, uncaring.

  ‘I thought you might like to come by this evening.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Cardilini replied flatly.

  ‘A mutual friend is comi
ng down briefly after the boarders’ dinner. Shall we say eight fifteen?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You know who I mean?’

  ‘Carmody?’

  ‘Yes. Wouldn’t you like to talk to him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He would like to talk to you.’

  ‘He knows where I live and my phone number, no doubt,’ Cardilini said.

  ‘It’s not that easy for him to get away from the school.’

  ‘Each time I speak to that boy, I end up in deeper trouble.’

  ‘I know,’ Leggett said.

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘I know what he’s doing. I want to make it stop.’

  Cardilini paused. Could he believe the man?

  ‘You know that the shot that killed Edmund came from your side of the river?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘I can’t answer that.’

  ‘Then I can’t come to meet Carmody.’

  ‘Would you be amenable to Jean driving Carmody and me to your house tonight?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘If I gave you my word no damage to your career would come from the meeting?’ Leggett asked.

  ‘Give me your word that no charges will ever be brought against me by the school,’ Cardilini bargained.

  There was a pause. Cardilini expected to be angry at himself but he wasn’t. He remained calm, looked at his watch. Paul should be back soon.

  ‘You’re asking us to surrender a great deal,’ Leggett finally said.

  ‘You came up with the idea of bringing charges against me, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you can stop any charges. Either way, I’ll prove that you and your bloody board protected Edmund and now you have Carmody protecting his killer.’

  Cardilini wondered if he was getting his copper’s head, back or if he just didn’t care anymore. No, he knew deep down that he cared. He became nervous. ‘I’m going out for an hour. You ring me with your answer,’ Cardilini said and hung up. He didn’t want to hear Leggett’s voice any longer. He showered and changed back into his day clothes.

  Forty-nine

  Day 20

  St Nicholas College

  4.30 p.m. Friday, 13th November 1965

  It was 4.30 and the boy had been standing outside the sixth form common room since 3.45. He wanted to be ‘in trouble’ so stood there even though Abbott said he didn’t have to. The story of Darnley punching him in the stomach had spread like wildfire but he didn’t want to talk about it.

  Students frequently walked by, occasionally one would pretend to punch him in the stomach then pull his punch at the last moment and the boy would buckle; this generally brought laughter from all who saw it. The boy, after the third time, became confident that no one would actually punch him and stopped buckling in anticipation. The laughter failed to come as different boys tried to scare him in that way.

  Darnley was in detention. His parents would be called that evening, so the gossip went. For a while the boy was the centre of attention.

  ‘Darnley is going to be expelled.’

  ‘Did you dob on him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Platmore saw Darnley punch him.’

  ‘Did it hurt?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘But you fainted.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you say to Darnley?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You must have said something.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Amnesia.’

  ‘It can happen if you get punched.’

  ‘Harper’s got amnesia.’

  ‘Darnley said he didn’t punch you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Platmore saw Darnley punch Harper.’

  ‘Platmore dobbed on Darnley.’

  ‘Platmore’s a sixth former, it isn’t dobbing when you tell on someone like Darnley.’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘Harper should be allowed to fight his own battles.’

  The second formers turned their eyes to Harper.

  ‘Darnley shouldn’t have punched Harper. Harper’s a weed, and Darnley shouldn’t have punched him. That’s why it’s not dobbing when you tell a teacher.’

  The second formers’ attention shifted from the boy as they chased and punched each other in the stomach. He watched them disappear down the corridor.

  After a while the boy saw movement at the other end of the corridor and turned quickly towards it. Carmody was standing there looking at him. The boy felt a stirring in his stomach. Did he love Carmody? Carmody looked back like ice. No, he didn’t love Carmody, he was just terrified of displeasing him. He looked down and waited. Shoes passed him. There was silence in the corridor, more shoes passed. The boy imagined the wearers watching their shoes flick out in front of them as they walked with their heads down, but then there were other boys who wouldn’t be looking at their shoes, the boys Captain Edmund couldn’t touch. He screwed his face up, he wanted to be one of those boys, boys who didn’t fear everything. He would give the bullet to Carmody and then he would be better dead. He thought about the speeding car; or on the farm he could use a rifle. But he would have to wait until the holidays.

  ‘Do you still have it?’ Carmody asked.

  The boy looked up, puzzled, and nodded. ‘Yes’.

  Carmody thawed a little. ‘Do you have it with you?’

  The boy shook his head. He had it but he’d buried it again. The boy felt a tremor around his neck.

  ‘Can you bring it to me?’ Carmody asked.

  The boy nodded.

  ‘You didn’t give it to the policeman?’ Carmody asked.

  ‘No,’ the boy said frowning.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Near the hockey field steps,’ he told his shoes.

  ‘When the bell for dinner goes, wait for everyone to go, then you run down there, and come straight here after dinner.’ The boy nodded. ‘Who supervises your prep class?’

  ‘Lower,’ the boy said. Fifth form boys supervised Second Form prep classes.

  ‘You’ll bring it to me?’ Carmody confirmed.

  The boy looked up, surprised, and nodded vaguely. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you speak to a policeman, a detective?’ Carmody asked.

  The boy shook his head.

  Carmody smiled. ‘I believe in you, Harper. Don’t disappoint me.’ The boy shook his head. ‘You get that for me and you’ll never have to hang your head again. I promise you that.’

  The boy felt the heat of tears as they ran from his eyes. Carmody reached across and ruffled his hair firmly so the boy’s bobbing head scattered tears to each side. The boy smiled to himself and breathed fully. The shaking of his head stopped. He heard Carmody walking away. He looked up to see if anyone saw but no one did.

  The bell for dinner sounded, the boy watched the sixth formers leave and pull the common room door closed behind them. A few, in curiosity, looked in the boy’s direction. The boy wasn’t sure if he was grimacing or grinning in response.

  ‘What are you still doing here?’ a fifth former asked as a group of fifth formers passed him. The boy shrugged. ‘Idiot. Get going. Run.’ The boy took off and laughter echoed in the corridor. He knew if he was quick enough he could get to the end of the building before they entered the quadrangle and there he’d be able to hide in the bushes until it was clear to run down beside the administration building and onto the hockey oval.

  The bushes, a hedge of tea trees, pushed at him as if saying, ‘You should be lining up for dinner.’ Some scratched at his arms, but soon they stopped pushing and scratching and concealed him, protected him in their world of sharp smells and tiny leaves on long, scratching fingers. Voices passed him, then all was
silent. He crept forwards, the bushes whispered around his ears. He watched the last line of boys enter the dining room. He ran from the bush to the oval and dropped down by the steps. Some day boys stood near the front gate. He quickly pushed his fingers into the dirt – it was wet this time – and wiggled his fingertips, searching. Then he felt it, still sharp, still snagging. He pushed and closed his hand around it. He didn’t need to look, he knew what he had. He thrust it into his pocket and ran to the dining hall, slapping the sand and dirt from his hands.

  ‘Where have you been, Harper?’ the sixth former demanded.

  ‘I was at your common room and had to go to the toilet,’ he replied.

  The sixth former looked back, angry. ‘You should be on dinner duty, not going to the toilet. Lock is standing in line for you,’ the sixth former said.

  The boy ran to the line. Lock, another second former, was towards the front.

  ‘What are you doing?’ a fifth former asked.

  ‘Swapping with Lock.’

  Lock punched someone behind him and ran laughing from the line. The boy grabbed two plates and beat Lock back to the table.

  ‘Go, Harper,’ someone called from his table. The boy ducked and weaved to the line, he’d made up three places. He dodged fake punches and faked punches back, he was told off for mucking around. He was the fastest boy, he thought he might be the fastest boy ever seen, he made up two more places. He was being cheered at his table. He smiled as he ducked in and out, he’d made up two more places. The supervising sixth former sent him to the back of the line, to the cheering and jostling from the rest of the boys. It was a distinction, being sent to the back of the line for being too fast. He was smiling and pushing back. A fifth former from his table came and took him back to the front of the line, then another fifth former did the same to his second former, until a teacher stood up and supervised the line.