Last Rites

by Shaun Hutson

‘Where?’

  ‘Dinner tonight at my flat?’ She looked at him and smiled. ‘We could have a drink first. There’s some nice pubs in the town.’

  ‘I thought you said we should take it easy for a week or two?’

  ‘Well, seeing as I’m asking you let’s call it quits.’ Mason smiled.

  ‘There’s a pub called the Vine,’ Kate told him. ‘You can’t miss it. It’s on the main road from here into town. I’ll meet you there at eight.We can walk to my flat from there.’

  ‘Invitation accepted. Thank you.’

  ‘I hope that neither of you will object to the presence of one much older and more feeble,’ Richard Holmes said as he put down his plate opposite Mason and Kate.

  They both smiled as Holmes joined them. He was wearing a dark-brown jacket and grey trousers illuminated by a bright-green knitted waistcoat and yellow tie.

  ‘Richard, where do you get those waistcoats?’ Mason asked.

  ‘My sister used to knit them for me,’ Holmes explained. ‘Trouble was, she didn’t just limit their distribution to birthdays and Christmas. Hence my inordinately large collection. Mind you, they are practical in the cold weather.’

  ‘Where did your sister live?’ Kate wanted to know.

  ‘In Walston,’ Holmes explained. ‘I used to see her two or three times a week before she died.’

  ‘Did Andrew Latham know about her?’ Mason enquired. ‘He seems to know every other bloody thing that goes on around here. Especially about the staff.’

  Holmes looked briefly at Kate who met his gaze then looked away.

  ‘He knew about your father,’ Mason said to Kate. ‘And he knew about my daughter too.’

  ‘It’s a very confined existence we lead here, I told you that before,’ Holmes ventured. ‘It isn’t difficult for people to find out things about others if they’re that determined. ’

  Kate touched Mason’s thigh under the table and, when he looked at her, she shook her head gently.

  ‘Little bastard,’ Mason hissed, catching sight of Latham on the far side of the refectory.

  ‘Forget him,’ Kate urged.

  Mason turned his attention back to his lunch.

  ‘Can someone pass the salt, please?’ he enquired.

  No one did.

  61

  Mason was standing in the walled garden enjoying a cigarette when Nigel Grant approached him. The headmaster glanced disapprovingly at the cigarette Mason held then returned his attention to the matter in hand.

  ‘I thought I’d find you here,’ Grant exclaimed.

  ‘I’ve not got a class until two, I thought I’d just clear my head,’ Mason explained.

  ‘That’s fine, I didn’t come here to check up on you, Peter. I’ve got some news that you will find relevant. It concerns one of your pupils.’

  Mason raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Andrew Latham,’ Grant went on.

  ‘What’s he done now?’

  ‘There’ve been problems with him for a while,’ Grant began.‘Disobedience,disrespect and a growing feeling among the other teachers that he’s, how can I put it, out of reach?’

  Mason nodded.

  ‘I will not allow disruptive influences such as Latham to flourish here at Langley Hill,’ Grant said with an air befitting his authority. ‘His behaviour could not be allowed to continue unchecked.’

  Mason looked on expectantly.

  ‘He’s been expelled,’ the headmaster went on.‘Effective immediately. He’ll be off the premises before the end of the day.’

  Mason took a step back.

  ‘I only took him for a class this morning,’ he said.

  ‘I realise this has happened quickly but it’s only the decision that has been taken swiftly. The thinking and reasoning behind it has gone on for many months. If he’d been allowed to remain here for much longer then his influence would have spread until it was out of control.’

  ‘Have his family been informed yet?’

  ‘Naturally. When they heard the circumstances they were in agreement with my decision. It won’t be hard for them to find some other school to take him. Not with his intellect and with their money.’

  ‘He was a clever kid.’

  ‘But tainted.’

  Mason frowned, surprised at the use of such an archaic word. He almost smiled until he saw the expression of anger set upon Grant’s face.

  ‘Tainted,’ Mason repeated. ‘Do the other teachers know?’

  ‘Those whose classes he’s in, yes. I informed them in the staff room earlier.That’s why I came out here to find you. I knew you’d be here indulging your addiction.’ He nodded in the direction of the cigarette.

  Mason shrugged and took another drag.

  ‘What reasons did you give his parents for his expulsion? ’ Mason enquired.

  ‘The reasons I’ve just given you,’ Grant told him.‘Does it really matter?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. I was just curious.’

  Grant glanced at his watch and prepared to retreat back inside the school.

  ‘It’s done now, Peter, it’s over,’ he said, curtly. ‘He isn’t the first pupil to be expelled and, unfortunately, he won’t be the last. As I said before, I will not jeopardise the education of many children for the sake of one disruptive influence. The school is better off without him.’

  He turned and left.

  Mason was alone in the walled garden once more.

  62

  Mason guided the car into the tarmac area at one side of the Vine and switched off the engine. There were half a dozen other vehicles in the car park and the teacher checked his watch before swinging himself out from behind the wheel and walking towards the main entrance.

  The pub was surrounded on three sides by trees that waved in the strong wind that had sprung up as afternoon had turned to evening. Now, with the time approaching eight o’clock and darkness having fully invaded the sky, the only light came from the windows of the pub and the dull sodium glare of the street lights that lit the main road leading into Walston itself. Mason shivered involuntarily as he walked, flipping up the collar of his leather jacket.

  The Vine was a hybrid. The architecture was of the twenties as, Mason guessed, was the thick ivy that covered the stonework so comprehensively in places that it threatened to blot out the light from the windows. However, unlike most modern pubs, the Vine had not succumbed to the relentless torrent of gimmicks designed to pull in everyone from football fans to fruit-machine-playing youngsters. It had no widescreen TVs. It had just one fruit machine, a one-armed bandit that was a throwback to the sixties. There was a pool table but it wasn’t used very often. Instead, the dart board was a more popular attraction. A more sedate game from a more sedate time. The Vine made few concessions to the electronic age and, despite this, it still attracted its share of younger customers (doubtless because of the hall at the rear of the building where live musicians performed three times a week) but, for the older inhabitants of Walston, it was something of an oasis of traditionalism among the plethora of plastic beams, micro-breweries and gastro-pubs that clogged the town itself.

  Mason pushed open the main door and stepped inside, the warmth hitting him like a blanket. There was a small open fire blazing away in the grate to his left and he noticed several heads turn to inspect him as the occupants of the tables there glanced in his direction. Uninterested in him they continued with their subdued conversations and the teacher walked up to the bar, peering around for any sign of Kate Wheeler. He noticed that there was another bar through a set of thick red velvet curtains and he moved through into this smaller alcove.

  There were two men sitting at the bar drinking, both of whom paid cursory attention to Mason as he walked in. The only other occupant of the bar, seated at a table close to a window, was Kate Wheeler.

  She smiled happily at him as he walked across to her and she picked up her coat from the seat she’d been saving for him.

  ‘I don’t think anyone would have taken this seat,’ she tol
d him. ‘But better safe than sorry.’

  ‘I haven’t kept you waiting, have I?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve only been here a couple of minutes,’ she assured him.

  Mason leaned over and kissed her gently on the cheek. She smelled of freshly laundered clothes, newly washed hair and a perfume that he couldn’t identify but that he found captivating. That, combined with her perfectly made-up face and the tight black cowl-neck sweater she wore over equally skin-tight black jeans tucked into ankle boots,caused Mason to look admiringly at her for a moment. It was a gesture she wasn’t slow to notice and she smiled broadly at him, enjoying the fact that the effort she’d put into her appearance had so obviously been appreciated.

  ‘What can I get you?’ he asked.

  ‘Bacardi and diet coke, please.’

  He nodded and walked back to the bar where a rotund, red-faced barmaid took his order.

  The two men sitting at the bar took no notice of him as he waited for the drinks which he dutifully ferried back to the table.

  ‘Cheers,’ Kate pronounced and they both drank.

  ‘I was going to get a bag of crisps but I thought I’d better not,’ he told her.

  ‘Don’t you dare. Dinner’s all prepared. As soon as we get back we can eat.’

  Mason was aware of someone approaching their table. He didn’t hear any footfalls or see anyone, he just felt the presence close to them.

  He looked up to see one of the men who’d been sitting at the bar standing over them.

  ‘You’re from that school,’ the man proclaimed, flatly.

  Mason met the man’s gaze and saw something burning in his eyes that looked like anger.

  ‘Langley Hill,’ the man repeated.‘I heard that you come from there.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Mason explained.

  ‘Both of you?’ the man snapped.

  Kate nodded and moved a little closer to Mason. ‘We both teach there,’ Mason told him. ‘Why?’

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ the man said, pulling out a chair and seating himself opposite them.

  ‘We’re just trying to have a quiet drink,’ Mason protested. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘I said I want to talk.’

  Frank Coulson leaned forward menacingly.

  63

  Mason thought about telling Coulson to leave them alone but the determined look on the newcomer’s face persuaded him to wait.

  ‘Listen, I’m sure if you want to know anything about Langley Hill then we’ll do our best to help you,’ Mason began.

  ‘There’s lots of things I’d like to know about that place,’ Coulson snapped. ‘But, for the time being, you listen to me.’

  The two teachers sat motionless while Coulson ran appraising eyes over each of them in turn.

  ‘My daughter,’ he said, his tone losing some of its venom.‘She died last week. Her name was Amy Coulson. She was seventeen.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Mason admitted. ‘I lost my daughter too.’

  Coulson fixed his gaze on Mason for a moment then continued.

  ‘Amy killed herself,’ he told them. ‘Because of what was done to her by some of those little bastards up at that school where you both teach.’

  ‘How can you be sure of that, Mr Coulson?’ Mason ventured.

  ‘It’s true,’ Coulson snapped. ‘I spoke to one of the kids there on the phone. The one who caused it. Andrew Latham.’

  Mason glanced briefly at Kate then returned his attention to Coulson’s tortured features.

  ‘He’s about eighteen, this Latham kid,’ Coulson went on. ‘Spoilt, rich little fucker like all of those kids up there.’

  ‘What makes you think that Latham caused your daughter to kill herself ?’ Mason asked.

  ‘Because of what he did to her. He humiliated her. Tricked her into sleeping with him and then he filmed it and put the film on the fucking internet. That’s the kind of kid you’ve got at that school of yours.’

  Kate Wheeler moved a little closer to Mason, her heart thumping hard.

  ‘What do you want us to do?’ Mason asked, cautiously.

  ‘I want to speak to Latham,’ Coulson announced. ‘I want to see that little cunt face to face and get him to tell me why he did that to my Amy.’

  Mason nodded, placatingly.

  ‘He was expelled today, Mr Coulson,’ he said.

  ‘That’s not enough. He should be prosecuted for what he did to her. For what he made her do,’ Coulson snarled, glaring at Kate who was eyeing him warily, the colour having drained from her cheeks.

  ‘Do you know him too, this Latham kid?’ Coulson wanted to know.

  She nodded.

  ‘Whatever you think he did to your daughter, Mr Coulson, I’m sorry,’ she told the other man. ‘And I’m sorry for your loss but my colleague is right. Unless you’ve got evidence against Latham then there’s nothing you can do. And he’s gone now.’

  Coulson looked evenly at her, listening carefully to each word.

  ‘You’re Irish, aren’t you?’ he stated.

  ‘Don’t hold that against me,’ Kate said, falteringly, trying to force a smile to defuse the situation.

  ‘And you teach up there, at Langley Hill?’ he persisted.

  ‘Yes,’ she confessed. ‘I don’t see what my nationality has to do with what happened to your daughter though.’

  The woman who held the camera had an accent. I think it was Irish.

  Charlie Stone’s words drifted into Coulson’s head and stuck there like a splinter in soft flesh.

  A strong Irish accent.

  Coulson sat for a moment longer then he got to his feet.

  ‘I won’t let this go,’ he said, menacingly. ‘I want to talk to that fucking Latham kid and no one’s going to stop me. If the police won’t help me then I’ll deal with it myself.’

  He turned and walked out of the pub, slamming the door behind him as he left.

  They both heard the roar of a car engine outside and Mason peered out of the window to see Coulson driving off.

  64

  Mason drained what was left in his wine glass and set the empty receptacle down on the coffee table before him.

  He looked around the small sitting room where he was seated and smiled to himself. The meal he’d eaten had been delightful, the conversation had been good (once they’d both got over the meeting with Frank Coulson) and he could smell the pleasing aroma of coffee coming from the small kitchen behind him. He glanced around at the bookshelves covering three walls of the sitting room, his eyes also straying to some of the photos that shared space with the hundreds of paperbacks and hardbacks, DVDs and assorted other paraphernalia that was on display.

  Mason hauled himself off the sofa and walked across to the nearest of the shelves. There were framed photos there. Some of Kate and, he assumed, of her family. Her image smiled back at him.

  ‘Oh, no, not the photos.’

  He turned as he heard her voice behind him.

  Mason looked around and saw that she’d placed two cups of coffee on the table by the sofa and was about to return to the kitchen.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to be nosy but I like the look of this one.’ He held up a picture that showed Kate, he guessed aged around twenty-three, standing with two other young women, arms around each other. They were all dressed in bikinis and sporting suntans, beaming for the camera.

  ‘That was taken in Italy,’ she informed him. ‘About two weeks after I got my degree. Myself and two friends went for a holiday there to celebrate.’ She pointed to another blonde girl. ‘That’s Trisha and the dark one is Sasha.’

  ‘Very nice,’ Mason said, approvingly.

  ‘Yes, they are, aren’t they?’ Kate said.

  ‘I meant the photo,’ Mason explained.

  Kate smiled and shook her head then retreated briefly to the kitchen once again.

  Mason replaced the picture and moved across to another. It showed an older man who was gazing unsmilingly back
at the camera from a high-backed leather chair.

  ‘That’s my dad,’ Kate informed him, solemnly, appearing at his side. ‘It was taken about five years ago.’

  ‘It’s a good picture,’ Mason told her.

  ‘It just hurts to look at him there and then remember what he’s like now.’