In the middle of roll call one evening Ivan stepped out of line.
“Excuse me, Kasanka, all our things are being stolen.”
Kasanka shot him an eyeful. “Shut up and get back.”
Ivan stood his ground. “Someone’s stealing all our stuff. There’s obviously a thief in the house. Aren’t you going to do anything about it?”
“I’m not interested in your stupid stuff.”
“Why the hell not? You’re Head of House, you should do something about it.”
Kasanka was over in an instant.
“I’m Head of House so that I can do whatever I want and not have to listen to the likes of you. I told you, shut up.”
“Not until you sort it out.”
“I’ll sort you if you don’t hold that tongue.”
“I won’t.”
“Shut it, white boy!”
“No!”
Kasanka shoved him and Ivan just came bouncing back.
“You asked for it, Hascott. Come to my study after supper.”
“Why wait?”
“What did you say?”
“You deaf? Why wait? If you’re going to do it, do it. All I wanted was for you to help the house.”
“I’ll do it, don’t you worry. I’ll do it right now.”
Ivan bolted. For a moment I thought for good but he quickly came back with a hockey stick, and he thrust it into Kasanka’s hands in front of the whole house.
“Go ahead, beat me if it’ll make you feel better. I don’t care. I only wish you cared as much about our house as you do about stinging my arse.”
He assumed the position.
Kasanka turned about under the weight of everyone’s gaze as if he were lost. If he was looking for a steer he didn’t get it, not even from the other sixth formers. Everyone was waiting. He started to step away.
Only us guys closest to him heard Ivan mutter, although even we couldn’t say what, and in a flash Kasanka pulled back the hockey stick and swiped Ivan with enough strength to send him into the wall.
Ivan fidgeted all through supper.
“How can you stand it?” I asked. “That must be the fifth time this week.”
He grinned. “It’ll all be worth it. You wait. One day, when we’re at the top, we’ll be able to give it all back.”
I was going to reply but something made me stop. Instead, I just thought: The top of what?
TWENTY-TWO
I don’t know how aware Mr. Craven had been of the thefts but the instant they crossed his own front door he made it his business to know everything. He gathered the whole house into the common room that Saturday evening at exactly the time everyone wanted to watch Dallas.
When he was angry his head shook like a balloon that was being overfilled. Ivan, Klompie, and I had to fight the giggles as we leaned against the back wall. But when he said he was going to confiscate the house TV until the thefts stopped and the culprit was found, it suddenly seemed a lot less funny.
Kasanka announced a house search. Everyone groaned silently, not because we necessarily had anything to hide (we weren’t stupid enough to keep our smokes in the building) but because a house search usually meant a free license for the sixth formers to “borrow” anything of ours they liked. I’d already lost my favorite Tears For Fears tape.
“Don’t look so worried,” Ivan told me. “Who knows, they might catch the bastard.”
They didn’t. Not on that evening, at least. Two days later a second search was called out of nowhere, only this one was for everyone, even sixth formers, and Mr. Craven was going to conduct it personally.
Our tongues wagged as we shuffled into the common room once more, then almost spun out of our mouths when we glimpsed Bully coming into the house. The seniors joked with one another about how nervous they should be. We joined in their fun, and when Craven put his head around the door and asked Kasanka to step outside we naturally assumed it was to help, but Ivan was keen to fan some flames.
“Why couldn’t it be him?”
“He’s head of house,” we reasoned. “He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.”
“He’s in power. That’s where it’s worst, especially with their sort.”
An hour later we were reeling with the hot news that, apparently, Kasanka’s study had also been searched and that a box had been found under his bed, and that he still hadn’t returned from Bully’s office. Somehow Ivan had all the details.
“There was a whole stack of our stuff.” His arms billowed. “Calculators, Klompie’s watch, music—including your Tears For Fears tape—Mr. Craven’s radio and ZX Spectrum . . . It was all there, he was going to flog it in the holidays.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked. He cut me a look. “I mean, are you certain?”
“Are you calling me a liar, Jacko?”
“No . . . I . . . It . . .”
“Bastard’s been taking for months.”
“What do you reck’s going to happen?” Pittman asked. He’d rushed over from Heyman as soon as he’d heard the news.
“If they’ve got any sense they’ll kick his black arse out,” Ivan told us with absolute certainty. He got up. “We don’t need his kind.”
“Where are you going?”
He hovered at the door.
“Check you guys later. I’ve got something important to do.”
He went, and we didn’t see him again until after supper, when he came back to the house with blood on his shirt, six stitches above his eye, and a grin that slit his face.
“Boy, have I got a story to tell you guys,” he said.
“You got Kasanka expelled?”
I couldn’t quite take it in. None of us could. The air around us was thick with disbelief, making everything seem louder. Ivan put his finger to his lips and nodded his head slowly and evenly.
“And good riddance to him,” he said.
Klompie blinked as though dazzled by a brilliant light.
“No fucking way. But that’s . . . It must . . . Wait till we tell Pitters, he’s going to love this. He’ll be so jealous he didn’t think of it first.”
“But how?” I wanted to know.
“All the thefts that have been happening . . .” said Ivan.
We leaned in, absorbing every syllable.
Ivan tapped himself proudly on the chest. “Don’t worry, you’ll get all your stuff back. I was only borrowing it, really.” This was unbelievable, and yet he was so calm as he spoke. “The hardest part was getting into Kasanka’s study on time after Mr. Bullman got his anonymous tip.”
“How did you get in there? Doesn’t he always lock his door?”
To which Ivan dug into his pocket and dangled a key from his thumb and forefinger.
“Craven, the stupid arse, didn’t exactly make my life easy. He keeps all the spares on one chain and doesn’t even label them. So he can whistle if he thinks he’s getting this back.”
He tossed the key into the far corner. It was a good shot and rattled to the bottom of the trash.
“But Bully wasn’t going to expel him just for stealing. The government would have accused him of being racist so I had to help him make up his mind.”
“How?” asked Klompie.
This time Ivan pointed to the cut on his head.
“That, for a start. Good job, Kasanka is a mean mother-fucker who doesn’t need much to set him off. And right outside Bully’s office, too, while Craven and Bully were trying to figure what to do. They had to prize him off me. But hey, he’s a Kaffir, isn’t he? They’re all the same.”
He stood and rolled up his shirt to reveal the flags of yellow and purple he’d collected over his stomach and ribs and back—I was sure there hadn’t been quite so many before.
“Then I showed Bully all this: everything Kasanka’s been giving me. Plus the fact he’s the racist because he calls me ‘white boy’ all the time, and I’ve got plenty of witnesses who’ll back me up. Right?”
We nodded without hesitation.
“And i
f Bully still wasn’t sure he could expel him without the government jumping on his case, that’s when the big guns came in.”
We looked at him blankly.
“What do you mean?” Klompie asked the question we were all thinking.
“Mr. van Hout’s with him now,” Ivan explained. “Talking to Bully about his idea.”
He let it hang, teasing us.
“Which is . . .?”
“To let more blacks into the school, of course. He told me about it a while ago. Bully’s been trying to open the doors to more of them for ages and so keep the inspectors out, only it’s never enough, and Kasanka as Head of House was only going to appease them for a short time. When they hear he’s going to be kicked out the inspectors will be back here in no time, interfering, telling Bully what to do, messing things up. So Mr. van Hout’s suggestion is to get local blacks in, from the village.”
We were shocked into silence.
“But they couldn’t possibly afford it.” Klompie wiggled his finger in his ear, like he always did when he was really confused.
“That’s the clever part. They wouldn’t have to.” Ivan sat back down, his bruises forgotten about. “The school could offer cheap education. Dirt cheap. Free. Allocate a set number of scholarships for day students. The school would only soak up minimum costs because we wouldn’t ever include them as an integral part of the school, but on the face of it they’d be getting the same education as us in class. The government goes away happy.”
“You mean . . .”
“And Bully gets commended for making Mugabe look good, like he’s actually done something to deserve that phony degree he got.”
“ ‘For services to education in Africa,’ ” I remembered.
“Exactly. And who knows? Maybe Mugabe will even come here personally to kiss Bully’s arse.”
He stopped to think about what he’d just said. He was thinking hard while we took it all in.
A moment passed before I asked: “So you and Mr. van Hout have been planning this together? We thought you were doing work.”
Perhaps there was something in my question Ivan didn’t like because his lips tightened.
“Sir says Kasanka is a rotten apple in a flourishing orchard,” he told me with blunt words. “He cares about this school. He believes in keeping standards, as we all should. We don’t want his sort at the top, it isn’t right, so whatever it takes to get him out.”
And in the seconds following I could feel the air getting heavier around us until Klompie unknowingly swished it away.
“I don’t get it—did Kasanka take my watch or not?”
We laughed.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“Ngoni Kasanka won’t be coming back to this school ever again, you have my word on that,” Ivan said simply, smiling again. “Anderson will take over as Head of House, which is where he should have been in the first place. And, of course, I’ve got some catching up to do.”
“Catching up what?”
He gave my shoulder a gentle pat and stepped out into the corridor to show me.
“Ndube!” His voice resounded. “Nelson Ndube! Come here.”
A moment. Then Nelson appeared.
He edged closer, afraid. He knew exactly what was going on, and when he got there a simple question tumbled out.
“Why? Why do you hate me so much?”
It made me think of me and Simpson-Prior the day he’d run away, and I stayed back.
Ivan took a knife he must have stolen from the dining hall out of his pocket. He ordered Nelson to hold out his hand then gripped his fingers so that they were straight and couldn’t move. He slotted the blade between Nelson’s middle and index finger, right in the V. I knew this one well—Greet must have done it to me a hundred times: The person keeps a tight hold on the fingers and starts twisting the knife; very quickly your skin there is raw and screaming. If you’re really unlucky it’ll split, though that only usually happens after about the twentieth turn.
“Evening, boys.” Mr. Craven suddenly appeared from nowhere, oblivious to what he’d disturbed. “Are you having fun?”
Ivan slid the knife back into his pocket.
“Not yet, sir,” he replied.
Nelson had already made a hasty retreat. For the moment, he’d escaped.
Ivan must have been pleased at that point in time; it was going so well. But all that was about to change, and when it did I daresay even Ivan didn’t know quite what had hit him.
TWENTY-THREE
Less than a week had passed since Kasanka’s departure and the jokes and rumors were still fresh. As it happened, we were laughing about it on our way to history after break, but it was a lesson that was never going to take place.
We were over by the chapel when we heard the commotion. It was coming from Mr. van Hout’s classroom. Instantly we knew it must be serious because if it had been a couple of boys fighting it would have drawn a crowd, but the guys who were close by took one look and moved quickly away.
We picked up our pace.
The shouting suddenly got louder and a cloud of papers burst from the open door. Darkness fell across Ivan’s face. He dropped his books and ran, the rest of us dutifully on his tail.
We crushed our bodies around the door. I could see the back of Mr. van Hout’s blond head, while at the rear of the classroom Mr. Mafiti stood with fear all over his face.
“Get out of my classroom,” Mr. van Hout yelled at him. “I’m fed up with you messing up my blackboard. Go on, get out!”
Only Mr. Mafiti couldn’t get out. If he went left, Mr. van Hout mirrored him and cut off his path; if he went right, Mr. van Hout went that way, too. Eventually our chemistry teacher made a bolt for it anyway down the side, but white hands snagged his jacket and pulled him back in.
Mr. van Hout spun him and held his lapels. For a couple of seconds Mr. Mafiti’s feet even left the floor.
“How many times do I have to tell you?” Mr. van Hout glowed with rage. He didn’t care that he was spitting into the other man’s face with each word. “This classroom is mine. It was given to me. You do not belong here and I don’t want you interfering in here ever again, you stupid . . .”
Numb, unable to move, I could sense what was coming and I willed him to stop as other teachers began to move near.
Mr. van Hout shook Mr. Mafiti hard. The chemistry teacher’s eyes searched desperately toward us for help.
“. . . gormless, grinning . . .”
With each word, Mr. van Hout shoved Mr. Mafiti against the wall.
“. . . stinking, dirty . . .”
Someone was pushing behind us. Mr. Dunn, trying to get through, but it was too late. A sound stung the air—Mr. van Hout had hit Mr. Mafiti with the back of his hand, and behind it came an unstoppable surge.
“. . . Kaffir.”
There was a sharp intake of breath. I don’t know which of us it was, but there was one thing we certainly all knew: The shining light we’d enjoyed during the otherwise drudgery of classes had just been extinguished.
TWENTY-FOUR
We gathered for the emergency assembly.
The silence was absolute as Bully walked slow, funereal steps down the middle of the hall and onto the stage.
Before he began he coughed into his hand, finding his voice, making sure it was still there.
“I’m not,” he began, already hesitant. “I’m not going to recap on the ghastly events of yesterday morning. I will, however, quell any rumors and fill you in on the details. Mr. van Hout is no longer considered an employee of this school and is currently being detained by the police. What will happen to him is a matter for the law; what I know for sure is that he will never be welcome here and shall not return.”
He paused. If he was expecting an interruption of whispers he didn’t get it, the silence continued to hum.
“For those of you who witnessed Mr. van Hout’s actions, I advise you blot it from your minds after the police have asked their questions. The res
t of you: I advise the same. Haven School needs to move on from this dim chapter, and as quickly as possible, or else . . .”
Bully wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. The words wouldn’t come.
We sat literally on edge. Or else what?
“. . . Or else we . . . That is, assuming they don’t . . .”
Ivan, especially, looked like he might burst: What?
“I am pleased to announce,” Bully said instead, “that Mr. Mafiti was not badly hurt and will return to teaching duties tomorrow. We should remember him in our prayers and thank the Lord things weren’t more serious than they were.”
And in case the Lord or we had temporarily forgotten who it was that had stepped in, Mr. Dunn sat straight in his chair and lifted his head above the other staff members.
It was weird going back into the classroom. It felt strange to think Mr. van Hout wasn’t going to step through the door and surprise us all in some way or other. We missed him already.
On the other hand, it was as though he hadn’t actually gone anywhere, although I didn’t know that yet.
Bully was going to stand in and be our history teacher from now on, at least until a replacement had been found. He sat at the desk with a weary slump.
“Someone tell me where in the textbook Mr. van Hout had got to.” He opened his own copy as if something horrible might fly out.
Fairford volunteered an arm. “Mr. van Hout didn’t really use the textbook, sir.”
Bully merely looked at him.
“He said books like this are full of rubbish, that we would only learn how much of a wan . . . how unclever the author is. Sir.”
Out of Shadows Page 14
