Different Class (47 page)

I knew there was no way I could get Poodle to listen to all of this, so I pretended to listen to him as he rambled on and on. I pretended to listen, and then at last I nodded.

‘OK.’

He looked surprised. ‘Do you mean it?’

How very like him to say that. I said: ‘I think you’re right. We’ll deal with it. I promise.’

His hopeful expression was almost like the Poodle of our schooldays. As if I’d given him a treat, instead of the kick he deserved. He said: ‘Really?
Really?
You promise?’

‘Of course.’ Well, Mousey, I had to say that. I needed to buy some time to think. ‘I’ll have a word with Johnny,’ I said. ‘We’re going to need him on our side.’

5

November 2005

Dear Mousey,

Getting in touch with Johnny proved more difficult than I’d thought. The new Head of St Oswald’s wasn’t an easy man to pin down. His phone number was ex-directory; his mobile went straight to voicemail. Even when I called him at school, all I got was his secretary, who asked too many questions and never seemed to know anything.

To be honest, it was hurtful. We’d been close for so many years, but now, except for the fifteen thousand paid into my account twice a year, it seemed that he was avoiding me. He hadn’t come to see me since I moved into my Malbry home. I could tell he didn’t want his wife around me any more.
She
never called me, either. Still, I’m sure that was
his
fault. Miss McRae always liked me.

Finally, I decided to call and see him in person. I went round to St Oswald’s and told the secretary I’d wait. I’d brought a box of Harry’s things to deliver to the Chaplain – Poodle and I had gone through them together, and I knew there was nothing in there to incriminate us. I was informed as I arrived that Dr Harrington was on a course, and that I could speak with Ms Buckfast or come back in the morning.

I didn’t want Ms Buckfast. I wanted the Head, and I said so. But the secretary – a bird-eyed blonde who seemed to look right through me – must have been briefed to get rid of me, because after a wait of ten minutes or so, a red-haired woman of generous size came out of a nearby office.

‘Mr Spikely,’ she said. ‘Can I help?’

For a moment, I almost revealed my surprise. But I’ve always been good at hiding things. I smiled, pulled a face at the secretary, and followed Ms Buckfast into her room.

It’s funny, the things you remember. Perhaps it’s the smell that brings it back; that uniquely St Oswald’s smell, like cabbage, chalk and floor polish. That day it was raining, and the sound of water in the gutters and drains was like a tiny orchestra of splashing and popping and gurgling. It brought it all back, Mousey. That little room in the Bell Tower; our own form-room beneath it. The smell of the rain from the rooftops; the sound of it flicking against the glass. The way he put his hand on my leg, and whispered in my ear:
Good boy
. Not a pleasant memory, and yet it has made me who I am. A rich man. A success. You might say, a survivor.

I sat down in a leather chair and let the years wash away from me. ‘Becky Price,’ I said, and smiled.

‘How nice of you to remember me. It must be over twenty years.’

‘You haven’t changed all that much.’

That was stretching the truth a bit. She’s a lot bigger than she was then; more rounded at the edges. But her voice is still the same; that low and throaty contralto that used to go down so well in Church. I wondered if she’d got the job by sleeping with the boss. Probably not. I mean, why would he? Johnny’s wife is gorgeous, and Ms Buckfast (what a name!) is only, at best, a four out of ten.

She gave me a smile. It brought her to five. ‘It’s good to see you, David,’ she said. ‘Now tell me, how can I help you?’

‘I want to see Johnny,’ I told her.

‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible. Johnny’s very busy right now. But I can pass on a message.’

I tried a more direct approach. I said: ‘Is he avoiding me? Because that would be dangerous.’

That
ought to get her attention, I thought. But Becky Price just smiled again and said: ‘That sounds like a threat, Dave. Can I offer you a drink?’

I shook my head. Too risky. I like to use my own crockery. The state of the mugs at St Oswald’s was always suspect, Mousey. Cracks; chips; rings inside like on the stump of an ancient tree. You can catch all kinds of things from a dirty coffee mug.

Becky poured herself a cup. I admired her confidence. Then again, she must have had a pretty strong constitution to do all those things with Goldie.

‘Let me make myself clear,’ she said. ‘Johnny isn’t available. But if you want to leave a message – or anything else – with me—’ Her eyes flicked to Harry’s box. ‘I take it you’ve been through the contents?’ she said.

I nodded. She was pretty quick.

‘Then I’ll make sure it’s dealt with,’ she said. ‘But this is a sensitive time, Dave. I don’t want Johnny involved in anything that might jeopardize his work with St Oswald’s. The school is already in a delicate situation. Any adverse publicity will just make his job so much harder.’

I explained to her about Poodle. She drank her tea and listened, occasionally nodding. I remember, when she was a Mulberry girl, she wanted to be an actress. From the way she reacted, I guessed she would have been a good one.

‘So you see,’ I told her. ‘That’s why I need to see Johnny.’

Becky shrugged. She isn’t so much a red Flamingo girl any more. She’s more like a ginger house-cat, purring by day; a killer by night.

‘I’ve told you. That isn’t possible.’ She looked at me with cat-green eyes. ‘You’ll just have to talk to Charlie.
Persuade
him. I know you can.’

I wasn’t sure what she was saying at first. But Mousey, she was serious. I’d never thought about her much, not even after what happened. She was Goldie’s girl, which meant hands off and no peeking. Besides, she wasn’t my type. But now I started to wonder. And to be honest, Mousey, if I’d
persuaded
Charlie, back in the winter of ’81, we wouldn’t have had this problem at all.

At last I said: ‘I’ll give it a try.’

She smiled. ‘I know you will, David.’

It took me a few days after that to decide what to do about Poodle. I’d told him I was in discussions with Johnny about when to hold Harry’s memorial, and for a while that was enough to keep him happy. But soon, he grew impatient, until finally, late one Friday afternoon, he turned up at my door, wanting Johnny.

‘Of course. I’ll phone him straight away. But he’ll still be at work right now. Let’s have a drink first, and talk. OK?’

He gave me a suspicious look. ‘What, here?’

‘Unless you’d rather go out.’

I knew what he was thinking, Mousey. He knew I was a killer. He sensed I’d given in to him just a little too easily, and he thought I might have murder in mind. I made my expression as bland as I could.

‘Don’t you trust me, Charlie?’

Frankly, I was a little hurt. After all, we’d been friends all this time, and I’d never revealed his secret. You’d have thought that might count for something, but apparently not to him. Fact is, he was uncomfortable being alone in my house with me.

‘OK. We’ll go to a neutral place. A nice pub in the Village. Somewhere we can both feel safe. I’ll tell Johnny to join us there as soon as he’s done at St Oswald’s.’

Actually, Mousey, that suited me better anyway. I don’t often go to pubs, as a rule. That meant I wouldn’t be recognized. And even if I were, I thought, what could be more natural than to meet an old friend for a quiet drink?

Then I phoned St Oswald’s, and asked for the Headmaster. Instead, I got Ms Buckfast.

‘David, how nice to hear you.’

‘I hoped I could talk to Johnny.’

She laughed. ‘You are persistent, David. Johnny isn’t available. But I’ll take a message, if you like. Is this about Charlie?’

‘He’s with me right now. We’re off to the Scholar for a drink.’

‘I see,’ she said. ‘Well, I’m afraid Johnny’s going to be working late. But if he can make it, I’m sure he will.’

So Poodle and I headed out towards the Thirsty Scholar. I didn’t need to do much. We talked. We drank (he more than I). I paid. I knew he wouldn’t turn down a free drink. Every hour I checked my phone and said: ‘He should be here soon.’

But Poodle was growing impatient. ‘Why isn’t he here?’ he kept saying.

‘Don’t worry. I think I know.’ I explained about Becky Price, Goldie’s girl from the old days. ‘She’s on his Management Team,’ I said. ‘
And
she said he was working late.’

Poodle’s face broke into a smile. ‘The old dog,’ he said. ‘Becky Price? You sure?’

‘I’ve seen her,’ I told him. ‘We talked about Harry’s memorial. She’s going to help us set things up. She’s like his deputy, or something.’

After that, Poodle seemed to relax. Somehow, the mention of Becky Price had convinced him I was serious. He babbled on happily for a while about Harry and the memorial; what hymns they’d chosen; what poetry. Then, at half past ten, I said: ‘Let me walk you home, eh? You never know who’s about these days.’

By then he was drunk. Not senseless, but reeling in the cold air. ‘We’ll walk through the park,’ I told him. ‘Let you get your breath back.’

Halfway through the park he was sick. I held his head as he vomited. He seemed more lively after that, talking about the memorial again.

‘You’ve thought it all out, haven’t you?’

‘Harry thought it out, not me.’ His eyes were wet and hopeful. ‘He wrote it all down before he died.’ He paused for breath, leaning against the trunk of a nearby beech tree. The fallen leaves around his feet were filled with uncanny whisperings. ‘I’m so glad you’re OK with this,’ he said. ‘I was expecting – I dunno. Resistance.’

I smiled. ‘No, Charlie. You sold me. I guess I’ve been waiting to do the right thing.’

By then we were nearing the end of the park. Beyond that was White City; what was left of the clay pits, and, more importantly, what was left of Malbry Canal; now a stub around three miles long, bordered with weeping willows. There’s a bridle path running alongside, most often used by cyclists, joggers and, in the evenings, young people in heat. At intervals, there’s a walkway of corrugated metal allowing people to cross the canal. In fact, there’s one just off the main road leading into White City. I led him towards it. Poor Poodle.

Think of it this way, Mousey. He was dead already. I’d given him his chance to shine. He could have had what the rest of us had. All that Survivors did for us. Instead, he chose Harry. That was his choice.
He
chose not to participate. And now he’s dead, that
I
might live . . .

This is what I was thinking as I walked back along the canal-side. I met only one other person; a man in a dark-blue parka. For a moment I thought he looked at me, but that might have just been the light. In any case, I kept moving. I crossed back through the park again, and then I was home. It was easy. And the more I think about it now, the more I realize how much I needed that bit of excitement; that breath of fresh air; that moment of surrender to something bigger and braver than I. I feel as if I’m awake again, after half a lifetime of sleep. For the first time in seventeen years, I feel
alive
, Mousey.

It didn’t take much. Just a little push. I don’t know why I waited so long. Still, it’s what happens now that counts. Living in the present. So, what next? Or should I say – who? It seems small-minded for me to stop now, when I’ve made such an excellent start. Harry’s dead; Poodle’s dead; who does that leave, Mousey?

No, you don’t have to answer that. You know. He’s been a thorn in my side for so long that I’d almost forgotten he was there. That he was even alive at all. Still, that could change. It can always change. Death is always waiting to strike when you least expect it. You think you’re entitled to seventy years, but Death could come tomorrow. Death could come during the night, or flying through the air at supersonic speed. The fact is, no one’s safe – not you, not even me, Mousey. Which is why I need to take charge of my fate, starting right here, right now. It’s never too soon to tackle Death. As Straitley would say:
Carpe diem
.

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