Authors: Stephen Sweeney
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Barlow
said as we both saw what had happened.
Gregory Miller had apparently
slipped on the icy stairs as he had made his way up them, tumbling
over backward and bouncing all the way back down. Blood was running
from his nose, where it had met with the exposed concrete.
I wondered if he had broken it. I also wondered if Miller was
genuinely in that much pain or if he was taking the opportunity to
now exaggerate.
“Come on, Gregory, let’s stop
make so much noise,” Father Thomas said, helping him up and
sounding at first irritated. “Oh dear, that doesn’t look very
comfortable,” he then said, seeing the state of the boy’s face.
Miller fussed for a time, slipping
once again as he got to his feet. He was trembling, likely a
combination of the cold and the shock of the slip. Father Thomas
appraised the injury for a moment, before declaring that the first
year was no longer fit to continue with the punishment.
“Could one of you take Gregory to
see Sister Mary at the clinic, please, as he might have to go to
hospital if his nose is badly broken,” Father Thomas requested. The
words had barely left his mouth when the volunteers were voicing
their offers to escort Miller. The volunteer could be there at
least half an hour, more so if the night sister wasn’t immediately
available.
“Father, I share a dormitory with
Greg,” a boy by the name of Ian Daniels said. “I could take him
and collect any of his clothes and wash bag if he needs to go to
hospital.”
“That’s a good idea, Ian,”
Father Thomas said. “Well volunteered, thank you.”
Well volunteered? I cursed my luck.
I had been both boys’ dorm prefect not one month earlier. Had it
been this term, the escorting could have been
my
duty, and
then I wouldn’t have to carry on with this ridiculous punishment
any longer. Sure, it could have been a lot worse had Father Thomas
not intervened with the need to clear the snow and left the
Murga
up to Lawrence to dictate as he pleased, but I would still seize on
the opportunity to end it as soon as possible. I only wished that
something else could happen to end the insufferable task sooner.
Maybe one of the local farmers might show up with a real snowplough
and help shift the drifts in a matter of minutes.
I knew that that was highly
unlikely, however.
“Right, let’s get this shit
done,” I said, stomping over to my shovel and trying to work
faster. Scoop, throw, scoop, throw, scoop, throw. I knew I
probably wasn’t clearing it properly, but I didn’t care. So long
as it wasn’t too deep and the cars and vans could still get
through. They would just have to go a little slower, that was all.
Barlow was still working at the same speed, which riled me a little.
I wished he would go faster. I intended this to be the last ever
major punishment I received at St Christopher’s, and the sooner it
was over with the better.
Lawrence reappeared not a short
while later and was immediately confronted by Father Thomas. The monk
seemed quite suspicious that the sixth former hadn’t brought the
aforementioned cup of coffee with him. He would obviously be able to
smell the smoke on the prefect’s breath. Perhaps Lawrence was going
to go with the old chewing gum and
it wasn’t me, it was someone
I was standing next to
excuse. I couldn’t see Lawrence chewing
anything. Nor could Father Thomas.
“So, Michael, where exactly have
you been?” the tall monk wanted to know.
I grinned evilly to myself.
“I—” Lawrence started.
“Arghh!”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I
growled as I heard the cry of another of the younger boys. “Is
everyone going to start throwing themselves down those bloody stairs,
just to get out of doing this?”
“Arggh! Father! Help! Father!”
“Oh my God! Father! Father!”
That actually sounded a little more
urgent, and I felt my stomach involuntary tighten. The voices had an
edge to them – one of fear and terror. I saw who was doing the
shouting, two second year boys holding buckets and standing by the
side of the drive that was dense with bushes. The two looked very
upset, unmistakable signs of genuine distress on their faces. I once
again dropped my shovel, running over to them, as Father Thomas
commenced his trademarked unhurried, placid stroll to their side.
“Oh, Jesus!” I said as I
discovered the source of the boys’ anguish. There, lying in the
bushes, was the naked body of a dead boy. And next to it, the fully
clothed body of an older one. The younger one appeared to have been
strangled. The older one had had his throat cut.
“What’s happening?”
“Who is it?”
“Oh Christ, I can’t look! I
don’t want to see it!”
“They’ve cut his throat!”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Ugh, shit, I’m going to be
sick!”
The sound of heaving followed as
one of the second years began vomiting into the snow. Another boy
followed swiftly thereafter. Father Thomas raised his hands and began
shooing away all those nearby, quickly summoning Lawrence over. The
sixth former didn’t look all that bothered until he was up close
and personal to the scene. His face drained of colour. Maybe he had
expected to see a dead fox or a pheasant.
“Okay, Michael, I need you to call
the headmaster for me, immediately,” the monk said, unfastening his
cloak and spreading it as best he could in front of the bodies in the
brushes, in an attempt to disguise them. “Quick as you can,
Michael. Go.”
“Yes, yes,” the pale-faced
Lawrence said, and darted away across the snow, towards the main
entrance to the school.
“You two,” Father Thomas looked
to Barlow and I, “get the boys back to their dormitories and then
inform your house duty masters. Wake them if you have to. Don’t
waste any time. Hurry.”
Barlow and I did so, Barlow
hastening to go about the task. This, I knew, wasn’t because he
wished to crow about the responsibility. He was clearly in shock and
eager to escape the scene as soon as possible.
The news was going to
spread around the school like wildfire. By eight, everyone would
know. But what bothered me most wasn’t the discovery of the bodies,
but the identity of one of them in particular – the older boy, the
fully clothed one, the one who had had their throat cut. I had
recognised them within seconds, even if no one else had.
It was Craig Priest.
Chapter Seventeen
A
school assembly was held the morning of the discovery on the main
drive, and in a repeat of the previous term, parents arrived that day
and the next to take boys home. The school was to remain closed until
further notice.
Initially, I expected both my
parents to be annoyed that I was once again being made to return home
when I should be out from under their feet. I was surprised then to
see the horror on their faces when they arrived to pick me up. My
mother even hugged me tightly as she exited the car. They wanted to
know if I was okay and if I had seen anything. They were appalled to
discover that I had been one of the first to do so, my mother
whisking me into the car and setting off as quickly as possible. Even
so, I couldn’t help but feel that it would still not be a good
enough reason for me to leave St Christopher’s before I completed
my A-Levels. I gave it only a couple of days for the shock to pass
before they would discuss my possible return to the school, should it
ever reopen. I had a feeling that this time it might not.
~ ~ ~
My mother and father had meetings
and all kinds of other things going on the first week I returned to
Baconsdale, and so they had little choice but to leave me at home on
my own. They would insist that I spend as much time with Rob as
possible, so that I wouldn’t destroy the house. I looked on it in a
different way, as a test of how I would cope at home the following
year.
For the most part, I did okay. I did once succeed in burning baked
beans when I left them too long on the hob. I had been distracted by
a film preview show on Sky Movies, featuring an intriguing-looking movie
called
Basic Instinct
, which was apparently whipping up a
storm in America. I also broke various things around the house
on occasion. Small things though, luckily.
I tidied up quickly after myself in all
instances. I even managed to mend a door handle that had come loose,
raiding the garage for a screwdriver to do so.
After the first few days, my parents
set me tasks, such as cleaning and doing the odd spot of food
shopping. Mostly this was for milk and bread, the milk floats around
our way not being able to traverse the roads that were still thick
with ice and snow. The gritters had come nowhere near us.
The strangest thing then happened to
me in the second week. I was visited by the goblins.
At home.
That
had never happened before, and it startled me that the location of my
dream had shifted to match that of where I was staying in Surrey. It
scared me quite a bit, too, as it meant that the goblins were capable
of pursuing me almost as much in real life as they did in my dreams.
In the dream, I found myself waking
up in my own bedroom. The door was open. The upstairs landing of the
house was gone, however, the door leading into a corridor that went
elsewhere. I got out of bed and wandered into the corridor,
discovering it to be a match for the one I would normally materialise
in during my encounters with the goblins; sterile and mute, plain
walls, floor and ceiling, locked doors on the left-hand side,
impenetrable windows to the right. The shadows of the goblins could
be seen at the far end, around the bend, though here they appeared
to be preoccupied. There was choking, sobbing, and evil-sounding
cackles coming from around the corner. I made to return to my
bedroom, but it had vanished, replaced by a dead end.
I walked the length of the corridor
for the first time, rounding the corner and finding myself in my
parents’ bedroom. Several of the goblins were there, dismembering
my father, who they had dragged onto the floor, staining the cream
white carpet a dark crimson with his blood. He was dead already, his
eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling. The choking was coming from
the bed, where a number of the other creatures were amusing
themselves by disembowelling my mother. She was being held there as
they ripped out her entrails, thrashing and choking on her own blood,
like John Hurt in
Alien
.
“Joseph ... Joseph ... Joseph,”
I thought I could hear her saying between the chokes.
The goblins cackled with glee as
they continued their work, quite aware that I was watching from the
doorway and knowing that I could do nothing to stop them. One of them
picked up my father’s severed arm, bending his finger into a V
shape and waving it at me.
“You’re next,” it laughed in a
scratchy, throaty voice. “Cut your throat, we will,” it added,
drawing a thin, bony finger across its own.
I had never heard them speak before
and knew in the back of my mind that that wasn’t a good thing. I
only wanted to wake up.
I did so, finding myself standing in my
parents’ bedroom, the goblins gone, the scene one of normality. The
lights were on, and my mother and father were watching me from their
bed, softly saying my name. It was the first time they had seen me
sleepwalk. I had never told them about the incidents at school in the
past.
They walked me back to my bed,
making sure I was settled in and comfortable before returning to
their own bedroom. I didn’t sleep.
~ ~ ~
I told them that it was probably a
reaction to being dragged out of school at such a random point, my
mind struggling to cope with the change to its regular schedule, as
well as having to cope with everything else that was going on. They
hadn’t asked any other questions. Even so, I noticed after the
incident that they took turns working from home, writing their
reports and doing other duties that the job demanded of them.
Initially, they seemed both a little put out by this, but eventually
they grew to enjoy the lack of a commute, as well as the chance to
stay in bed a little longer. I always thought that my parents worked
too hard.
“If you worked from home a little
more often or maybe even part-time, then you could get another cat,”
I told my mother one evening, while she was preparing dinner.
“Oh, I’d love to have another
cat,” she said, her face and voice softening at the thought. “But
I can’t; I’m not here enough, and it’s too cruel to keep
animals if you’re not home all the time.”
“They can cope,” I said. “As
long as they have a cat flap and food.”
My mother shook her head. “No.
They need company. It’s even worse if you have a dog. The Turners
have a dog that they leave on its own all day, except for the walker
that comes at lunchtime. I couldn’t do that; it wouldn’t be fair.
The poor thing must wonder every day if he’s been abandoned.”
I rarely saw my mother this way,
acting a little more human. She was always stern and serious, blunt
and to the point, so career-focused that I sometimes wondered if she
had ever lived a real day in her whole life. Both she and my father
truly were two people who lived to work. Craig Priest’s accusation
of my being a mistake and an unwanted child fluttered into my mind a
couple of times during those first two weeks, as I wondered if I was
something of an inconvenience to them. But I was probably winding
myself up needlessly. No more badmouthing would come from Craig
Priest again. I felt oddly bad about that. Everyone wants to silence
a bully, just not like that.
“I’ve decided what I want to be
when I leave school,” I then told her.
“Oh? What?” my mother asked,
sounding quite interested.
“A trader, at a bank.”
She stood there looking at me for a
moment, to see whether I was being serious. I needed no effort to
keep my expression deadpan. “You know that is very hard work, don’t
you?” she asked.