“I’ll come with you,” she said, pulling up to the curb.
“No need,” I said, but she insisted, and I realized that, ironically, she was concerned for me—a sobering thought, but a kind one. And perhaps she was right; because as soon as we entered the lane we saw it—certainly it was too big to miss—not just graffiti, but a mural-sized portrait—myself, mustached and swastika’d, larger than life in multicolored spray paint.
For half a minute we just stared at it. The paint looked barely dry. And then a rage took hold of me; the sort of transcendent, vocabulary-blocking rage I have felt maybe three or four times in my entire career. I vented it concisely, forgetting the refinements of the Lingua Latina for the pure Anglo-Saxon. Because I knew the culprit; knew him this time without a shadow of a doubt.
Quite apart from the small slim object I had spotted lying in the wedge of shadow at the base of the fence, I recognized the style. It was identical to the cartoon that I had removed from the 3S notice board; the cartoon that I had long suspected was the work of Colin Knight.
“Knight?” echoed Miss Dare. “But he’s such a little mouse.”
Mouse or not, I knew it. Besides, the boy has a grudge; he hates me, and the support of his mother, the Head, the newspapers, and heaven knows what other malcontents has given him a sly kind of courage. I picked up the slim object at the base of the fence. The invisible finger poked me again; I could feel my blood pounding; and the rage, like some lethal drug, pumped through me, bleaching the world of its color.
“Mr. Straitley?” Now Dianne looked concerned. “Are you all right?”
“Perfectly so.” I had recovered; I was still trembling, but my mind was sound, and the savage in me checked. “Look at this.”
“It’s a pen, sir,” said Dianne.
“Not just a pen.”
I should know; I searched for it long enough, before it was found in the secret cache in the Porter’s Lodge. Colin Knight’s bar mitzvah pen, as I live and breathe; cost over five hundred pounds, according to his mother, and conveniently embellished with his initials—CNK—just to be sure.
6
Tuesday, 26th October
Nice touch. That pen. It’s a Mont Blanc, you know; one of the cheaper ones, but even so, quite out of my league. Not that you’d know it to look at me now; the polyester-shine is gone, to be replaced by a slick, impenetrable veneer of sophistication. One of the many things I picked up from Leon, along with my Nietzsche and my penchant for lemon-vodka. As for Leon, he always enjoyed my murals; he himself was no artist, and it astonished him that I was able to create such accurate portraits.
Of course I’d had more opportunity to study them; I had notebooks filled with sketches—what was more, I could forge any signature Leon gave me, which meant that both of us were able to benefit with impunity from a number of excuse notes and out-of-school permission slips.
I’m glad to see that the talent has not deserted me. I sneaked out of school during my afternoon free period to finish it off—not as risky as it sounds; hardly anyone ever uses Dog Lane except for the Sunnybankers—and returned in time for period eight. It worked like a dream; no one saw a thing except the half-wit Jimmy, who was repainting the school gates and who gave me his idiotic grin as I drove through.
I thought at the time I might have to do something about Jimmy. Not that he would ever recognize me or anything; but loose ends are loose ends, and this one has remained too long untied. Besides, he offends me. Fallow was fat and lazy, but Jimmy, with his wet mouth and fawning smile, is somehow worse. I wonder that he has survived this long; I wonder that St. Oswald’s—with its pride in its reputation—tolerates him at all. A care-in-the-community case, as I recall; cheap and disposable as a forty-watt bulb. The word is disposable.
That lunchtime I carried out three small and unobtrusive thefts; a tube of valve oil from a pupil’s trombone (one of Straitley’s pupils, a Japanese boy called Niu); a screwdriver from Jimmy’s lock-up; and, of course, Colin Knight’s famous pen. No one saw me; and no one saw what I did with those three items when the time came.
Timing—timing—is the all-important factor. I knew Straitley and the other linguists would be at the meeting last night (except Grachvogel, who had one of his migraines following that unpleasant little interview with the Head). By the end of it, everyone else would have gone home, except for Pat Bishop, who can usually be trusted to remain in school until eight or nine. I didn’t think he would be a problem, however; his office is on the Lower Corridor, two flights down, too far from the Languages Department for him to hear anything.
For a moment I was back in the sweetshop, spoilt for choice. Obviously Jimmy was my primary target, but if this thing worked out I could probably have anyone in the Languages Department as a bonus. The question was, who? Not Straitley, of course; not yet. I have my plans for Straitley, and they are maturing very well. Scoones? Devine? Teague?
Geographically, it had to be someone with rooms in the Bell Tower; someone single, who would not be missed; most of all someone vulnerable; a lame gazelle that has fallen behind; someone defenseless—a woman, perhaps?—whose misfortune would provoke a real scandal.
There could only be one choice. Isabelle Tapi, with her high heels and tight sweaters; Isabelle, who regularly takes time off for PMS and has dated virtually every male member of staff under fifty (except Gerry Grachvogel, who has other preferences).
Her room is in the Bell Tower, just up from Straitley’s. It’s an odd-shaped, whimsical little space; hot in summer, cold in winter, with windows on four sides and twelve narrow stone steps leading from the door up into the room. Not very practical—it was a storeroom in my father’s day, and there is barely enough space there to seat an entire class. You can’t get a mobile phone signal there to save your life; Jimmy hates it; the cleaners avoid it—it’s almost impossible to get a vacuum up those little steps—and most of the staff—unless they have taught in the Bell Tower themselves—hardly even realize it’s there.
For my purpose, then, it was ideal. I waited until after school. I knew Isabelle would not go to her departmental meeting until she had had a coffee (and a chat with the beastly Light); that gave me five or ten minutes. It was enough.
First, I went into the room, which was empty. Next, I took out my screwdriver and sat down on the steps with my eyes level with the door handle. It’s a simple enough mechanism, based on a single square pin that connects the handle to the latch. Depress the handle, the pin turns, and the latch opens. Nothing could be easier. Remove the pin, however, and no matter how much you pull and push at the handle, the door stays shut.
Quickly, I unscrewed the handle from the door, opened it a crack, and removed the pin. Then, keeping my foot wedged in the doorway to stop it from closing, I replaced the screws and the handle as before. There. From the outside, the door would open perfectly normally. Once inside, however. . .
Of course you can never be completely sure. Isabelle might not return to her room. The cleaners might be uncharacteristically thorough; Jimmy might decide to look in. I didn’t think so, however. I like to think I know St. Oswald’s better than most, and I’ve had plenty of time to get used to its little routines. Still, not knowing’s half the fun, isn’t it?—and if it didn’t work, I told myself, I could always start again in the morning.