Darkroom (18 page)

‘What are you talking about, man?' asked Roosevelt. ‘You talking in complete riddles.'

‘Think about it, dummy! We made the Russians believe that we won the space race, didn't we, even though we didn't go no further than Pasadena! We saved ourselves a shitload of money, and nobody had to risk getting killed. In fact, I respect the government a whole lot more for making it up, instead of being dumb enough to try it for real. I mean, what was the point of going to the moon, anyhow? Who gives a shit what it's made of?'

Jim smiled. ‘So, when we say something – even if it isn't true – all that really matters is the effect that it has on other people? And if the effect is generally good, that makes it justifiable?'

‘Huh?'

‘What I'm asking you is this: can there be good lies, as well as bad ones?'

‘Oh,' said Edward. ‘Absolutely. I mean, what's the point of telling the truth if it just gives people grief?'

‘OK, then,' said Jim. ‘I want you all to write down three good lies – and I want you to be able to tell me
why
they're good.'

Roosevelt put up his hand. ‘I'd really like to do that, sir, but I'm suffering from repetitive strain disorder and I can't write.'

‘You've been spanking the monkey too much, that's your trouble,' put in Philip.

‘Roosevelt, you're telling me a lie,' Jim told him. ‘Not only that, it's a bad lie, not a good one.'

‘It's a good lie for me, sir, if I don't have to write nothing.'

‘I don't think so. If I believed for one moment that you were genuinely suffering from repetitive strain disorder – which I don't – I'd send you out to find Walter the janitor so that you could do something useful instead. I understand he's on his way to unblock the toilets in the girls' changing rooms. By thrusting his entire arm down the U-bend.'

Roosevelt waved his right hand, flapping it one way, and then the other. ‘It's cured! Would you believe that? It's cured! It's a miracle!'

While the class frowned at their notebooks, and then at the ceiling, and then at each other, trying to think of three good lies, Jim looked out of the window at Tom Mix's cedar tree. Supposing we hadn't been to the moon, would it have made any difference? Would we be any less superstitious? Would we be any worse off? Maybe we should have explored our souls, he thought, instead of space.

At lunchtime, Jim sat on the shady knoll overlooking the tennis courts, so that he could eat his salami-and-tomato sandwiches and read a book. Making sandwiches that stuck together had never been one of his greatest talents, and slices of tomato kept dropping out on to the grass. Two California quail bobbed around nearby, obviously hoping that he was going to leave them there.

He had been sitting there for less than ten minutes when he saw Lieutenant Harris's car speeding up the driveway between the trees, followed closely by a black-and-white squad car. Lieutenant Harris caught sight of him and pulled into the curb. He came hurrying over in his shiny bronze suit, holding up a large Manila envelope.

‘Mr Rook, I don't know what kind of a hunch that was, but I sure wish that I could have hunches like that.'

Jim put down his book, wiped his hands, and opened the envelope. Inside was a 10 × 8 picture of the suspect Hayward Mitchell had seen entering the Tubbs' beach-house. Now, however, the suspect had a white face and dark hair, and Jim was startled to see who it was. The artist's impression was slightly too long in the face, and his eyebrows were too heavy, but there was no doubt at all that it was Brad Moorcock.

‘Unbelievable, isn't it?' said Lieutenant Harris. He popped his fingers. ‘I recognized him just like that.'

Jim handed the picture back. He was surprised, and more than a little sorry. From what he had seen of Brad, he had seemed like a regular, decent young man. ‘Brad came up to me in the corridor only yesterday to tell me how regretful he was.'

‘Well, now you know why, don't you?'

Jim stood up and brushed the crumbs off his pants. ‘What are you going to do now? Arrest him?'

‘I don't have any choice.'

‘I'll come with you,' Jim told him.

Lieutenant Harris beckoned to the two officers in the squad car, and together they walked toward the college entrance. Lieutenant Harris said, ‘I still can't work out how you knew this picture was the wrong way round. Black instead of white.'

Jim couldn't tell him about Robert H. Vane. Instead, he said, ‘Reverse thinking, Lieutenant. Sometimes, if you can look at a problem the other way around, the answer is staring you right in the face.'

First they went to see Dr Ehrlichman. Even before she knew what they wanted, Mrs Frogg stood up and said, ‘I'm sorry, gentlemen. The principal is very tied up.'

‘In that case, you'll have to untie him,' said Lieutenant Harris. ‘We've come to arrest one of your students on suspicion of first-degree murder. Brad Moorcock.'

Mrs Frogg's eyes bulged. She hurried into Dr Ehrlichman's office, and almost immediately Dr Ehrlichman emerged, flustered and obviously shocked. ‘There must be some mistake, Lieutenant. Brad Moorcock is captain of our football team.'

‘I'm sorry, sir. Just because a student excels at sport, that doesn't give him carte blanche to kill people.'

Dr Ehrlichman accompanied them to the gym, tutting and shaking his head and making little puffing noises. Brad Moorcock was there with five of his friends, practicing basketball passes. The gym resounded with squeaky echoes, and shouts of ‘Give me the ball, you moron!'

Lieutenant Harris walked directly up to Brad and said, ‘Brad Moorcock, I'm arresting you on suspicion of murdering Bobby Tubbs and Sara Miller.'

The gym immediately fell silent. Brad stared at Lieutenant Harris in disbelief. ‘What?'

‘You heard me, son. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you do say—'

‘I didn't kill anybody! This is crazy!'

Jim went up to him. ‘Somebody saw you down at the beach, Brad.'

‘How could anybody see me? I wasn't there! I was at home that night!'

‘If you can prove it, fine,' said Lieutenant Harris. ‘Meanwhile, you need to come down to headquarters.'

‘I wasn't there! And why would I kill them?'

‘Maybe you were sore because Sara dumped you. Maybe you didn't like the idea of her dating anybody else.'

Brad turned to Jim in desperation. ‘OK, I treated her bad. But I admitted it, didn't I? I took advantage of her. But I never would have hurt her. Never. I wouldn't hurt anybody.'

‘Save it,' said Lieutenant Harris. He jerked his thumb in the direction of the gymnasium doors, and the two officers escorted Brad away.

‘This is
very
distressing,' said Dr Ehrlichman. He gave Jim a meaningful look and loudly blew his nose. ‘I had hoped that West Grove had finally refurbished its reputation.'

‘You're not suggesting that this has anything to do with me?' Jim asked him.

‘Of course not, Mr Rook. However … it does seem as if you're dogged by unusually persistent ill luck.'

Lieutenant Harris laid his hand on Jim's shoulder. ‘Believe me, Principal. I see it every day, every place I look, twenty-four seven. The whole world is dogged by unusually persistent ill luck.'

When Lieutenant Harris and Dr Ehrlichman had left, Jim turned to Brad Moorcock's friends. ‘That's it,' he said. ‘There's nothing we can do but wait and see.'

‘Did he really kill Bobby and Sara?' asked a tall black boy with a lightning flash shaved into his hair.

‘I don't know,' said Jim. ‘Some wino on the beach saw a young man entering the beach house just before Bobby and Sara got burned – and judging by his description it could have been Brad. But what happened that night … it was all very outré.'

‘Outré?'

‘That means weird. But I'm not supposed to tell you anything more. I'm sorry.'

‘I'll tell you what's outré,' said a stocky boy with ginger hair. ‘It's the way that Brad's been acting for the past three weeks.'

‘Oh, yes? What makes you say that?'

‘He hasn't been normal, that's all.'

All five boys nodded in agreement. The ginger-haired boy said, ‘Don't get me wrong or nothing. Brad can be a great guy, and he's a terrific captain of football. But he was always throwing his weight around and making sure that everybody knew what an all-round amazing dude he is, especially when it came to girls.'

‘So, what's changed?'

‘He's kept his yap shut for a change. He's been
modest
, even. He's stopped flicking people on the ass with a wet sports towel and generally acting like a dork. You wouldn't have thought he was the same guy. Like today – he always used to hog the ball when he played basketball, and slam people right in the face with it, and think that was hilarious. But not any more.'

‘And he's been like this for how long? Three weeks?'

‘That's right. We met him on the beach, three Saturdays back, and he was horsing around the way he always does, kicking sand and pulling people's shorts down and half-drowning them in the ocean. But when he came to college on Monday, he was totally changed.'

A boy with a black buzzcut and a hoarse, adenoidal voice said, ‘We first noticed it when Ollerkin got into trouble in the pool.'

‘Ollerkin?'

‘If you'd met Ollerkin, sir, you wouldn't need to ask. Like, if somebody from another planet wanted to know what a dweeb was, you'd only have to point to Ollerkin.'

‘So what happened?'

‘We were walking past the pool and Ollerkin was coughing and spluttering in the water and waving his arms and calling out “help!” Brad dived in, fully dressed, with his sneakers on and everything. At first I thought he was going to push Ollerkin under the water. That's the kind of thing he would have done before. But he supported the guy's head, and he swam with him right to the side of the pool and helped him out. We just stared at each other, like,
duh
.'

‘And he's been like that ever since?'

The five boys nodded.

‘The trouble was, we didn't like to make fun of him in case he was kidding us along. Believe me, Brad's the kind of guy who wouldn't hesitate to empty a whole can of wood preservative over your head, or crap in your lunchbox. Well, he
used
to be. But for three weeks he's been acting like a pussy.'

Jim took off his glasses. ‘Do any of you know if anything happened to him that particular weekend? Anything out of the ordinary?'

‘What, like God spoke in his ear and told him to get his shit together, or he'd never get to heaven?'

‘Exactly that.'

They looked at each other, but they all shook their heads. Jim said, ‘All right. Thanks. You're all coming to the funeral tomorrow, I expect?'

He was cleaning the chalkboard at the end of the day when a short black woman in a bright-pink pants suit came into the classroom on clicky-heeled shoes. She had a flat face but a very bouffant wig, like a bronze chrysanthemum.

‘So this is pandemonium,' she said, in a voice as dry as crushed crackers.

‘Excuse me?'

‘This is the class that all of the decibels come from.'

‘Oh, yes. Special Class II. They can be a little exuberant, but they're pretty well behaved, considering their various difficulties.'

The woman came forward and held out her hand. Her nails were like bronze claws, to match her wig. ‘Raananah Washington. Your new vice-principal.'

‘Jim Rook. That's an interesting name, Raananah.'

‘It's biblical, Jim. It means “unspoiled”.'

‘Unspoiled. I'll remember that.'

Raananah Washington looked at the chalkboard, where Jim had rubbed off everything except the word
phantoms
.

‘So, today you've been teaching your special students about ghosts?'

‘No. We've been discussing what makes human beings human. That's from a poem by Robinson Jeffers: “They have hunted the phantoms and missed the house. It is not good to forget over what gulfs the spirit of the beauty of humanity, the petal of a lost flower blown seaward by the night-wind, floats to its quietness.”'

‘And they understand that, your special students?'

‘They understand about being human, yes.'

‘Good. Because it's my personal feeling that special classes like this are not the way to draw disadvantaged students into the educational community.'

Jim had been just about to erase
phantoms,
but now he hesitated. ‘Um … what exactly do you mean by that?' he asked her.

She circled around the classroom in her clicky shoes, like an over-trained circus pony. ‘My personal feeling is that special students should intermingle with the rest of the college. Special classes such as these are educationally segregationist, socially demeaning and have a negative effect on young people with learning difficulties.'

Jim left
phantoms
and lowered his eraser. ‘I'll tell you what
does
have a negative effect on young people with learning difficulties, Raananah – sitting in a class with other students who can read and write ten times better than they can. In my experience they very quickly give up trying to compete, because they feel humiliated, and then they're lost to us forever.'

‘I'm sorry, Jim. I think that remedial classes are patronizing and outdated. And what are you teaching them? Robinson Jeffers? A white male poet who died in 1948?'

‘Shakespeare was a white male poet who died in 1616. I teach him, too.'

‘There's no need for sarcasm, Jim. I just want to put you on notice that I plan to close down all of West Grove's remedial classes and welcome their students into the educational mainstream.'

‘Well, thanks for the warning, Raananah. Maybe I can put
you
on notice that if you do that, all of my students will still be semi-illiterate when they leave college. Because of that, they will justifiably feel cheated by the education system and ostracized by society as a whole. They will become anti-social, welfare-dependent, and a high percentage of them will turn to drugs and crime as the only way they can make a living. Not only that, they will bring up the next generation of children the same way.'