Shiverton Hall (22 page)

‘I only meant that Scholarship here knows a lot about murder, don’t you?’ Dan paused and licked his lips. ‘Arthur
Davies
.’

Penny looked at Arthur, puzzled. ‘What’s he talking about?’ she asked.

Arthur swallowed. ‘Please,’ he begged Dan. ‘Don’t.’

‘I always thought there was something fishy about you,’ Dan continued maliciously, ‘but I had no idea I’d dig up anything like this.’

He retrieved an old newspaper from his bag. Arthur sprang up and tried to snatch the paper from Dan’s hands. Dan whipped it out of his grasp.

Long-Pitt looked coolly at Dan. ‘Is there a point to this diversion, Mr Forge?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes!’ Dan replied, his eyes glinting.

He picked up the newspaper and showed it to the classroom. The students gasped and looked nervously at Arthur, who felt as though he might faint.

‘Arthur,’ Penny said slowly, ‘is that you?’

The headline simply read,
NOT GUILTY
. There was a picture of Arthur, younger and thinner, trying to hide his face with his hands. He was standing outside a courthouse.

Dan allowed the students a moment to take this in and then continued, ‘It seems that last summer our friend Arthur tried to beat two boys to death with a brick.’

Arthur gripped the back of his chair as the room seemed to lurch around him.

‘Nearly managed it too, didn’t you, Arthur?’ Dan sneered. ‘But, like everything else you do, you weren’t quite up to it.’

Dan triumphantly tossed the newspaper on to Arthur’s desk.

‘All right,’ Long-Pitt said. ‘I think that’s enough.’

The students’ eyes flickered from the paper back to Arthur, suddenly fearful. He opened his mouth to speak, and then fled.

Penny and George found Arthur in his room, shoving clothes into a suitcase.

‘Arthur –’ Penny began.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Arthur said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. ‘Leave me alone.’

‘We just came to see if you’re all right,’ George said.

‘What do you think?’ Arthur shouted.

‘Please, we only –’

‘Go away!’ Arthur yelled.

‘Not until you tell us what happened,’ Penny said, crossing her arms.

Arthur sank on to his bed and buried his face in his hands. He felt the water in his lungs, the dirt in his mouth. The dreadful thing. He would have to go back again.

The Water

Ian Mitchell and Antony Batch. The names alone sent a tingle of fear through the hallways of St John’s School. If you were lucky they’d only shake you down for your lunch money or trip you up as you were rushing to class, but if you were unlucky there was no telling what they would do.

Antony was tall for his age, gleaming white and wiry, with a shaved head. Ian was small and square, with a rash of purple acne and a right hook that could knock out a teacher in one. Ian and Antony were general bullies; they dished out regular beatings when they felt like it, but usually in an unfocused, indiscriminate way in order to pass the time at the school that couldn’t get rid of them.

That was until Arthur arrived in year seven. Perhaps it was because of his good looks and the fact that he got on with the girls; or perhaps it was because he did all right in class; maybe it was the fact that he lived on the same estate as they did. Whatever the reason, Ian Mitchell and Antony Batch hated Arthur Davies.

When Arthur passed them in the halls they would slam his fingers in his locker. At lunchtime they would drag him out of the dining room and bully him in the toilets, shoving his face on the dirty floor and making him lick it. Occasionally they brought along some cronies from the upper years, and a whole group of them would chase Arthur home, pelting him with stones. They tore up his school work, filled his bag with dog mess, prank-called his mobile incessantly and threatened him over the internet. It may not have been the most original bullying campaign, but it was certainly effective, and before long Arthur stopped talking to the girls or handing his homework in or sometimes even turning up at school.

No one was allowed to be friends with Arthur – Ian and Antony had decreed it. If anyone was seen talking to him they would get it too, so after a while, when Arthur did go to school, he drifted through the halls alone, his eyes lowered, as the rest of the student body pretended he didn’t exist. At home Arthur managed to keep up the pretence that everything was all right, but he spent a lot of time in his room anticipating the next morning with thickening dread.

It was a blistering day in May when years seven and eight went on their annual geography field trip to the Paradise Project, a protected forest just outside London. They were supposed to be collecting soil samples and classifying the insect life, but mostly it was an excuse to skive off regular school and to play games in the woods. Arthur had been trying to get out of it for weeks; he had booked dentist appointments, faked illnesses, and in a moment of desperation the night before thought about throwing himself down the stairs in the hope that he might break something. He didn’t do it. His mother packed him off to the coach the following day, completely oblivious to his terror.

Trips to the Paradise Project were barely supervised, and the teachers who were there let the students muddle along with it. It was the perfect place for Antony and Ian to get Arthur, as they had reminded him every day for a fortnight. Arthur sat on the muggy bus by himself, his back wet with perspiration, as the other students shrieked and sang. By the time he stepped off the coach he was soaking wet, and almost delirious with apprehension.

The students were given a long, tedious lecture about health and safety by a bearded man in green shorts, whom Antony and Ian heckled. The Beard testily passed them all a small notepad and a Petri dish each, and told them to be on their way. Arthur tried to slip into the forest unnoticed, not quite running – for he knew that would attract unwanted attention – and he felt his knees knocking together as he made his way through the trees, never daring to look back.

Arthur walked for nearly half an hour, until he came to a clearing with a large, rocky reservoir. There was obviously some building work going on nearby, because there was a cement mixer, a portable cabin and a pile of bricks, but there didn’t appear to be any builders. Arthur sneaked behind the cabin and waited. Surely Antony and Ian hadn’t followed him all this way? He peeked his head out to check: he was alone. He nearly sobbed with relief; all he need do was wait here until the end of the day – he had his packed lunch and he could get on with his work here, and the area was open so he could see if anyone was coming. Or so he had thought.

‘Trying to run away from us?’ came a sneering voice behind him.

Arthur turned to see Ian holding a jagged plank of wood, and Antony a length of frayed, blue string.

‘Wanted to go for a swim, did ya?’ Antony said, twisting the string around his own thumb so that it went purple.

Arthur wanted to make a run for it, but Ian held up the plank threateningly.

‘Well, go on then. Jump in.’

Arthur shakily peered at the brown water. He wasn’t a strong swimmer.

‘All right then, we’ll have to help you out,’ Antony sniggered.

Antony and Ian walked around him in slow, menacing circles. Ian grabbed Arthur, while Antony tied his hands tightly behind his back with the string.

‘Come on then,’ Ian said. ‘Jump in!’

Arthur looked at them disbelievingly. ‘But . . . my hands are tied,’ he whispered.

‘Aw. Diddums,’ Antony replied, and frogmarched him to the bank where the water looked deepest.

‘Please,’ Arthur repeated under his breath. ‘Please.’

Antony and Ian looked down at the water. There seemed to be a moment of hesitation from Ian.

‘Maybe we shouldn’t,’ he said quietly.

‘What?’ Antony said angrily, turning on his friend. ‘You wanna stop now?’

‘He might drown,’ Ian replied.

‘So?’ Antony snapped. ‘If we leave him he’ll tell.’

Ian digested the logic of this as Arthur held his breath, waiting for the verdict.

‘OK,’ Ian said finally, ‘but you do it.’

Arthur felt the sole of Antony’s trainer as it booted him into the water. It was freezing, and impossible to see through the cloudy mud, and he was sinking to the bottom. He tried to kick out towards the surface, but his legs were rigid with panic and cold. Arthur struggled with the knot in the string: it wasn’t knotted properly, but it had been tied repeatedly. His fingers worked fast as he unlooped one layer after another, fighting to stay conscious, his lungs screaming for oxygen.

He unworked the knot enough to get his hands free, then somehow managed to claw his way up to the surface, taking a huge gulp of air when he reached it, spluttering and drained.

Antony and Ian had run off. Arthur clambered out of the water and sat by the side, sobbing and shivering and trying hopelessly to swallow down the sick and stagnant water that rushed up his throat.

After a few minutes he wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. A sudden and deadly calm spread through his numb body, followed by a rush of hot, crimson rage. He walked to the pile of bricks, picked up the largest and walked quietly into the forest.

Arthur could see them just ahead of him in a thicket. Ian was pacing and biting his fingernails.

‘Just chill out.’ Antony laughed.

‘We should go back. We’ll get done,’ Ian said nervously.

Antony’s smile dropped and he pinned Ian against a tree, his elbow under Ian’s chin. ‘It’s too late to think about all that now,’ he snarled, ‘so shut it.’

Arthur ducked behind a tree, accidentally stepping on a twig as he did so. The other two boys paused.

‘What was that?’ Ian whispered.

‘Shhh . . . Wait,’ Antony said, a finger to his lips. He walked past Arthur’s hiding place, craning his neck to hear.

Arthur held his breath.

Antony narrowed his eyes. ‘You know,’ he said loudly, ‘his brother’s coming to school next year. Maybe we can give him the same welcome we gave Arthur.’

The brick hit the side of Antony’s face with a crack.

Ian stood completely immobile. Arthur straddled Antony, his eyes glazed and his face emotionless, hitting Antony again and again.

Ian started screaming.

Arthur emerged by the bus a few hours later, shaking, blood spotting his damp uniform. The geography teacher saw him first, as Arthur dropped to his knees and pointed back towards the woods.

Penny and George stared at Arthur.

‘I wanted to kill them,’ Arthur said quietly. ‘I thought I had.’

‘You didn’t kill them though,’ George said, not quite catching Arthur’s eye. ‘They’re fine now, right?’

Arthur winced. ‘I saw them during half-term. They were all bandaged up during the court case and now they’ve both got scars.’

‘But they left you to drown,’ George said, trying to justify it to himself.

‘That’s not an excuse,’ Arthur replied.

‘Why did you do it?’ Penny asked.

‘I snapped, I guess. Hurting me was one thing, but the idea that they’d start on my brother . . .’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘The weirdest thing was, I was angry, really angry, but I was calm. It felt like I was doing what I was supposed to do, like all along I’d had this thing, this violence inside of me, just waiting to come out.’