The Standing Water (39 page)

Rodney switched the
subject, asked how I was. Not good, I had to tell him – not sleeping well,
tired and nervous all the time. Spoke about my recent appointment at the doc’s
– doctor shaking his head, blood pressure sky high in spite of all the pills,
cholesterol high too, same old problems with shortness of breath, heart not beating
quite as it should. Doc lectured me about ‘lifestyle changes’ – told me to take
things easy, not get too stressed. I’d like to see him remain calm when dealing
with Darren Hill’s misbehaviour, Stubbs’s latest idiocies. Buffoon even
suggested I changed jobs if I felt under too much pressure. Like it’s that easy
– like I can just find some lovely relaxed post in which I’ll earn enough to
look after my family and pay my mortgage. But the vicar echoed the doc’s words
– easier to accept when delivered in his soothing voice rather than the doc’s
hectoring tones. Asked me if I really thought I was right for the job, if I
might not be happier doing something completely different, if my health
problems were maybe not God’s way of hinting something was wrong. I’m a
committed Christian, I love my Lord, but I really wonder why God can’t make
things clearer! Rodney said the Lord’s ways are not ours, that His paths are
mysterious and crooked, that we have to look for signs and listen with a
patient open heart. That’s all very well, but I sometimes think my old heart
will give out before I decipher any of God’s meanings.

We soon had to ring
off as I had to get ready for work. As I had a wash and brushed my teeth, I
couldn’t get the image of that damned gauntlet out of my brain. Still wasn’t
able to completely wake up, get free from my nightmare. There the blasted thing
was – hanging,
swinging
, in that awful church. I swear I almost saw it
in the shower, not almost, I
did
–
floating
in the water-beaded
air! It was transparent – I reached out to touch it, the thing faded away.
Weird! I leaned on the wall to steady myself, sucked in deep breaths as I tried
to calm my heart. Driving to school, I saw that glove hovering ahead of me in
the slanting rain. I’d blink and it would go, but a couple of times it came
back. Had to blink manically then shake my head to get rid of it. Not the
safest thing to do when driving on a windy road with the rain pelting as water gushes
down your windscreen.

Made it to school,
by which time I felt slightly more awake, a little more into the solid world
and out of my dreams. As I drove through the gates, I was disturbed to see that
damned pond had grown. The rain must have really hammered in the night – the pool
wasn’t far from its old proportions. Got past it as quickly as I could, went
into the staffroom and made a strong coffee. Maybe not so good for the ticker,
but I thought if I could drag myself completely out of my dreams, thrust myself
into the clarity of waking life, it’d be worth it. As I sat there, sipping
away, I thought about that glove. Though of course it’s outrageous to steal
from a church, I couldn’t help feeling those thieves were welcome to that
gauntlet! I hoped the thing would curse them, but – as long as it was far from
Emberfield – in a way I was happy. With a bit of luck, I thought, the glove
might be on the Continent by now, some Frogs or Krauts could be pawing the
thing, murmuring in their damned languages about the ‘genuine English antique’.
I took more sips, took some profound breaths, getting calmer as my mind
struggled into the day. The clock told me the kids would be in soon. Hadn’t
prepared my lessons. Thought I could give my class some maths exercises though
I didn’t remember what bit of my briefcase they were in. I bent down, randomly
unzipped a section.

And there it was –
that blasted gauntlet, looking straight up at me! I reeled back in my chair,
heart pounding as sweat slithered down my spine. I ripped my gaze from that
bag, from that glove, just stared at the white wall, taking big gulps of air.
Told myself it was another hallucination. After all, there was no reason why
that awful object should be in
my
briefcase. What I’d do, I told myself,
was take some more breaths, steady my heart and look again. Like when I was
driving, like when I was in the shower, the damned thing should disappear. I
drew in, let out more air, got the speed of my heart down by at least a
fraction and tried to have another look. Took some effort to force my eyes back
to the briefcase, the last thing they wanted to see was another mirage of that gauntlet.
Really thought I must be losing my marbles.
Seeing
things – who’d have
thought it of me! I was determined to look again, prove that glove was just an
apparition. I looked – it was still there! More damned solid than my previous
sights had been. In those it had been wispy, ghostlike, here it appeared so
substantial I could have picked the thing up. I sat and stared, hoping the
vision would fade. It stayed as solid as ever. I jerked forward, clasped that
briefcase shut, fumbled the zip closed. At least
that
removed the sight
of the accursed thing. I concentrated on my breathing, sucking shuddering gasps,
willing my heart to slow. Clock said there were just three minutes till
assembly. Had to pull myself together – couldn’t let the little rascals see any
weakness, not for one second, not even under
these
circumstances.
Blasted clock ticked down so quickly as I wiped my face with a handkerchief,
tried to still my shaking hands. After checking that briefcase was really
closed, I hauled myself to my feet, took a few last deep breaths. Anger surged
through me as I strode out to the rabble …

We watched Weirton drive
off, knowing he had the gauntlet. My heart beat doleful thuds; tingles ran over
my skin. How easy it would be for him to zip open that part of his bag! I could
just imagine the huge face recoiling – screwed up in confusion, white with
shock – as he found the thing there. Jonathon and I began our trudge home from
Marcus’s pond. As we turned on the pub’s sour- smelling corner, Jonathon said,
‘If he finds the glove, at least he won’t know it’s us who put it there.’

‘Suppose,’ I said,
‘but imagine what he’d be like the next day at school – he’d
know
someone had tried to kill him! He’d do
everything
to find out who –
maybe he’d just whack and whack all the boys till someone owned up!’

‘And when he
does
find out who did it!’ Jonathon drew his finger over his neck, rattled out a
deathly noise.

‘He might kill us!’
I said. ‘You know what happened to Lucy and Marcus!’

‘He might keep us!
Show our skeletons to kids for years and years!’

‘We’ll be stuck in
that dark cupboard with Lucy!’

‘Yeah, and another
thing – now Weirton’s got that glove, it won’t protect us. It’ll protect him!
It protects the person who owns it against all vio-lence and murders – we’ll
never
be able to kill him!’

‘Unless it slips on
his hand, of course,’ I said. ‘That might happen – then he’d be sure to die!’

‘Can’t rely on
that,’ Jonathon said. ‘It didn’t happen to us – and Weirton knows the legend so
he’d be careful.’

‘Damn!’ I said. ‘We’ve
got
to get that glove back. Let’s hope he doesn’t find it and he brings
the briefcase tomorrow – then we’ll steal it back! We’ll steal it!’

Having said those
words, I glanced around, looked up. The day was still mild. A breeze ruffled
the sheep-cropped fields, the lawnmower-scythed gardens. The smell of
dunghills, dense and slightly sweet, wafted on the air: a scent not suppressed
by rain or dispersed by strong winds. But I’d a feeling all this would change.
Most of the sky was blue, spotted with light clouds. Just on the borders of
that dome something more ominous had appeared. Darker banks of cloud were inching
up over the sky. For some reason, I thought of a picture the vicar had shown us
of Noah making his ark. The prophet was hammering at the hull as his neighbours
laughed and mocked, as they pointed to the blazing sun high in the almost
cloudless heavens. But wise Noah knew better. And – sure enough – dread clouds
of black, bloated with the Lord’s coming vengeance, skulked on the picture’s
edge. I knew it was sensible to keep an eye out for signs of God’s punishments,
and those darker clouds did make me uneasy. I resolved to talk to Mr Davis.
He’d know what to look out for, being – after all – one of Noah’s sons.

I shook such
thoughts from my head and went back to discussing the gauntlet with Jonathon
though we got no further with any plans. All we could think of was to grab the
thing back when we saw an opportunity. Jonathon drifted off to his house, and I
trudged on to mine, right on the town’s edge, passing our patiently fishing
gnome to spend a nervous evening inside. I couldn’t stop thinking about that
gauntlet. I thought of it lying in that briefcase, just waiting to be
discovered. I sat in our lounge, watching the cartoons, but couldn’t concentrate
on them. Mum brought me biscuits and milk, but my shivering teeth struggled to
grind those cookies and – despite the milk – dry lumps of them kept sticking in
my throat. My sister pranced around, annoying me, celebrating the whacking of
Darren Hill, which she’d somehow heard about. I glugged some milk, gulped down
a stubborn chunk of biscuit, and tried to focus on the cartoons and push that
gauntlet from my mind. But – on this cartoon – a dog detective was taking the
fingerprints of two cat criminals. I hadn’t even thought of the police! What if
Weirton called them! I could imagine us all lining up to have our fingerprints
taken by stern officers before Weirton’s rumbling voice would announce all the
evidence pointed to me and Jonathon. Maybe they’d even discover we’d wanted to
murder our teacher – we could be shut in jail for life! My heart lurched into a
gallop. The only thought that could slow its stampede was my suspicion Weirton
might not want the police poking around – considering what had happened with
Marcus and Lucy.

Dad arrived home
and a little later Mum called us all to dinner. I prayed they wouldn’t notice
the tremble in my hand, the shiver of my fork, how I struggled to chew and
swallow. I finished and got up to my room as quickly as I could. I hoped my
parents thought I was just playing in there, but really I was praying to God,
pleading with Him to keep Weirton from seeing that gauntlet, begging Him to help
us snatch it back. Patters sounded on my window – rain. I ignored it, prayed some
more then thought of all the land spreading around Emberfield, all that wide
flat land quiet in the fading day. And a glance at the window showed that day
would fade faster – those clouds I’d noticed earlier had conquered most of the
sky, just leaving a patch of innocent blue and white around which drifted big-stomached
black beasts. As the rain streamed down harder, I forced my mind back to those
flatlands, thought of all the ghosts that haunted them. I asked for their help
as well, asked them to do all they could to aid our struggle against our
tyrant, to help us out of this terrible situation we’d stumbled into. I thought
of Marcus in his pond – who’d hopefully be strengthened by the rain those dark
clouds held, of the witch’s hand – as black as the skies which were giving us
this downpour, of the kids trapped in the Old School. I let my mind float
across Emberfield to the gates of Salton then let it wander down Salton’s
lonely track saluting all the spooks along the way – Henry VIII, the hundreds
of sleeping Scots, the Knights Templars with their ancient curses, the Drummer
Boy, all the souls who rested around and inside the church. And I did feel some
strength from them – a surge of strength telling me they were still on our
side. It was like some force I could suck up from the soil, like water through
a straw – I could almost taste it: black water with a rich earthy tang. I still
fretted; my heart still knocked; my hands and arms trembled yet at least I felt
Jonathon and I had some friends, that in our struggle we weren’t alone.

And, later, there
was more comfort. I lay in bed; sleep wouldn’t come. The rain hammered on the
roof, bounced off the pavement below. With the rain bashing out its rhythms it
took me longer to hear the familiar sound, but, gradually, through the noise of
those drops, through all the gurgling in the gutters, I could make out the
rattle of sticks against skin and the shake of an answering snare. Soon the
beats of the Drummer Boy were mingling with the rain’s tempo: his rattles,
thuds and clanks were weaving through, complementing the patterns that falling
water rapped out. The Drummer’s playing swelled, got almost as loud as the rain
before his rhythms faded – gradually surrendering to the downpour’s greater
power, becoming less and less distinguished from the sounds of the rain until I
realised his drumming had stopped. But that drumming – that sound of hope
echoing through the deluge – had soothed my nerves, quelled my heart, stilled
my shivering hands. And, soon after, I could sleep.

When I woke the
next morning, it was still raining hard. I struggled to gulp down my breakfast,
knowing that at school we’d discover if Weirton had found the gauntlet. I
thought about pretending to be sick, shoving my fingers down my throat to bring
my cereal up so I could stay off that day, but then I supposed my absence might
be seen as suspicious. I tried to bolt my breakfast down, to convince Mum all
was OK by the vigour of my appetite. With my anxious stomach, I really did feel
a bit ill after that, but no one noticed I was any different. I was soon
leaving the house, walking down the path of our front garden, with its
rain-sodden grass, with the little pond of our gnome ready to overflow. I
trudged along dodging the puddles on my way to Jonathon’s. Though I knew I
shouldn’t be late, each step was slow – as if my legs had weighted themselves,
the muscles heavy in their reluctance to get anywhere near the school. Another
thought struck, quickening my heart. Could Jonathon’s nerves have led him to
blurt anything out in front of his parents? Could a confession have been thrashed
from him by his dad’s belt? I hesitated; my fist drooped, wavered before I
could make it knock on Jonathon’s door. I ended up bashing that door too hard,
startling myself. But nothing seemed different in Mrs Browning’s face when she
opened it. Jonathon slipped out, for once all ready, for once not needing to be
dragged from his encyclopaedia or books. Soon we were tramping down his road,
the rain beating on our kagools, striking its sounds from the rooftops, the
gnomes, the hoods of the fake wishing wells. As we needed to raise our voices
higher than the rain, we glanced around, made sure no one was near.

‘Nobody in your
house knows anything, right?’ I said.

‘No, yours?’

‘No. Just hope Weirton
hasn’t found that glove.’

‘Well, if he has,
we’ll hear about it in assembly.’

‘Yeah, when we walk
into the hall, we’ll probably be able to tell from what mood he’s in.’

We drifted on
without speaking. We got to the main road, joined the procession of kagooled
kids. We paused to look for the witch’s hand. It was there – a black shape in
the air’s rainy grey. I hoped it wouldn’t be an evil omen. We mumbled a request,
pleading with the witch to help us, before we trudged on. We also halted before
Marcus’s pool. He’d grown with the night’s rain and wasn’t far off his
pre-summer size. I hoped this was a good augury. We also murmured a plea
begging Marcus’s aid. I pictured him skulking at the bottom of his deepening
pond. Surely he’d be on our side; surely he’d love to see the man who’d
murdered him, who’d trapped him in there brought low. We plodded through the
gates and were soon in the cloakroom. I felt strangely still as the chaos
whirled around me – kids squabbling and barging as they hung up steaming macs,
Darren Hill gripping Stubbs while the brother ploughed punches into his belly,
Richard Johnson trying to hang a squealing infant from a peg. All my actions
seemed slowed down – the stripping off of my kagool, putting my satchel on the
hook – as if my fear had placed me in a different time, formed a capsule that insulated
me from the surrounding rumpus. I drifted towards the hall as my heart thudded
– now we’d know: it’d all depend on how Weirton appeared. Passing through the
doors, I glanced at the headmaster. He took long irritated strides across the
front – just a few of those paces and he had to swivel round, march back the
other way. I was struck by how the hall, which had seemed so huge just a few months
ago, was actually quite little. It could be stridden across by Weirton in just
eight or nine steps. My eyes inched up to the headmaster’s face. Rather than
its usual ham-like pink, that face was red. The lips were set in a snarl – pulled
back over the vast teeth. Fear tugged my stomach so low I thought it might drop
through the ground. I filed in with my classmates. I was shaking; I prayed on one
would see. Stubbs walked behind me, but he was spluttering, wiping his eyes
after the brother’s assaults so I hoped he wouldn’t notice. When all the kids
had come in, shuffled down to sit cross-legged on the floor, Weirton halted his
march. He swivelled to face us, flung his pointing finger out over his pupils.

‘Children!’ the
voice rumbled. ‘Children, there is something very serious I need to speak to
you about. A most appalling crime has taken place! A crime so terrible it has
not only broken the laws of Man but also those of GOD!’

A gasp filled the
hall. I glanced around – even Stubbs, Darren, the brother looked shocked. I
forced my trembling face to mimic their wide eyes, open mouths. Seeing even
those lads disgusted – and, now I thought about it, even
those
rascals
wouldn’t stoop to offending the Lord, wouldn’t stoop to
murder
– made me
realise how extreme our plots were. We’d tried to kill a man, even though that
man was a murderer too. I gulped, tried to suck in deep breaths, tried to calm
my shivering body. How much did the teacher know? He’d obviously found the
gauntlet – had he any idea who’d put it in his bag? Had he done some
investigations, talked to those old people who might have spotted us in the
church? Weirton allowed a weighty pause before he went on.

‘Children, those of
you who have visited the church at Salton will know that before the altar hangs
a glove that once belonged to a noble knight. Or, I should say, it
used
to hang there! Yes, that’s right, that glove has been
stolen
!’

Another gasp echoed
out; Weirton’s eyes panned the hall. Those eyes rested on me. Those eyes
stared; I flicked my gaze to the ground, but could still feel the headmaster
boring into my skull. Would I hear footsteps striding down the aisle, feel that
huge hand clamp my wrist, that awful wrench into the air? I raised my trembling
head. The gaze had left me; it moved slowly over the kids, stopping on Darren
Hill then Richard Johnson. Weirton flung his finger forward, flung it high.

‘Who could be evil
enough to steal from a church!?’ he yelled. ‘A
church
of all places!
Children, I will tell you more about this crime, but first we’ll have a hymn.
It’s a good idea right now to pray to God, to sing His praises, to beg Him not
to pour down His anger onto our community because of this despicable sin – this
dreadful crime committed right in His holy dwelling!’