The One Safe Place (29 page)

VIDEO NASTY PROF SLAMS BRITISH JUSTICE, it said.

For as long as the men on the poles blazed red as branding irons Marshall tried to believe that the description couldn't refer to his mother, or that if it did indeed mean her it didn't matter. The men turned green and mimed hurrying across the road and drilled their mechanical chirping into Marshall's head, and the boy wavered, then shoved through a group of his schoolfellows to march into the shop.

The Indian shopkeeper and his daughter were fully occupied in selling children sweets, or rather the sweets the children decided on second thoughts they wanted or maybe not those either after all. Marshall was able to ease the tabloid from beneath the other newspapers on the counter, far enough for the whole of the front page to be legible, send killers to Florida, says widow. Kenneth Fancy, 23, and David Fancy, 22, were sentenced at Manchester Crown Court yesterday... five years each for manslaughter... Widow Susanne Travis, a film teacher whose house was raided in Operation Nasty, expressed her outrage at the verdict. "They murdered my husband. It's like a bad movie. If they'd done it in Florida they'd be sent to the gas chamber. I've no faith in British justice anymore."

The tabloid swung away from Marshall as the shopkeeper's daughter looked for the price. "That's thirty pence, lad."

"It isn't worth one pee," Marshall told her, and made for the street before he could vent his anger on her or on the pile of junk about his mother, who could never have sounded like that—like a character in a bad movie. The men on the poles were raw again, so that Marshall had to linger outside the shop. As the crossing released the next waves of pedestrians he stooped and tore the notice off the placard. Several people frowned at him, one woman uttered a breath which quivered her blubbery lips before she plodded vengefully at him, but he dashed across the road, crumpling the notice in his hand.

Once he was part of the uniformed crowd he looked back. Nobody appeared to be following him along the side street, but he wasn't about to care if anyone did. He shoved the notice into his pocket for lack of a bin as he came alongside the schoolyard. Tom and Ali were sharing a joke near the bicycle sheds, Trevor was huddled in a corner with a group of boys around a magazine that was hanging out the tongue of its centrefold, but Marshall didn't want to join them or any of his other friends in case they'd seen the tabloid or, worse, the notices which must be on display wherever the tabloid was sold. He avoided them and looking at anybody else until the bell shrilled at everyone to stand in line, and then he had an excuse not to talk.

In the assembly hall there were Mr. Harbottle's amateur theatricals to distract him, except that the thought of all those notices about his mother infesting the city took over his head. All at once the headmaster's performance was over, and the clatter of folding seats brought Marshall's surroundings back to him, the muggy heat randomly jabbed by the chill from a few open windows, the smells of floor polish and uniforms and feet. The thought still clung to his mind, and loomed between him and his work until he could hardly grasp what he was straining to write, so that when the endless leaden morning was interrupted by a summons to the headmaster, that was almost a relief.

Almost—until he remembered the headmaster sending for him to tell him eventually that his father had called. Wooden tiles stirred beneath his feet as he trudged along the corridor, a whistle sounded on the playing field behind the school as if someone was summoning the police. As he came in sight of the office he poked at the corners of his eyes and dragged his fingertips over any trails that might have appeared on his cheeks. The secretary was patting her bluish curls while holding up a hand mirror; perhaps it was because he'd glimpsed her preening that she gave him an unwelcoming look. "I know you, you're Travis," she said in a tone which could have borne any of several meanings, none of which appealed to Marshall, and darted to the inner door to rap on it. "Travis, Headmaster."

"Yes."

The word was giving nothing else away. The secretary opened the door so fast that Marshall imagined the headmaster unable to dodge it in time and toppling like a skittle. He sidled into the office before the secretary could propel him in. Mr. Harbottle was seated behind his wide desk, his hands resting on the miniature green field of a blotter. He flicked up his right forefinger. "Close the door, Travis."

Marshall took his time, because half a grin was refusing to let go of his mouth. He managed to think of something else besides a skittle with a balding head-—the last time he'd been in the office—and felt his mouth tremble instead. "Yes, Travis, is there some hindrance?" the headmaster said.

"No, sir," Marshall said, and turned, to be distracted by a pinkish glimmer in one of the plaques on the wall behind the desk. He tried to fasten his attention on Mr. Harbottle as the man presented his fists sphinx-like to him. "Very well, Travis. Is there anything you wish to say?"

"Like what, sir?"

"Anything you may consider appropriate."

The headmaster opened his hands on the desk and tilted them so that the palms were visible. The glimmer in the plaque shifted, and Marshall saw it was the reflection of the headmaster's shiny pate. "Uh, I guess, I don't believe so, sir."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Travis."

The reflection looked like the ghost of a skittle tipping backward and righting itself, Marshall saw as the headmaster's gaze rested heavily on him. "Do you see some cause for amusement, Travis?"

"No, sir," Marshall said, and rearranged his expression as best he could. "Only I'm not sure what you want me to say. I don't know why you sent for me."

"If that is indeed the case I find it doubly unfortunate." The headmaster changed his tone to incredulity, which he appeared to think was generous of him. "Are you genuinely unable to call anything to mind?"

"Is it about what they did to those two guys, sir?"

"Which two, which two persons?"

Marshall felt entitled to sound incredulous himself. "The guys who killed my dad."

"Ah, I see. Yes, of course." The headmaster touched his forehead and reached beneath the desk before fingering both ends of his collarbone, then rested his fingers on an envelope in the exact centre of the blotter. "A very bad business. Deplorable in many ways. I hope it was made clear to you at assembly how much sympathy was felt."

"Sure," Marshall said, though he remembered having felt surrounded by as much embarrassment as outrage when the headmaster had talked about his father's death.

"But you have certainly been present at assembly when I have had occasion to reiterate the principles of the school. I trust you will acknowledge that is the case."

"I guess. I mean, yes, sir."

Mr. Harbottle relinquished one line of his frown. "No guessing need be involved. You will have heard me say more than once that there is behaviour which Bushy Road will not tolerate, no matter what the circumstances."

"Three times, sir, I think."

Marshall's attempt to be precise went down less than well. "And yet you would have me believe you are in some doubt as to my reason for having you in."

Wasn't having you in a British term for playing a joke on you? No, that was having you on. "Yes, sir, because I don't," Marshall protested. "I mean, I still haven't figured it out."

"It grieves me to hear you say so," Mr. Harbottle said in a tone which promised Marshall the grief. "Not fifteen minutes ago I had the regrettable duty of speaking to a Mr...." He bent his head to read his scribble on a pad, and the blurred skittle fell and immediately righted itself. "A Mr. Bandapaddhay who had occasion to complain about the behaviour of a boy from this school. Given his description and the particulars of the incident, I think there can be no question as to the identity of the boy responsible."

"I don't know anyone called what you said, sir. I mean, if I do I didn't know that was what they were called, and I truly don't think I've done anything—"

"Are you deliberately setting out to try my patience, Travis?"

"No, sir."

Mr. Harbottle examined that answer for concealed impertinence, raising his chin so that the skittle teetered. "Then I can only assume you are deluding yourself that you performed your act of vandalism unnoticed. A very stupid view to take, and not one I would have looked for in a boy of your previous calibre."

"Vandalism, sir?"

"Vandalism. Or has the word fallen out of fashion where you come from?"

"Sure we had vandalism, but I never did any of it. Sir."

"Then get it into your head that it is wholly unacceptable here, whatever reason you may have considered yourself to have."

By now Marshall had grasped what they were supposed to be discussing, but not how to acknowledge that without admitting guilt. "If it's about the notice, sir..."

"Ah, so you're not entirely unaware of your own actions after all."

"It was insulting my mom."

The skittle wobbled as the headmaster opened and closed his mouth before speaking. "Granted that the language used to sell some newspapers may err in the direction of simplicity, I must say I encountered the notice in several locations and saw nothing contrary to the truth."

Anger and hilarity at the antics of the skittle were fighting for control of Marshall's mouth. "The paper made my mom say stuff she wouldn't ever have said."

"In that case she should take it up with the editor, although one might then feel bound to query whether she is quite so enthusiastic about freedom of expression as she would have us think. But inaccurate reporting is no excuse for anarchic behaviour, Travis, for hooliganism."

He gazed at Marshall, apparently inviting a reply, but Marshall hadn't a word in his head, nothing that would let him shape his mouth. The headmaster picked up the envelope as though Marshall was presuming on his patience. "Please hand this to your mother when you go home."

"What is it, sir?"

The headmaster narrowed his eyes and pushed out his lips. That might have been the whole of the response he felt Marshall was entitled to, except that he then said, "It will invite her to make an appointment to discuss your behaviour."

He stood up to thrust the envelope at Marshall, who saw the skittle spring upward as though the mechanism of a bowling alley had had enough of it. He pressed his lips against his teeth with one hand as he took the envelope with the other, but a snort escaped through his nose. Mr. Harbottle glared at him. "I warn you not to take this lightly, Travis."

Marshall rubbed his lips hard and lowered his hand and succeeded in mumbling, "I'm not, sir."

"I rather think you may be persisting in the belief that your action was in some way justified. A very dangerous attitude, and one that will not be tolerated at this school." The headmaster seemed to think he'd asked or at least implied a question, because he raised his eyebrows and prolonged his stare at Marshall. At last he said, "Perhaps you should remind yourself that the men responsible for your tragedy appear to have felt justified too. If they hadn't had the excuse of defending themselves they might not have gone so far."

The envelope in Marshall's hand was cold and thin and hostile. He could twist it like a neck, he thought, or rip it like a face, except that it belonged to his mother, and he wouldn't destroy anything of hers. "Yes, Travis?" said the headmaster. "Is there something you wish to say?"

There was, but Marshall's gritted teeth were shredding it. He moved the burden of his head from side to side until Mr. Harbottle said, "Please make certain that you—"

The lunchtime bell cut through his voice. He was reminding Marshall to deliver the letter. Perhaps he felt he'd broken some rule of his own by referring as he had to Marshall's father; he let Marshall turn his back and walk out of the office without responding. Marshall shoved the letter into his blazer and kept walking, through the flood of boys that was being swollen by each classroom, out of the school and across the crowded yard and through the gates.

The master whose turn it was to police the yard was busy interrogating two boys as to why they wanted to return to the building. He didn't observe Marshall escaping without a lunchtime permit, not that Marshall would have cared if the teacher had. Tom and Ali and Trevor had noticed, but Marshall looked away from them. As he reached the sidewalk Marshall knew where he was going-—where he might be able to release the emotions which were knotting themselves into a hard heavy lump in his guts.

He glanced back as he arrived at the main road. Nobody was following him except a boy of his own age a good distance away, who would have been in uniform if he was from the school. A few older boys outside the shops were wearing the uniform, but they couldn't know that Marshall wasn't supposed to go home for lunch. Once he'd left them behind he stared straight ahead, hearing his footsteps become part of his surroundings along with the large aloof houses and the rush of traffic. After a mile or so he dodged into a side street guarded by a bus shelter whose glass had been shattered into an unmelting hailstorm on the sidewalk.

He hadn't located the church spire when the street frayed into three streets which veered away haphazardly, narrowing the sky. A van that sounded rusty headed left past him, jouncing over a roadway patched with tar, and his instincts led him after it, past parked cars with selling prices handwritten on bits of cardboard inside their rear windows, and houses that left little room for the meagre sidewalks, and walls sprayed with graffiti such as ROB THE RICH NOT THE POOR in letters bigger than his head. All the downstairs rooms he glanced into reminded him of storerooms, cluttered with stuff which soaked up too much of the light, but in more than one room he saw figures crouched over some kind of work, presumably the only way they had to make the next best thing to a living. Apart from them the sole signs of life in the whole of that street were gunshots which paced him intermittently for several hundred yards, accompanied by so many ricochets that he could tell they were in a Western on half a dozen televisions. The shooting ceased as the street divided, extending one half of itself toward a crossroads boxed in by more houses and the other between fewer of them, its stump of potholed roadway ending at a gate beyond which a bunch of red figures pelted by, yelling at one another. They were footballers, and Marshall remembered seeing such a field over the hedge at the funeral. Before he reached the gate he saw the church beyond the hedge at the opposite side of the field.