The Standing Water (40 page)

The face was now
maroon. Weirton waved a fist; that fist bashed his thigh.

‘If you’ve read
your Bible, you should know how God punishes such outrages! At the time of
Noah’s Flood, He drowned the whole world due to its wickedness! The two evil
cities on the plain, as I’m sure the vicar’s told you, were burnt by God’s
fire! And sinful Cain was branded with a mark for the terrible crime of
murder
– a shameful mark he had to bear for the rest of his days! So, let’s have a
hymn children, let us give praise to God in the hope He will spare us His
vengeance!’

As we shuffled to
our feet, as the hymnbooks made their rapid ways down our lines, I glimpsed Perkins
and Leigh. They looked puzzled; their faces twitched as if they couldn’t quite
be sure what they’d heard though Weirton had been shouting loudly enough. But
Perkins turned to the piano, Leigh settled her eyes on her hymnbook and soon a
swell of mournful voices filled the hall, backed by Perkins’s off-key plonks
and Weirton’s baritone: a baritone quavering with a fury I swear shook the
floor. The hymn was especially dirge-like, a lament begging God’s forgiveness
for our many crimes, pleading for redemption as it urged us all to grovel
before the Lord. As that sombre noise boomed, my mind rushed. What more would
Weirton tell us about the crime after our dirge was done? I could imagine being
skewered on his thrusting finger, pinned by his righteous eyes as he declared
my sin in front of the whole school. I tried my hardest
not
to imagine
what would happen after that. All too soon, the hymn was building to its
thundering climax. And as our voices soared, as Weirton’s juddered harder, as
Perkins bashed her keys, the outside world responded. The dark clouds hurled
down more rain – sheets of it lashed from the sky. Through the window I saw it
bounce from the concrete path, thud onto the field. Our song now began to fade
– the kids’ voices sliding down from their dramatic peak, Weirton rolling out
his last rumbles, Perkins plinking her final notes. Weirton nodded; we sat
down, but the usual shuffling of the kids could hardly be heard above the rain.
Weirton paced as it pounded the roof. When the teacher swivelled, flung his
finger, delivered the next part of his speech, he had to shout even louder due
to that downpour.

‘Yes, let us hope
the Lord heard our sincere praises just now; let us hope He spares us his
wrath! Children, I will tell you more about this disgraceful theft!’

A pause: a pause
that seemed to stretch into eternity, a pause in which I feared my heart would
be heard above even that crashing deluge.

‘Yesterday, the
vicar went into the church at Salton. As you might know, that glove hung on a
chain, suspended from a hook. Well, the vicar was shocked to see the hook –
with no glove dangling from it! He could only conclude that somebody, for some
reason, had stolen that gauntlet!’

Another gasp came
from the kids. Was there now a little uncertainty in the teacher’s words? Was
there a chance that gauntlet lay in his bag undiscovered? I leant forward,
readied my ears as Weirton prepared to go on.

‘Yes, stolen!’ the
voice juddered. ‘Of course, he told the police!’

My heart, which had
slowed, began to gallop. I gulped, tried to swallow, my mouth and throat were
too dry.

‘Who could have
done it!? Who could have committed the terrible sin of stealing from a
church!?’

The rain smashed even
harder. Again I wondered if that dread finger would thrust at Jonathon and me,
if Weirton might even stride to the staffroom, come back with his briefcase and
produce the evidence of our crime right there. Weirton’s pause stretched on even
longer this time. He glanced towards the staffroom, bit his lip as if thinking
hard. The huge body turned; the feet took a step in that direction. Weirton
swung back, thrust his pointing finger over his audience.

‘The vicar and police
have several ideas.’ The voice’s rumble was a little calmer. ‘It might have
been kids – kids from the Big School – messing about.’

I sighed with
relief, letting go a gust of breath. I thanked God the hammering rain masked
that noise.

‘It could have been
stolen by people who wanted to sell it as scrap metal or maybe people who felt
it had value as an antique. Who knows’ – Weirton began to shout again – ‘what
goes on in the minds of such wicked individuals!?’

‘If you know
anything, if you hear anything –’ the voice was now softer, the teacher
glanced, just very quickly, towards the staffroom ‘– please, please do not
hesitate to tell me or your parents. I’m sure all of you’ – the voice boomed
louder as Weirton’s anger surged once more – ‘and every decent person in
Emberfield would love to see these … these
scoundrels
severely punished!
And punished I’m sure they will be because’ – the red sweating face turned; the
eyes looked at the black clouds massing outside the window – ‘even if these
villains evade the punishments of Man, they won’t escape those of God! There’s
no avoiding
His
justice! Remember poor Lucy – most of you have seen how
she ended up! Let us just hope and pray the Lord’s wrath doesn’t spill over
onto the innocent as well as the guilty. Let us hope we are not all stricken
with fire or flood like the poor people in the Bible!’

A glance jumped
between Perkins and Leigh – the teachers’ eyes flickered with what seemed like
worry.

‘Well, yes
children,’ the voice rumbled on. ‘Just remember to tell us anything you hear or
know about this crime. And now, let’s have another hymn – let’s sing our
praises loud and high in the hope the Lord hears them. Page 89 in your books.’

Soon our voices
were climbing, clambering as high as we could make them go, all of us building
our shaky tower of sound as we attempted to appeal to the Lord so far up in the
heavens. Weirton’s shuddering voice was that tower’s foundations. The Lord did
not seem to listen. He just threw down more rain. The assembly finished, and –
as we filed from the hall – I leaned close to Jonathon.

‘Phew! He doesn’t
know where the gauntlet is. But we’ve
got
to get it back!’

‘Yeah,’ Jonathon
hissed, ‘but how can we?’

Even if I’d had a
reply, I wouldn’t have had time to whisper it. The jostling parade of kids was
a little subdued after the announcements we’d heard – there were only a couple
of half-hearted prods and punches from Stubbs and Johnson – yet still that
parade swept us into Perkins’s room, and Perkins herself hobbled in on her
heels shortly after. Soon she had us sitting down, reading our books. As my
eyes skimmed over another dull and unlikely tale of boy detectives, as the rain
crashed on the roof, I thought of that gauntlet lying just a few feet from me.
All that stood between me and it was blank air, a slim wall, thin leather, and
of course the weighty barrier of Weirton’s wrath. If only I could sneak into his
room, snatch the thing from his briefcase. Impossible! Even if I got in there,
even if the teacher’s back was turned and I could somehow delve into his bag,
grab the glove without him noticing, the thirty sets of eyes in his class would
see all. The whole thing was hopeless. Sooner or later Weirton had to stumble
upon that gauntlet, and then … There’d be yells shaking through the school,
rage unimaginable, mass whackings, maybe some of us even meeting the fate of
Marcus and Lucy. Who knew what techniques the teacher would use to squeeze the
truth from us? Something had to be done, but what? Before I knew what was
happening, I felt my hand inching up. Perkins was fussing around the class, pouring
her criticisms down on Suzie Green. My heart beat as I prayed she would – and
prayed she wouldn’t – see my hand.

‘Ooh, Ryan Watson,
what is it? As if I haven’t got enough to do!’

“Please, Mrs Perkins
–’ my mind searched frantically then alighted on the same old trick ‘– can I go
to the toilet?’

‘Eeh, I suppose so,
but you’ll have to learn to control your bladder sooner or later. Mrs Leigh was
just saying so many of you kids are like dripping taps and you’re one of the
worst! Go on and be quick!’

I glimpsed Stubbs,
Richard smirking as I stood, took slow steps across the room. I didn’t know how
I’d get that gauntlet – I prayed the Lord would cause some idea to spring into
my brain. I walked with a nervous tread down the corridor. The door to Weirton’s
classroom was ajar; just four or five feet from it his briefcase sat on the
floor next to his desk. The briefcase was open. Weirton stood before his pupils.
He had his huge back to me; his hands were waving, pointing, cutting down
through the air as he explained some maths. The pupils’ eyes were all fixed on
him – and for good reason. His face turned as his gaze panned over the seated
kids, making sure he had the attention of them all. My heart rushed and boomed.
What could I do? If I squatted down, unzipped that section holding the glove,
it’d take too long – I’d surely be spotted. My body jerked into action before
my brain could think. I lurched into Weirton’s room; I was falling, flying. I
landed on the briefcase – a second of shocked silence then laughter echoed from
the class. I used the cover of that noise to yank down the zip, lying with my
body in a way that shielded the now flattened bag. I aped an idiot’s expression
– gob open, eyes wide – to make more laughter roll as my hand delved into that briefcase.
It closed around the gauntlet, whipped it out, shoved it under my baggy jumper
as my other hand fumbled the zip closed. Weirton stood rigid, still facing his
class.

‘What is the
meaning of this!?’ The body jerked into motion; the fist shook as I shoved the
gauntlet into the elasticated waistband of my jeans, which clasped it just under
its first set of knuckles. ‘How dare you break into laughter!’

The teacher must
have noticed where his pupils were looking because he swivelled round, saw me
sprawled on the floor.

‘Ryan Watson!’
Weirton yelled. ‘What are you doing down there!? You’d better have a good
answer boy or this hand won’t be slow to beat one out of you!’

‘Please, Sir –’
there was no need for acting now: fear made my voice squeak ‘– I was just on my
way to the toilet, and I slipped and fell. I’m very sorry, Sir.’

‘You clumsy oaf!
You dunderhead!’ Weirton shouted.

Laughter once more
broke from his pupils.

‘Silence! Silence I
say or it won’t just be Ryan Watson feeling my right hand!’

‘Please, Sir,’ I
squeaked again, ‘it was only an accident!’

‘Stand up, for
heaven’s sake, you idiot boy! Are you going to lounge on the floor all day?’

I stood – I knew I
had to do so rapidly if I had any hope of quelling Weirton’s wrath. I just
prayed the gauntlet would stay where I’d stashed it. I felt that glove shift
against my tucked-in t-shirt. I begged God not to let Weirton catch its outline
under the folds of my sweater. Soon I was on my feet – the glove, thankfully,
hadn’t tumbled to the floor. Weirton strode back and forth, his red face looking
down at me. If Weirton wrenched me up, whacked me then the gauntlet would be
hurled from its hiding place.

‘Ryan Watson!’ the
voice rumbled. ‘Can you tell me what you should do right now?’

My heart’s thuds jolted
my brain as I tried to think. Such a question was not what I’d expected. Weirton’s
face shaded to a deeper red. The classroom clock ticked as my mind struggled.

‘Come on, Ryan!
What would any decent person do in such a situation?’

My eyes flicked to
the briefcase. Pens, rubbers, bits of paper had slipped out, scattered across
the floor.

‘Please, Sir,’ I said,
‘should I pick up your briefcase and put those things back in?’

‘Yes, Ryan –’ the
voice was calmer ‘– that would be a good way to make up for your carelessness.’

I moved towards
that briefcase, bent down, began to gather those stray bits of stationery. I felt
the weight of Weirton’s eyes as my fingers fumbled, felt all the eyes of his
class. Still bent over, my hands full of rubbers, paper, pens, I edged
backwards to the briefcase, started to slip those objects back in. The gauntlet
pressed against my side. Thankfully, my stooped shuffling walk hadn’t dislodged
it. I dropped the last of Weirton’s bits and pieces into that bag and readied
myself to straighten up. I heard it first. The air whistled. Pain flashed
across my rear. I lurched forward; shot my hands down to clamp my knees, to
stop myself falling. The hand swooped once more; the impact resounded, made me
totter a few steps in my crouch, but I didn’t trip. I felt the gauntlet shift
under its elastic. Again that palm whistled – an extra hard one: this time it lifted
me. I floated; banged down painfully on my knees. A little laughter squeaked
from the class – laughter I was sure they’d been battling to keep down.

‘Silence!’ Weirton
yelled. ‘Silence or – by God – I’ll give you some of the same! Ryan Watson, for
heaven’s sake, stand up!’

I clambered to my
feet. The gauntlet had wriggled some way from where I’d stuck it in my
waistband – now just the glove’s base was gripped. The huge face stared down at
me.

‘Ryan Watson!’ the
voice juddered. ‘You really are a prime buffoon!’

Out of my eye’s
corner, I saw the brother’s, Darren’s lips quiver as they tried to suppress
their smirks.

‘As if I haven’t enough
to do keeping
that
rabble in order’ – Weirton’s finger thrust at his
class – ‘and trying to drum some knowledge into their dense skulls, you come
along with your clumsiness! I accept it was an accident, but sometimes we need
to be punished for our carelessness as well as our deliberate wrongdoing!
Sometimes we need to have thrashed into us the lesson not to be so careless in
future!’