The Standing Water (57 page)

I sucked in breaths
of pure salt air, holding each for a long time in my lungs. It tasted just as
good as any fine old whiskey. Should bottle the damned stuff, sell it down
south – sure there’d be plenty of takers. A cloud crossed over the sun,
darkened the day, killed the shimmers on the loch at the very moment I thought
about Father. He really hasn’t taken the divorce well. Old fool seems to blame
me for it –
me
, when I did all I could to keep my family together! Maybe
the old buffoon’s really losing his marbles! Remember how last time I called he
was spluttering down the phone, murmuring pathetic threats about how he ‘might
get something done’. Rage quivering his voice as he went on about my ‘damned
fool idea of taking off to Scotland’. Well, let him rant! For the first time in
my life, I feel free of him. He’s furious because he knows he can’t order me
about any more. He ruined everything for me when he insisted I came back from
Montana. He can complain and cough and splutter all he likes, but I won’t let
him wreck my life a second time.

I pushed the
thought of that wheezing old devil from my mind, and – I swear – at that second
the sun emerged from behind its cloud and once more lit the water with a
thousand sparkles. I aimed the boat towards where Loch Laich flows into Loch
Linnhe. Best damned thing that ever happened to me – my fall into the pool, my
heart attack and so-called nervous breakdown. Never would have had the courage
to make the break if something that dramatic hadn’t occurred, despite all the
vicar’s pleas. He’d started off with gentle advice I should quit, but that holy
buffoon was practically begging me to go around the time that incident
happened. Nice to know at least
someone
was concerned for my welfare.
Even got his friend Stone in so we had a smooth transition though – to be
honest – from the little I’ve heard about his teaching, I’m not sure the
vicar’s judgement was sound on who should replace me. Anyway, that’s all in the
past; I’m out of that world now – thanks be to the Lord!

It took a pretty
extreme event though to force me to get away! Phew! Still have the odd
nightmare about it despite all the counselling, and – of course – those
nightmares are often mixed with what happened with Marcus. Think my mind’s
blocked quite a bit of my accident out – common response to trauma, the doctors
said, can only remember things in snatches. Know that for a while I’d been
sitting by that pond frequently. Often wonder why I did that – sitting for
hours hunched, gazing at my line dangling into Marcus’s waters. Should have
known I’d never hook any fish. Easier for me to be rational about it now – the
clear air and fresh wind up here blow away the dark thoughts that clouded my
mind in Emberfield. There was something about that place, something ancient and
evil that warped my thinking. Anyway, I reckon it was because I’d been tortured
by all those bad dreams about Marcus, having to relive night after night what
had happened in that pond. I wanted to overcome my fear: prove to myself I
wasn’t scared of anything or anybody – not some stinking pool, not the ghost of
Marcus Jones! The only way I could think of doing it was to simply sit and
stare at those waters. To gaze for hours, to stare them down like I’d stared
down horses, bears, bulls! Whatever horrors ran through my mind, however much I
shivered and sweated, I’d force myself to stay on that seat, overcome my
terror. So why the fishing gear? Seems crazy now, but I guess I reckoned – my
poor mind poisoned by Emberfield’s foul lowland vapours, bewitched by the
curses that still lingered,
whispered
in the air – that the fishing
tackle would make it appear I was doing something ordinary so the gossips
wouldn’t jabber about what I was up to.

All I recall is
that I was sitting, gazing at the pond and the next moment I was teetering on
the bank. I crashed into the pool then I was thrashing, writhing with a
terrific pain in my chest. Tried to wade out, saw two lads on the shore, think
I scared them; I slipped, fell back in. Floundered and twisted in that freezing
water as the pain in my chest throbbed. Had the weirdest idea Marcus was in the
pond, pulling me down, trying to drag me to my grave in his sludge. One huge
effort, I fought him off and was staggering from the water. Agony squeezed my
ribs; the pain was now rushing into my left arm. Knew very well what was
happening. Should have hobbled to the pub, got them to call an ambulance. But –
shivering, soaked in filth, wracked with pain, terrified, mind racing – I was
stupid enough to gather my rod and chair, and – luckily the keys were still in
my pocket – get in my car, start the engine. Could just about control the
vehicle despite the agony in my chest and arm. Edged it out of the gates. Two
big black birds – ravens or crows – insisted on swooping down, blocking my
windscreen with their wings. I jerked my hand to the horn, couple of blasts
scared them off. Don’t remember anything more till I was halfway to Goldhill,
twisting along that damned lane. Legend flickered through my mind of such roads
being made bendy to confuse wandering spirits, who can only walk straight.
Well, I didn’t want to be confused forever, trapped in the blasted marshes of
Emberfield. I stuck my foot down and was soon flying along that corkscrew road,
dodging startled rabbits and honking tractors. Nearly ploughed into the
hedgerows a couple of times, I can tell you.

Next thing I knew I
was in a hospital bed. Docs chided me for not calling an ambulance, but – thank
God – I’d got there in time for them to save the old ticker. In hospital for a
while, rehab classes. Medics pretty pleased with my progress, but they soon
realised all was not as it should be upstairs. Seemed the old mind had blown as
well as the heart, just like with that damned Bonfire Night guy! Well, I say
blown, that’s slightly melodramatic, but the docs told me I’d had ‘what used to
be called a nervous breakdown’. If it
used to
be called it, why can’t we
use the same phrase today! Probably got some long-winded modern term no
blighter understands. Anyway, they gave me some drugs to calm me down, but at
first I scoffed when they suggested counselling. Something I thought was for hippies
and milksops! Had images of Jew doctors poking around in people’s heads in Vienna,
murmuring some mumbo-jumbo then charging astronomical fees. I reckoned if God
had meant us to root around inside each other’s skulls, He’d have blessed us
with holes in our damned heads! Some things that go on in a man’s brain should
stay strictly private. Anyway, I was feeling so low, so anxious I let the
medics persuade me. Counsellor was a reasonable chap, ex-army, not given much
to psychobabble – and I halted him quick smart if he ever strayed down that
road. We worked through the trauma of my fall into the pond then started
looking at other things that were wrong in my life: Sandra, Father, Nick, the
blasted job. Didn’t tell the shrink everything, of course, I’m not that daft!
No mention of Marcus. What happened with that boy will stay
firmly
shut
up in my mind! But talking about the other stuff helped a lot. Helped me come
to my decision. Vicar visited me a few times. If I needed any more convincing
to get out of Emberfield and Goldhill, what the priest said in our chats supplied
it.

The boat chugged me
into Loch Linnhe. Beautiful – wooded shores, the bulks of mountains rising up,
rays of sunshine slanting through the clouds. Thought of how the part of that
Loch that lies upstream of Corran is known as the ‘Dark Pool’. ‘The Dark Pool’
– I mulled that name in my mind, playing on its syllables. I looked down at the
water as my boat cut through it. It was dark all right, the little waves black
and glossy, like they’d been plated with glass. Staring at those waters
reminded me of another pool. Reminded me of how all the trouble with Marcus
started. Wasn’t my fault the damned fool boy got it into his head to mess about
near that pond. I’d warned the kids enough about it in assembly, been on the phone
enough times to the council asking them to drain the thing before some tragedy
occurred. Around that time too, some idiot had dumped a big barrel in there, a
rusty red oil drum. There it was, rammed into the pool’s bed, sticking lopsided
out of the water. Asked the council if they’d at least come and shift
that
,
but, as usual, nothing happened. Anyway, I was walking out of the school –
around twenty minutes after classes had broken up one damp July afternoon – and
what did I see? That numbskull Marcus Jones balancing on one leg on top of that
barrel, his arms waving, a moronic grin on his face, his trousers muddy below
the knees due to his wade through the water. For some seconds, I just stood,
open-mouthed, watching the imbecile. A temptation rose up in me not to
intervene, to let that buffoon drown himself or crack his head. Would have
saved my nerves a
huge
amount of stress if that boy was out of the way.
Worst child I’ve ever taught – far worse than Dennis Stubbs, Craig Browning,
Darren Hill all put together. Surprised I’ve any vocal cords left after all the
shouting I had to do at him, surprised my hand didn’t drop off due to the
gargantuan thrashings I powered onto his backside. I watched, a smile now twitching
as the idiot teetered, his arms outstretched. I found myself
willing
him
to fall, yearning to see that blasted head smash onto the barrel’s side,
longing to hear his skull split, see those damned devious brains spill out. But
I sucked in a deep breath, tried to banish those delightful images. I reminded
myself of my responsibilities.

‘Marcus!’

My finger thrust at
the boy. My shout echoed around the empty school, over the deserted fields,
across the pond, shattering the careful silence in which Marcus had been
balancing. The boy twisted his head, stared at me, mouth hanging, bulging-eyed.
His arms waved more manically. His body swayed to one side then the other. The
barrel slipped from under him. He flew into the air; for a second stayed
suspended in it – arms flapping, legs wriggling, looking for all the world like
an angel shorn of its wings. He plummeted; the waters received him with a
crash. Streaks and balls of brown liquid were hurled up, like two hands flung
in horror. The water smashed back down; there was no sign of Marcus. Just the
sealed pitching skin of that evil pond. Those waters broke; the buffoon’s head
appeared – spluttering, spitting out filth, face deathly pale where the dirt hadn’t
smeared it.

‘Marcus!’ I yelled.
‘Just stay calm! I’ll come and pull you out!’

I ran towards the
pond, but that idiot boy couldn’t obey my instructions. He was in a panic –
writhing and splashing. A couple of times his head disappeared below the surface
then broke through it again as his mouth spluttered, gasped. I was sprinting as
fast as I could, but before I was halfway there the boy struck up this damned
wail. The fool’s gob was wide open, letting water in, making him choke and
retch all the more.

‘Marcus!’ I shouted.
‘Try to stand up!’

I reckoned that if
he’d stood, the water would have only come up to his shoulders. He could have
probably just walked out of there. But sensible thinking was never Jones’s
strong point. He was bawling, thrashing wildly, choking and spluttering,
sinking under the surface before his face with its desperate eyes would
puncture it again. I vaulted the gate, pelted to the shore while casting off my
jacket. Cursing the fact my good suit, my fine shirt would be ruined, I charged
into the pool.

‘It’s OK, Marcus!
Don’t worry! I’m here!’

The water was
tepid; I strode through the bottom’s sludge, felt it seep into my shoes. I
struggled not to gag at the rotten-egg stench. I tried to grab the boy, but –
soaked, coated with filth – he was as slippery as a greased snake. He was
writhing, twisting, sobbing, beyond any talking to. I just had to grasp, subdue
him, haul him out. But it was difficult with his flinging arms, kicking feet –
his shoes and fists struck me with astounding strength. I got the full force of
one heel in my stomach, the other in the privates. I was winded; an awful dull
pain pulsed from my balls. Fury surged; my hands gripped into fists. But I had
to save that boy – and fast – before the fool drowned himself. I launched
myself through the water, lunged at Marcus, managed to wrap my arms around him.
My feet slipped on the muddy bed as I tried to hold him still. He went on
flinging his arms and feet – I caught another blow in the bollocks, another in
my belly. I grappled with him, clenched my teeth against the pain as his nails
– surprisingly sharp – ripped my shirt, tore my chest. I got into a position where
I was standing – the waters up to my navel – holding the boy from behind. I had
his arms clamped though I couldn’t control his feet. He drove his heels into my
shins – so hard it felt like he was hacking out bits of bone. The pain jarred
through my body, infuriating me, but I knew all I needed to do was keep my arms
tight around Marcus and wade to the bank, where I’d hold onto the boy until he
calmed down.

I moved towards the
shore, making clumsy steps through the sludge. But the boy would go on with that
damned idiot wailing – its screech torturing my ears. He would go on bashing
his heels into my shins, keep twisting and bucking as he tried to slither out
of my grip. The stink from the pool would insist on floating up, making my head
woozy, my stomach spasm. Images flooded through my mind of all the years I’d
endured Marcus – his cheek, his violence, his disobedience. I thought of how
much he’d cost my health and nerves. I stopped striding. As Marcus writhed and
struggled, I gazed down at the water. Somehow those waters beckoned, somehow
that stagnant pond now looked inviting – inviting not for me but Marcus. With
one hand grasping the boy’s shoulder, I manoeuvred my body back, out of range
of his fists and feet. I placed my other hand on top of his head – and pushed
that head under. He fought, thrashing with his arms and legs, but couldn’t
match my strength. Bubbles in desperate clutches spiralled up. I kept him down,
more bubbles came. His struggle grew even more frantic. Through the waves and
currents he caused, I knew he was hurling out his legs, flinging his feet. The
fool didn’t have the sense to try to prise my palm from his head. Bubbles drifted
up in clusters as I glanced around, as I shivered, as my heart banged, as I
panted. A strange calm began to flow through my body, fill my mind. I thought
how much more peaceful the world would be without Marcus. I looked at the fields,
the skulking lowlands, the heavy pressing cloud, the school, the pub, the
houses. There was not a soul about. Didn’t occur to me that someone could just
walk out of the pub or stroll into the street, catch me right there. I just
felt I had to keep the boy below. Marcus’s struggles got wilder – he went on kicking,
thrashing his arms. I just shoved him down more strongly. I kept glancing around,
sucked deep breaths to calm myself. Then the movements stopped. No more
beatings at the water – Marcus was limp, floppy.