The Standing Water (58 page)

I snapped back to
my senses, hauled – by the hair – his head out of the pool. His eyes were closed,
his mouth slackly open. I picked Marcus up in both arms, strode from the pond.
I laid him gently on the bank – the boy’s hands, face, neck all looking so pale,
so pale against the rich brown mud.

For some seconds, I
just stared – stared as my heart boomed like a great tolling bell, stared at Marcus,
looking like he was laid out for some rustic funeral. Still, so still, and so
white. The lad gave a splutter. That splutter startled me from my daze. I
hurled myself onto the mud and was kneeling right beside him, my hands pumping his
chest. His lips wobbled – a stream of filth spewed out. I pumped again, more
stinking water came up. The lad coughed, wheezed; sheer joy tingled in my
chest; a smile broke on my face. I went on with my rhythmic pumping, driving
both hands hard. He kept coughing, spitting out more water, less and less each
time. He gave a kind of shriek, a rattle as he tugged a big breath in then all
at once his torso jerked upright and he sat, legs stretched out on the ground.
His face still shockingly pallid, he glanced about as if he’d just woken up. He
looked around some more as he took huge sucks of air, his eyes wide, his gob
hanging. I could almost hear the buffoon’s mind labouring as he wondered why
he’d woken up on the pond’s bank drenched in filth rather than in his bed. Then
those eyes clocked me. Marcus gave a start, jerked his head back; his eyes
protruded; his mouth dropped even lower.

‘Marcus –’ I paused
for a second as my brain raced ‘– you fell into the pond. I rushed in there,
pulled you out. It was very dangerous – you’d have drowned if I hadn’t rescued
you!’

The boy blinked. He
gazed up at me with grateful awe. I thanked God he seemed to have no memory of
me shoving him under.

‘It’ll be all right,
Marcus. I’ll take you home.’

Slowly the boy
nodded.

‘Do you know how
you fell into the pond?’

The lad shook his
head.

‘You were doing
something very silly – trying to balance on that barrel.’

I pointed towards
where the oil drum now lay, toppled on the bank, half in the water and half out.

‘You slipped,
crashed into the pool, started panicking. It was a good job I saw you – you
could have so easily drowned.’

The buffoon nodded
again. The first specs of colour were returning to his cheeks.

‘Pulling you out
wasn’t easy. You were struggling, fighting against me …’

Fury gushed. I
jumped to my feet, waved my fists.

‘By God, boy! Look
at what you’ve done! You were punching, kicking, scratching me as I tried to
rescue you! Look at my clothes – ruined!’

I was leaping on
the bank, my fists bashing my thighs, my yells reverberating over the water,
fields.

‘You… you
imbecile
boy! Battering and clawing me when I just wanted to save you! The sheer blasted
idiocy of balancing on that barrel in the first place! You … you …’

I sprang at Marcus.
His mouth gaped again; the colour fled once more from his face. My hand shot
down, grabbed the boy’s wrist, pulled him skywards. And it was towards that low
weighty sky I wished to propel him. My hand hurtled, slammed onto his rear. I
noticed the limpness of his body – he was obviously too shocked to have braced
himself. Up Marcus flew, down my hand raced, colliding with his rump as soon as
he was vertical. His breath whistled from him, the last drops of pond water
sailing out on it. Marcus was hurled up again; back down he floated; my palm
rushed to meet the behind; a wonderful impact thundered across the fields. I
soon slipped into a daze. All I could think of was the need to beat Marcus, to
belt him hard, to thrash from him the mad notions that had almost ended his
life, given me so much discomfort and pain. My hand rose and fell; the rhythmic
strikes echoed. I hauled up all the strength I had – a surprising amount
considering our exertions in the pond – and I flung every bit into the
walloping. On and on I powered. An immense blow smashed into Marcus and his
tears flew, pitching away from the boy at all angles. It had taken longer than
usual – the saltwater delayed by shock, I guessed, rather than wilful
resistance. The sight of his tears spurred me on, urging my arm to plunge
faster, my hand to wallop him with even more force. I went on beating as the
boy choked, sob and gurgled, as those gurgles morphed into desperate wheezes. I
barely registered them – all I could think of was the need to drive my palm
down, the need to thrash the evil from Marcus just as I’d forced the filthy water
from him. My heart bashed, galloped, felt like it would burst. Sweat gushed
from my face, streamed from my underarms, but still I battered the boy. I
hurled down an extra-hard one. The strike resounded, jolting me from my trance.
I glanced around, shook my head to banish the last of my daze, but – even
having come back to my senses – I couldn’t resist flinging down a few more. Now
more conscious of what I was doing, I took pleasure in the expert swoop of my
arm, the precise timing of the blow, the most excellent reverberation of the
impact. A few more whacks, and I feared I was falling into my trance again. But
my holding arm was shivering from the strain of keeping the boy up. I summoned
the last of my strength, threw it all into the final wallop. The noise resounded
like a rifle shot; a fresh fountain of tears leapt from the boy, and – after
his swings had subsided – I lowered the lad.

I was bent over, my
hands resting on my thighs, my arms propping up my sagging torso. My heart
hammered, rushed. My mouth clawed at the air, sucking in huge gasps. Soaked in
sweat and dirty water, I shivered then started to shake violently. My eyes
roamed over the sludgy ground, jerked wider as I saw Marcus lying there,
utterly white, body limp. But sobs were jolting through him, sobs that showed
he was very much alive. I went on sucking in breath; the boy went on weeping
into the mud. When I was finally able to speak, I said, ‘Marcus, try to stand.’

The boy pushed
himself from the bank, managed to get into an upright posture. He swayed and
teetered. He was howling, shivering, staring at me – his eyes swollen with
disbelief, a look of utmost shock on his corpse-white face.

‘Marcus,’ I said.
‘Come here.’

The boy slowly
wagged his head. He turned, lurched into a tottering run. In a wild stumbling
jog, he weaved down the road, hobbled around the corner opposite that stinking
pub, and disappeared from sight. I got in my car, drove home, hoping, praying
that – my hands shaking, jolting as they gripped the wheel – I wouldn’t flip
the vehicle over or shoot it into a hedgerow. When I got to my house, I found
that – thankfully – Sandra was in the kitchen, the radio blaring, door shut;
Nick was in the lounge watching some brainless cartoon. I scooted upstairs, got
changed then hurled my wet clothes in the dustbin before anyone could get
suspicious. But I knew it would be the next day my problems really started.

Marcus didn’t turn
up to school. The phone call came in the late morning. I had to go and speak to
the LEA after classes broke up. Panelled room. Couple of pompous bureaucrats
behind a desk. Mr Jacobs, Helen’s dad, skulking in a damned corner. Long
silence. One of the men finally spoke.

‘This is a strange
one, James. Idiot boy nearly drowns himself in a pond. You charge in, save his
life. A hero. Could have had you on the front of the local rag. Great publicity
– would have given us all a boost. Except …’

The man let out a
lengthy sigh.

‘I understand. You
were in shock. Furious at the lad’s stupidity. But … Look here, his parents
have complained. Say they don’t normally object to corporeal punishment, but …
you
can
understand them making a fuss if their lad’s just nearly
drowned. I don’t know what to think. First you do something so heroic then you
follow it up with an act of – in the circumstances – appalling brutality.’

The first emotion
that surged through me was relief. It seemed Marcus really didn’t recall me
pushing him under. But still, I thought, that must be it for the old teaching
career – they’d have to sack me. Especially as, soon, maybe even at that
moment, it’d be all round Emberfield. I imagined the jaws of the damned gossips
clacking, Davis gleefully leaning over his counter as he passed the news on. Those
three paper shufflers, pen pushers looked at me. This time, it was Jacobs who
spoke.

‘James, we don’t
want to fire a man who’s saved a lad’s life. Yet you must acknowledge it would
be hard for you to continue teaching Marcus. But …’

A long pause filled
the room.

‘You’re in luck.
Marcus and his family are moving away. His dad’s been offered, and has
accepted, a job in another town. The lad will be changing school. And the
family
are
grateful you saved him, if perplexed about your later
actions. They’ve agreed to keep shtum. Marcus, of course, won’t be coming back
to school, but as it’s only a week to the summer holidays, he can just be
sick.’

‘As I think we’d
all be –’ the third pen pusher nodded ‘– if we’d had a bellyful of that pond.’

‘Is the boy …
alright?’ I asked.

‘His parents took
him to hospital yesterday. They checked him over. He’s fine. Tough little blighters,
the lads round here.’

‘James,’ Jacobs
said, ‘I’d ask you to go a bit easy. Corporal punishment’s not illegal.
Technically, you’ve done nothing wrong. And the good people of Emberfield seem
to love your … let’s say, old-fashioned methods. Just don’t go too far, eh.
Just don’t go too far.’

Almost wish they
had damned well sacked me. Might have pushed me into changing my life sooner.
Then again, even up here, I’ll need a bit of supply work to get by. Wouldn’t do
to have a black mark against my name. But what’s really tortured me over the
years is knowing what
could
have been. How close I came to murdering
that blasted boy. Another minute and … Having to live my life knowing I have
that capability in me. Feel
branded
sometimes – like Cain in the Bible.

I tried to push
those awful memories from my mind, enjoy the beauty of the loch. Reminded
myself I was no longer in Emberfield. I sucked in calming breaths, looked
around at the thrusting mountains, the glimmer on the dark water. Brought
myself back to the gentle rock of the boat. Took the rod from its case,
prepared myself to settle into a soothing fishing session. Just me, the sky,
the water, the peaks. Couple of hours later, I was puttering back home, seeing
my rough stone cottage grow larger on the shore.
My
home, so, so far
from Emberfield. I really have to leave that dreadful chapter of my life in
that damned town behind.

Oh, I almost forgot
to mention I caught two fat eels. Made them into a soup. It tasted superb.

Monday, 14
^th
March,
1985

I kill the engine,
let the boat drift and wobble on the lake. The Dark Pool. I stare at those
black waters. So inviting, just like some other waters were a few years ago. My
heart bashes, thuds through me; chill sweat runs yet I feel weirdly calm. I
draw in a big breath of that salt-spiked mountain air. Hold it in my lungs for
what might be the last time. Allow myself a long look at those peaks. I gaze
lovingly at all those summits I’ve come to know.

If
anyone
deserved a good walloping, it was that boy. Can’t see what the parents had to
complain about. But then some bigwig on the council started an investigation,
encouraging
more
parents to say I’d ‘physically abused’ their children.
Physically abused? I’ve given out no more than in Emberfield. Barred from
supply teaching while their damned inquiry drags on. Almost certain, those
blasted bigwigs tell me, to be banned for good. Whispers behind my back in
village streets. Refused to serve me in a shop the other day. Last I heard,
another lot of parents have thrown their damned two-pennyworth in – whining I
scared their kids with ‘a very lifelike model skeleton’. Biology lecture, I’d
call it. Don’t these people have a sense of humour? Dour bunch the lot of them,
hardly smile, faces like slapped backsides.

The bigwigs have
been in touch with people in Emberfield. Damned Jacobs told them about the
Marcus incident. That Judas of a vicar has thrust his oar in too, saying he
always thought I was too brutal with the kids, that all along he was trying to
lever me out of my job. And I thought he was my friend! Liar! Hypocrite! I’m
sure his God will have a nice little furnace waiting for
him
when he
goes!

No way I’ll get by
here without the supply teaching. Especially after Father’s announcement. Old
devil on his last legs, decided to change his will while he still had the
strength. Cut me out completely. Not one pound. Left it all to Sandra and Nick.
They’ll even get the house when Mother dies. I’m not even likely to see much
more of my boy. Sandra on the phone after Nick’s summer break up here, swearing
she’ll never let him stay with me again, that I’ll never be welcome at their
flat. Just because I administered some discipline when I had to. Nothing to
look forward to but shame, loneliness and poverty. Don’t even know how I’d fill
my gut.

The waters beckon.
I’ll leave this book in the boat’s cabin. Hopefully, someone will read it, read
the other diaries, see I was just an honest man trying to do his best. His best
for himself, his family, his pupils, his nation, struggling against this damned
wicked, this perverse modern world. Maybe we can’t hold back history’s flow,
even if that flow’s towards ever greater evil, ever greater decay. This one
man’s certainly failed to halt it. Make sure the rope’s tight round my middle.
The block it’s lashed to is weighing the boat down. Take a final look at the
beauty around me. My country, my land. Want to die with that image filling my
mind. See a couple of black birds – ravens – dancing and spiralling over the
loch. Lots of legends about them – harbingers of death, battlefield feasters,
Odin’s sacred birds, a form the warlike Morrigan takes when hovering over
scenes of slaughter. Maybe those messengers from the otherworld could bear my
soul away – the soul of a great warrior who’s battled all his life against
decadence and evil. They swoop, skim the boat, as if they’ve read my thoughts.
The time for words is gone. One more minute and I’ll slide myself into the
lake. I look over it, get a feeling of peace. Reminds me of the start of the
Bible, the endless primal waters out of which God moulded the world. I respect
the Lord’s great wisdom, but I sometimes wonder why He bothered. Why make all
that noise, violence, conflict, wickedness out of something so eternal, so
calm? I’m going into the cabin now. These will be the last words I write before
I commit myself to the standing water.