Wicked! (110 page)

Cosmo retired to his cell and, setting aside the end-of-term concert scores, lit a fag, poured himself a large brandy and reflected. Alex Bruce wasn’t his greatest fan, particularly since the Poppet art department incident. Poppet had even asked Cosmo to address the Talks Society on the morality of onanism. It wouldn’t hurt to win some brownie points.

After a preliminary rootle round Theo’s study, Cosmo let himself out of the front door, dropped his empty brandy bottle in Poppet’s bottle bank and knocked on the Bruces’ door. Alex, awake, much enjoying a third read of
Tape
, was soon reassuring Cosmo that he had done exactly the right thing.

Telling each other it was for Paris’s sake, they let themselves into the house and to Theo’s study, which thankfully looked out over an entirely deserted golf course. Judging by the bottles in the waste-paper basket, Theo was unlikely to wake up.

Alex’s lips pursed at the overflowing ashtrays and the pile of reports unmarked, except by whisky stains. From Theo’s desk drawer, Cosmo unearthed some love poems to Paris in Greek.

‘Who was it said Greek letters on a blank page look like bird’s footprints in the snow?’ asked Cosmo, then when Alex clearly didn’t know the answer, added, ‘These are pretty explicit, sir, and those letters here, here, here and here, spell Paris, although it could be the Paris who triggered off the Trojan War.’

‘I doubt it.’ The gleam of triumph in Alex’s eyes was obscene, particularly when, from under Theo’s desk drawer lining paper, Cosmo pulled ravishing nude photographs of Paris, with the Eiffel Tower tattoo on his right shoulder, as well as a DVD in a plain brown wrapper.

Hearing a crash, they both jumped out of their skins, but it was only Hindsight arriving through the window.

‘I’m amazed that cat hasn’t died from passive smoking,’ said Alex, shoving him out again. Breathing more heavily than a French bulldog on the job, Alex then fastidiously parked his bottom on Theo’s rickety chair and put the DVD into the machine, which came up with a film of ravishing naked youths re-enacting classical myths with men sporting curly hair and ringleted beards.

‘That’s Narcissus and that must be Ganymede,’ volunteered Cosmo.

‘Don’t look.’ Alex clapped a sweating hand over Cosmo’s eyes.

‘All part of my development,’ said Cosmo, tugging the hand away.

The mosquito, earlier deterred by Theo’s cigarettes, whined, circled and plunged her teeth into Alex’s arm.

‘I thought Mr Fussy was going to pounce,’ Cosmo told Anatole next morning. ‘I couldn’t tell if he was more turned on by the porn or the chance to nail Theo. The Martial voting poster on the wall and
Red Tape
chucked in the bin were the
dernière paille
.’

112

Arriving at the police station in the early hours of the morning, Theo was locked in a windowless cell measuring five foot by eight foot and strip-searched. This included a policeman getting out a latex glove and telling him to bend over. He was then moved to another cell, by which time, deprived of whisky, cigarettes and morphine, he was crawling up the walls. Every so often, officers lifted the flap in the door to look at him.

He realized he had entered the twisted world of the morally repulsive when he saw the stony contempt on the faces of the two interrogating officers, one man, one woman, who obviously wanted to find out if he were part of a wider paedophile ring.

‘I’m innocent.’

‘Those photographs and that DVD weren’t innocent, sir.’

‘They were planted. Look, I need to make a telephone call, I’m worried about my cat.’

‘Cat’s least of your worries, sir.’

The policewoman clearly found him distasteful. He’d grabbed a maroon polo neck knitted for him by an aunt, but was still in his shorts, knees continually knocking together. Stinking of booze, fags and sweat, grey stubble thickening, he must cut a repugnant figure. They had removed his shoelaces and his belt, so his shorts kept falling down.

As the night wore on, they kept trying to make him confess.

‘I’m innocent, I never laid a finger on the boy.’

‘What about those nude photographs?’

‘Never saw them before in my life; you won’t find any of my fingerprints; must have been taken years ago – Paris has got a completely different haircut.’

‘And the images of an obscene nature on the DVD machine?’

‘The sixth form gave it to me as a Christmas present. I can’t work the damn thing.’

‘And the poems?’

‘Certainly, I wrote those.’ Theo groaned; his back was excruciating. ‘Nothing obscene about them. I’ve been framed.’

‘They all say that. You’re in denial, Theo. Admit your guilt, you’ll feel so much better. Then you can be put on a course for sex offenders.’

‘And never teach again.’

‘You were carried away, you’d had a bit too much to drink. Do you always entertain young boys alone? D’you sit close to them? D’you always make a habit of going into their rooms at night?’

Sadness overwhelmed Theo. Paris must have shopped him.

‘If you confess,’ the policewoman was now saying cosily, ‘you might easily get off. Crown won’t want a lengthy trial; happens a lot.’

The only reason he might confess, thought Theo, as the sky turned from electric blue to the rose pink of sunrise, was to get some more morphine.

In the morning, he came up before the magistrates and was given police bail, on condition that he didn’t get in touch with anyone from the school.

‘You must not speak to any members of staff,’ he was told, ‘or discuss the incident with anyone. You’re to have no contact with the boy or any of the pupils. You must give an address well away from the school.’

Theo gave them the name of a dilapidated cottage on Windermere, left him by the aunt who’d knitted the maroon polo neck.

The case would now be adjourned for a pre-judicial review, which might take three weeks. Theo would come up in court three weeks after that. If the magistrates decided there was a case, it would be tried in a Crown court, probably not before Christmas.

Outside the court, Theo found Biffo, who had been selected by Alex as a safe bet to pack up his belongings. Biffo had also driven over in Theo’s ancient Golf, which was loaded up with books, clothes, bottles of pills. He had also packed Theo’s credit cards and cheque books, the seven plays of Sophocles, the manuscript in progress and Theo’s notebooks.

‘Where’s my cat?’ demanded Theo.

‘I couldn’t find him.’ Biffo couldn’t meet his eyes. ‘All the police cars and disturbance must have scared him.’

‘You must find him!’ Theo was nearly in tears. ‘I’ve had him since he was a kitten.’

‘You often left him in the summer holidays.’

Biffo, Theo felt, at last had a legitimate excuse for detesting him.

‘You’ve got to help me, Biffo, I must talk to Paris and Hengist.’

‘You can’t talk to anyone. Hengist is still away, anyway. You can ring me, here’s my number, but only about things unconnected with the case.’

‘I’m not resigning, I’m innocent.’

‘I can’t discuss it.’

Theo gave Biffo the address and telephone number of his cottage in Windermere. ‘At least give it to Artie.’

‘I can’t promise anything. I’ve filled your car up with petrol.’

‘Please try and find Hindsight, I’ll pay for someone to come and collect him.’

Theo was still missing when Paris returned from his history exam. Barging into his housemaster’s sealed-off study, he found whole shelves of books and Theo’s manuscript gone, and Biffo nosing around.

‘Is Theo back?’

‘Gone away.’

‘Where?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

‘Don’t be fucking stupid. I need to phone him. He never said goodbye; what’s he supposed to have done?’ Paris was nearly hysterical, particularly when Hindsight jumped in through the window and, mewing piteously, started weaving round his legs. ‘Theo must have been pushed; he’d never leave without Hindsight. Tell me.’

Biffo backed away as, from a miniature Greek urn on Theo’s desk, Paris grabbed a pair of scissors.

‘I’ll have those,’ said Dora, grabbing the scissors as she marched in with a plate of cod from the kitchens and the
Larkminster Gazette
, which she handed to Paris.

‘Page three,’ she added as she started to cut up the cod for Hindsight.

‘Bagley master arrested over sex abuse claim’, Paris read the headline, then, with dawning disbelief, the copy: ‘Theo Graham, aged 59, a housemaster who frequently took groups of boys on trips to Ancient Greece, was arrested last night for harbouring images of an obscene nature, but was released on police bail this morning.’

Paris turned on Dora. ‘You didn’t flog this story?’

‘Certainly not. Poor Mr Graham’s been victimcised.’

‘Who’s he supposed to have jumped on?’

‘Why, you, of course.’

The temperature had dropped; a mean east wind was systematically stripping the petals off Sally’s shrub roses. The A Level candidates were still wrestling with law and French papers and police cars were parked outside the Mansion when Hengist finally got back to Bagley.

Marching into Alex’s office, he found his deputy head in a high state of almost sexual excitement, forehead white, eyes gleaming more than the gold rims of his spectacles, whole body shivering with self-righteous disapproval, damp patches under the arms of his shirt, whose sleeves were held up by frightful garters.

‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘Very grave news, S.T.L. Theo Graham’s been arrested.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Sexually abusing Paris Alvaston.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Theo’d never jeopardize a boy’s exams like that.’

‘His baser nature overcame him,’ said Alex heavily.

‘Is Paris OK?’ demanded Hengist. ‘Did he take his history paper?’ Then realizing how self-interested that sounded: ‘What’s he got to say?’

‘He became hysterical and leapt at both Biffo and the policeman when asked the simplest question, which pre-supposes . . .’

‘Bloody nothing,’ roared Hengist.

‘Theo entered Paris’s room last night. Bloodcurdling screams were followed by desperate sobbing.’

‘Probably a nightmare. Too much
Macbeth
, or mugging up Stalin’s purges and the death camps, for Christ’s sake. The boy’s always been highly strung. Who reported this?’

‘One of his peers, Cosmo Rannaldini.’

‘Whoever believed a word Cosmo says?’ said Hengist contemptuously. ‘He’ll have rung up the
Scorpion
by now.’

‘I think not.’ Alex put steepled fingers to pursed lips. ‘Concerned for a fellow student, Cosmo behaved caringly and approached me late last night. I phoned the police instantly. They arrested Theo in the early hours.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Alex, why didn’t you talk to Theo or ring me?’

‘Your mobile was switched off. I consulted with Biffo, Joan and the bursar who, as the foster father, was very concerned.’

‘You always wanted Theo out because he resisted your bloody modernizing.’

‘We are accountable for our students’ safety. In Theo’s drawers were found naked photographs of Paris’ – let Hengist think the police discovered them – ‘poems dedicated to Paris of a homo-erotic nature and an obscene DVD of child pornography.’

Hengist looked out of the window at a blackbird splashing in the bird bath: such an innocent joyful pleasure. He felt a great sadness and said with less certainty, ‘Theo’s been framed.’

‘I’m sorry, S.T.L.’ Alex pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I know you were fond of the old boy. I was fond of him too. The whole thing has been most distressing.’

And you want me to feel sorry for you, thought Hengist.

‘When did Paris find out?’

‘We didn’t apprize him this morning. I didn’t want to stress him before a science paper.’

‘Your subject, natch,’ snarled Hengist. He wanted to hurl Alex to his death through the window.

‘By lunchtime, Paris was searching for Theo. Rumours were circulating. The story had broken on Radio Larkminster. So Poppet broke the news to Paris, saying Mr Graham was helping the police with their enquiries.’

‘Poppet? How did Paris take that?’

‘Hard to tell, he never says much.’

‘Jesus, if he’s screwed up history, deputy heads will roll. I’m telling you, Alex, it’s a set-up. Cosmo was clearly jealous of Theo’s closeness to Paris.’

‘Even if Paris does deny everything,’ said Alex smugly, ‘the photos and the pornography are enough to suspend him. I emailed the parents first thing. Better they knew before it hit the press. I’ve already received several back, and many supportive phone calls.’ Alex handed Hengist a sheaf of paper. On top was a fax from Randal Stancombe: ‘Hope that bloody nonce goes down and gets the thrashing he deserves. He’s always sidelined my Jade.’

The second came from Boffin’s mother: ‘I don’t want my Bernard at risk.’