St Oswald's Grammar School for Boys Monday, 25 th October ON THE WHOLE, A POOR START TO THE NEW HALF-TERM.

October has turned menacing, tearing the leaves from the golden trees and showering the Quad with conkers. Windy weather excites the boys; wind and rain means excited boys in the form-room over Break; and after what happened last time I left them to their own devices, I dare not leave them unsupervised even for a moment. No break for Straitley, then; not even a cup of tea; and my resulting temper was so bad that I snapped at everyone, including my Brodie Boys, who can usually make me laugh even at the worst of times. As a result the boys kept their heads down, in spite of the windy weather. I put a couple of fourth-formers in detention for failing to hand in work, but apart from that I hardly had to raise my voice. Perhaps they sensed something -- some whiff of pre-strike ozone in the air - that warned them that now was not the time for a display of high spirits.

The Common Room, as I understand, has been the scene of a number of small, sour skirmishes. Some unpleasantness about appraisals; a computer breakdown in the office; a quarrel between Pearman and Sc.o.o.nes concerning the new French syllabus. Before half-term Roach,lost his credit card, and now blames Jimmy for leaving the Quiet Room door unlocked after school; Dr Tidy has decreed that as of this term, tea and coffee (hitherto provided free of charge) must be paid for to the tune of 3 pounds 75 pencea week; and Dr Devine, in his capacity as Health and Safety representative, has officially called for a smoke detector in the Middle Corridor (in the hope of driving me from my smoker's den in the old Book Room).

On the bright side, there has been no comeback from Strange over Pooley and his torn blazer. I have to say that surprises me a little; I'd have expected that second warning to have arrived in my pigeon-hole by now, and can only suppose that Bob has either forgotten the incident altogether or dismissed it as end-of-term foolishness and decided not to take it further.

Besides, there are other, more important things to deal with than one boy's ripped lining. The offensive Light has lost his driving licence, or so Kitty tells me, following some kind of an incident in town. There's more to it than that, of course, but my enforced restriction to the Bell Tower meant that for most of the day I was out of the mainstream of Common Room gossip, and therefore had to rely on the boys for information.

As usual, however, the rumour mill has been at work. One source declared that Light had been arrested following a police tip-off. Another said that Light had been ten times over the legal limit; yet another, that he had been stopped with St Oswald's boys in the car with him, and that one of them had actually been at the wheel.

I have to say that, at first, none of it troubled me overmuch. Every now and then you come across a teacher like Light; an arrogant buffoon who has managed to fool the system and enters the profession expecting an easy job with long holidays. As a rule they don't last long. If the boys don't finish them off, something else usually does, and life goes on without much of a blip.

As the day wore on, however, I began to realize that there was something more afoot than Light's traffic offences. Gerry Grachvogel's cla.s.s next to mine was unusually noisy; during my free period I stuck my head around the door and saw most of 3S, including Knight, Jackson, Anderton-Pullitt and the usual suspects, apparently talking amongst themselves whilst Grachvogel sat staring out of the window with an expression of such abstracted misery that I curbed my original impulse - which was to interfere -- and simply returned to my own room without a word.

When I got back, Chris Keane was waiting for me. 'I didn't by any chance leave a notebook here before half term, did I?' he asked as I came in. 'It's a little red one. I keep all my ideas in it.'

For once I thought he was looking less than calm; recalling some of his more subversive comments, I thought I could understand why.

'I found a notebook in the Common Room before half term,' I told him. 'I thought you'd reclaimed it.'

Keane shook his head. I wondered whether or not I should tell him I'd glanced inside, then, seeing his furtive expression, decided against.

'Lesson plans?' I suggested innocently.

'Not quite,' said Keane.

'Ask Miss Dare. She shares my room. Maybe she saw it and put it away.'

I thought Keane looked slightly worried at that. As well he might, knowing the contents of that incriminating little book. Still, he seemed cool enough about it and simply said, 'No problem. I'm sure it'll turn up sooner or later.'

Come to think of it, things have had rather a habit of disappearing in the last few weeks. The pens, for instance; Keane's notebook; Roach's credit card. It happens occasionally; a wallet I could understand, but I really couldn't see why anyone would want to steal an old St Oswald's mug, or indeed my form register, which has still not resurfaced unless it is simply to annoy me, in which case it has more than succeeded. I wondered what other small and insignificant items had disappeared in recent days, and whether the disappearances might be in some way related.

I said as much to Keane.

'Well, it's a school,' he said. 'Things vanish in schools.'

Perhaps, I thought; but not St Oswald's.

I saw Keane's ironic smile as he left the room, almost as if I had spoken aloud.

At the end of school I went back into Grachvogel's room, hoping to find out what was on his mind. Gerry's a good enough chap, in his way, not a natural in the cla.s.s, but a true academic with a real enthusiasm for his subject, and it bothered me to see him looking so under the weather. However when I stuck my head around his cla.s.sroom door at four o'clock, he was not there. That too was unusual; Gerry tends to hang around after hours, messing with the computers or preparing his interminable visual aids, and it was certainly the first time I'd ever seen him leave his room unlocked.

A few of my boys remained at their desks, copying up some notes from the board. I was unsurprised to recognize Anderton-Pullitt, always a laborious worker, and Knight, studiously not looking up, but with that smug little half smirk on his face that told me he had registered my presence.

'h.e.l.lo, Knight,' I said. 'Did Mr Grachvogel say if he'd be back?'

'No, sir.' His voice was colourless.

'I think he left, sir,' said AndertonPullitt.

'I see. Well, pack up your things, boys, quick as you can. Don't want any of you to miss the bus.'

'I don't catch the bus, sir.' It was Knight again. 'My mother picks me up. Too many perverts around nowadays.'

Now 1 try to be fair. I really do. I pride myself upon it, in feet; my fairness; my sound judgement. I may be rough, but if am always fair; I never make a threat that I would not carrw out, or a promise I do not mean to keep. The boys knowf it, and most of them respect that; you know where you'J stand with old Quaz, and he doesn't let sentiment interfere! with the job. At least I hope so; I'm getting increasingly* sentimental with my advancing years, but I don't think that has ever got in the way of my duty.

However, in any teacher's career there are times when objectivity fails. Looking at Knight, his head still lowered but his eyes darting nervously back and forth, I was reminded once more of that failure. I don't trust Knight; the truth is there's something about him that I've always detested. I know I shouldn't, but even teachers are human beings. We have our preferences. Of course we do; it is simply unfairness that we must avoid. And I do try; but I am aware that of my little group, Knight is the misfit, the Judas, the Jonah, the one who inevitably takes it too far, mistakes humour for insolence, mischief for spite. A sullen, cosseted, whey-faced little cuss who blames everyone for his inadequacies but himself. All the same, I treat him exactly as I do the rest; I even tend to leniency towards him because I know my weakness.

But today there was something in his manner that made me uneasy. As if he knew something, some unhealthy secret that both delighted him and made him ill. He certainly looks ill, in spite of his smugness; there is a new flare of acne across his pallid features, a greasy sheen to his flat brown hair. Testosterone, most likely. All the same I cannot help linking the boy knows something. With Sutcliff or Allen [ies, the information (whatever it was) would have been nine for the asking. But with Knight. . .

'Did something happen in Mr Grachvogel's cla.s.s today?'

'Sir?' Knight's face was a cautious blank.

'I heard shouting,' I said.

'Not me, sir,' said Knight.

'No. Of course not.'

It was useless. Knight would never tell. Shrugging, 1 left the Bell Tower, heading for the Languages office and our first departmental meeting of the new half-term. Grachvogel would be there; maybe I could talk to him before he left. Knight - I told myself - could wait. At least until tomorrow.

There was no sign of Gerry at the meeting. Everyone else was there, which made me more certain than ever that my colleague was ill. Gerry never misses a meeting; loves in-service training; sings energetically in a.s.semblies and always does his prep. Today he wasn't there; and when I mentioned his absence to Dr Devine, the response was so chilly that I wished I hadn't. Still miffy about the old office, I suppose; all the same, there was more in his manner than the usual disapproval; and I was rather subdued during the course of the meeting, going over all the things that I might unwittingly have done to provoke the old idiot. You wouldn't know it, but I'm quite fond of him really, suits and all; he's one of the few constants in a changing world, and there are already too few of those to go round.

And so the meeting wore on, with Pearman and Scoor arguing over the merits of various exam boards; Dr Devin^J icy and dignified; Kitty unusually lackl.u.s.tre; Isabelle filing! her nails; Geoff and Penny Nation sitting to attention like

the Bobbsey Twins; and Dianne Dare watching everythingi as if departmental meetings were the most fascinating spectacle in the world.

It was dark when the meeting finished, and the School was deserted. Even the cleaners had gone. Only Jimmy remained, walking the polishing-machine slowly and conscientiously over the parquet floor of the Lower Corridor. 'Night, boss,' he told me as I pa.s.sed. "Nother one done, eh?'

'You've got your work cut out,' I said. Since Fallow's suspension, Jimmy has carried out all the Porter's duties, and it has been a heavy task. 'When's the new man starting?' 'Fortnight,' said Jimmy, grinning all over his moon face. 'Shuttleworth, he's called. Supports Everton. Reckon we'll get on all right though.'

I smiled. 'You didn't fancy the job yourself, then?'

'Nah, boss.' Jimmy shook his head. 'Too much ha.s.sle.'

When I reached the School car-park, it was raining heavily. The Nations' car was already pulling out of their allocated s.p.a.ce. Eric doesn't have a car -- his eyesight is too bad, and besides, he lives practically next door to the School. Pearman and Kitty were still in the office, going over papers - since his wife's illness, Pearman has been increasingly reliant on Kitty. Isabelle Tapi was redoing her make-up knew how long that might take - and I knew I could expect a lift from Dr Devine.

'Miss Dare, I wonder if--'

'Of course. Hop in.'

I thanked her and settled into the pa.s.senger seat of the Corsa. I have noticed that a car, like a desk, frequently fteflects the owner's mind. Pearman's is exceptionally messy. I The Nations have a b.u.mper sticker that reads: DON'T FOLLOW ME, FOLLOW JESUS. Isabelle's has a Care Bear dashboard toy.

By contrast, Dianne's car is neat, clean, functional. Not a cuddly toy or amusing slogan in sight. I like that; it's the lign of an ordered mind. If I had a car, it would probably be like Room 59; all oak panelling and dusty spider plants.

I said as much to Miss Dare, and she laughed. 'I hadn't thought of that,' she said, turning on to the main road. 'Like dog owners and their pets.'

'Or teachers and their coffee mugs.'

'Really?' Apparently Miss Dare has never noticed. She herself uses a school mug (plain white, with blue trim) as supplied by the kitchens. She seems remarkably free of whimsy for such a young woman (admittedly, my basis for comparison is not extensive); but this, I think, is a part of her charm. It struck me that she might get on well with young Keane - who is also very cool for a fresher - but when I asked her how she was getting along with the other new staff she simply shrugged.

'Too busy?' I ventured.

'Not my type. Drink-driving with boys in the car. He stupid.'

Well, amen to that: the idiot Light had certainly blotted! his copybook with his ridiculous antics in town. Easy's justf another disposable Suit; Meek a resignation waiting to

happen. 'What about Keane?'

'I haven't really spoken to him.'

'You should. Local boy. I've a feeling he might be youif type.'

I told you I was getting sentimental. I'm hardly built for it, after all, but there's something about Miss Dare that brings it out, somehow. A trainee Dragon, if ever I saw one (though better-looking than most Dragons I have known), I find that I have no difficulty in imagining her in thirty or forty years' time, looking something like Margaret Rutherford in The Happiest Days of Your Life, if rather slimmer, but with the same humorous twist.

It's all too easy to get drawn in, you know; at St Oswald's, different laws apply to those of the world outside. One of these is Time, which pa.s.ses much faster here than anywhere else. Look at me: approaching my Century, and yet when I look in the mirror I see the same boy I always was -- now a grey-haired boy with too much luggage under his eyes and the unmistakable, faintly dissipated air of an old cla.s.s clown.

I tried -- and failed - to communicate some part of this to Dianne Dare. But we were nearing my house; the rain had stopped; I asked her to drop me off at the end of Dog Lane, I hadn't explained that I wanted a chance to check the fence; to make sure the graffiti incident had not been repeated.

'I'll come with you,' she said, pulling up to the kerb.

'No need,' I said, but she insisted, and I realized that, Ironically, she was concerned for me -- a sobering thought, but a kind one. And perhaps she was right; because as soon as we entered the lane we saw it - certainly it was too big to miss - not just graffiti, but a mural-sized portrait - myself, moustached and swastika'd, larger than life in multicoloured spray-paint.

For half a minute we just stared at it. The paint looked barely dry. And then a rage took hold of me; the sort of transcendent, vocabulary-blocking rage I have felt maybe three or four times in my entire career. I vented it concisely, forgetting the refinements of the Lingua Latina for the pure Anglo-Saxon. Because I knew the culprit; knew him this time without a shadow of a doubt.

Quite apart from the small slim object I had spotted lying in the wedge of shadow at the base of the fence, I recognized the style. It was identical to the cartoon that I had removed from the 3S noticeboard; the cartoon that I had long suspected was the work of Colin Knight.

'Knight?' echoed Miss Dare. 'But he's such a little mouse.'

Mouse or not, I knew it. Besides, the boy has a grudge; he hates me, and the support of his mother, the Head, the newspapers and Heaven knows what other malcontents has given him a sly kind of courage. I picked up the slim object at the base of the fence. The invisible finger poked me again; I could feel my blood pounding; and the rage, like some lethal drug, pumped through me, bleaching the world 1 of its colour. 'Mr Straitley?' Now Dianne looked concerned. 'Are you all right?' 'Perfectly so.' I had recovered; I was still trembling, but my mind was sound, and the savage in me checked. 'Look at this.' 'It's a pen, sir,' sai d Dianne. 'Not just a pen.' I should know; I searched for it long enough, before it was found in the secret cache in the Porter's Lodge. Colin Knight's bar mitzvah pen, as I live and breathe; cost over 500 pounds according to his mother, and conveniently embellished with his initials - CNK - just to be sure.

Tuesday, 26th October NICE TOUCH. THAT PEN. IT'S A MONT BLANC, YOU KNOW; ONE of the cheaper ones, but even so, quite out of my league. Not that you'd know it to look at me now; the polyester shine is gone, replaced by a slick, impenetrable veneer of sophistication. One of the many things I picked up from Leon, along with my Nietzsche and my penchant for lemon vodka. As for Leon, he always enjoyed my murals; he himself was no artist, and it astonished him that I was able to create such accurate portraits. Of course I'd had more opportunity to study the masters; I had notebooks filled with sketches - what was more, I could forge any signature Leon gave me, which meant that both of us were able to benefit with impunity from a number of excuse-notes and out-of-school permission slips.

I'm glad to see that the talent has not deserted me. I sneaked out of School during my afternoon free period to finish it off - not as risky as it sounds; hardly anyone ever uses Dog Lane except for the Sunnybankers - and returned in time for Period 8. It worked like a dream; no one saw a thing except the half-wit Jimmy, who was repainting the School gates and who gave me his idiotic grin as I drove through.

I thought at the time I might have to do something about Jimmy. Not that he would ever recognize me or anything; but loose ends are loose ends, and this one has remained too long untied. Besides, he offends me. Fallow was fat and lazy, but Jimmy, with his wet mouth and fawning smile, is somehow worse. I wonder that he has survived this long; I wonder that St Oswald's - with its pride in its reputation tolerates him at all. A care-in-the-community case, as I recall; cheap and disposable as a forty-watt bulb. The word is disposable.

That lunch-time I carried out three small and un.o.btrusive thefts: a tube of valve oil from a pupil's trombone (one of Straitley's pupils, a j.a.panese boy called Niu); a screwdriver from Jimmy's lock-up; and, of course, Colin Knight's famous pen. No one saw me; and no one saw what I did with those three items when the time came.

Timing - timing - is the all-important factor. I knew Straitley and the other linguists would be at the meeting last night (except Grachvogel, who had one of his migraines following that unpleasant little interview with the Head).

By the end of it, everyone else would have gone home, except for Pat Bishop, who can usually be trusted to remain in School until eight or nine. I didn't think he would be a problem, however; his office is on the Lower Corridor, two flights down, too far from the Languages department for him to hear anything.

For a moment I was back in the sweetshop, spoilt for choice. Obviously Jimmy was my primary target, but if this thing worked out I could probably have anyone in the Languages department as a bonus. The question was, who? Not Straitley, of course; not yet. I have my plans for Straitley, and they are maturing very well. Sc.o.o.nes? Devine? Teague?

Geographically, it had to be someone with rooms in the Bell Tower; someone single, who would not be missed; most of all someone vulnerable; a lame gazelle that had fallen behind; someone defenceless -- a woman, perhaps? - whose misfortune would provoke a real scandal.

There could only be one choice. Isabelle Tapi, with her high heels and tight sweaters; Isabelle who regularly takes time off for PMT and has dated virtually every male member of staff under fifty (except Gerry Grachvogel, who has other preferences).

Her room is in the Bell Tower, just up from Straitley's. It's an odd-shaped, whimsical little s.p.a.ce; hot in summer, cold in winter, with windows on four sides and twelve narrow stone steps leading from the door up into the room. Not very practical - it was a store-room in my father's day, and there is barely enough s.p.a.ce there to seat an entire cla.s.s. You can't get a mobile-phone signal there to save your life; Jimmy hates it; the cleaners avoid it - it's almost impossible to get a vacuum up those little steps -- and most of the staff - unless they have taught in the Bell Tower themselves - hardly even realize it's there.

For my purpose, then, it was ideal. I waited until after school. I knew Isabelle would not go to the Departmental meeting until she had had a coffee (and a chat with the beastly Light); that gave me five or ten minutes. It was enough.

First, I went into the room, which was empty. Next, I took out my screwdriver and sat down on the steps with my eyes level with the door-handle. It's a simple enough mechanism, based on a single square pin that connects the handle to the latch. Depress the handle, the pin turns, and the latch opens. Nothing could be easier. Remove the pin, however, and however much you pull and push at the handle, the door stays shut.

Quickly, I unscrewed the handle from the door, opened it a crack and removed the pin. Then, keeping my foot wedged in the doorway to stop it closing, I replaced the screws and the handle as before. There. From the outside, the door would open perfectly normally. Once inside, however . . .

Of course you can never be completely sure. Isabelle might not return to her room. The cleaners might be uncharacteristically thorough; Jimmy might decide to look in. I didn't think so, however. I like to think I know St Oswald's better than most, and I've had plenty of time to get used to its little routines. Still, not knowing's half the fun, isn't it? and if it didn't work, I told myself, I could always start again in the morning.

St Oswald's Grammar School for Boys Wednesday, 27 th October I SLEPT BADLY LAST NIGHT. PERHAPS THE WIND, OR THE memory of Knight's perfidious behaviour, or the sudden artillery-fire of rain that fell just after midnight, or my dreams, which were more vivid and unsettling than they have been for years.

I'd had a couple of gla.s.ses of claret before bed, of course I don't suppose Bevans would have approved of that, or of the tinned steak pie that accompanied them - and I awoke at three thirty with a raging thirst, a sore head and the vague foreknowledge that the worst was yet to come.

I set off early to school, to clear my head and to give myself time to think out a strategy to deal with the boy Knight. It was still pouring, and by the time I reached St Oswald's main gate, my coat and hat were heavy with rain.

It was still only seven forty-five, and there were only a few cars in the staff car-park; the Head's; Pat Bishop's; and Isabelle Tapi's little sky-blue Mazda. I was just considering this (Isabelle rarely gets in before eight thirty; and on most days closer to nine) when I heard the sound of a car pulling in sharply behind me. I turned and saw Pearman's grubby old Volvo swerve across the half-deserted car-park, leaving a quavery stripe of burnt rubber across the wet tarmac in his wake. Kitty Teague was in the pa.s.senger seat. Both looked tense - Kitty sheltering under a folded newspaper, Pearman walking very fast - as they approached.

It occurred to me that it might be bad news about Pearman's wife, Sally. I'd only seen her once since her treatment, but she had looked dry and yellow under the big brave smile, and I'd suspected then that her brown hair was a wig.

But when Pearman walked in with Kitty at his heels, I knew that it was worse than that. The man's face was haggard. He did not return my greeting; he barely saw me as he pushed open the door. Behind him, Kitty caught my eye and immediately burst into tears; it took me by surprise, and by the time I had recovered enough to ask what was happening, Pearman had vanished down the Middle Corridor, leaving nothing but a trail of wet footprints across the polished parquet floor.

'For Heaven's sake, what's wrong?' I said.

She covered her face with her hands. 'It's Sally,' she said. 'Someone sent her a letter. It came this morning. She opened it at breakfast.'

'Letter?' Sally and Kitty had always been close, I knew; but even so this distress seemed unwarranted. 'What letter?'

For a moment she seemed incapable of answering. Then she looked at me through the ruins of her make-up and said in a low voice, 'An anonymous letter. About Chris and me.'

'Really?' It took me a while to understand what she was saying. Kitty and Pearmanl Pearman and Miss Teague?

I really must be getting old, I thought; I had never suspected. I knew they were friends; that Kitty had been supportive - frequently beyond the call of duty. But now it all came out, though I tried hard to stop it; how they had kept it a secret from Sally, who was ill; how they had hoped to marry some day, and now -- now-- I took Kitty to the Common Room; made tea; waited with it for ten minutes outside the Ladies'. Finally Kitty came out, looking pink-eyed and rabbity under a fresh coat of beige powder, saw the tea and burst into helpless tears again.

I'd never have thought it of Kitty Teague. She's been at St Oswald's for eight years and I'd never seen her close to this. 1 offered my handkerchief and held out the tea, feeling awkward and wishing (rather guiltily) for someone more qualified -- Miss Dare, perhaps - to take over.

'Are you all right?' (The clumsy gambit of the well meaning male.) Kitty shook her head. Of course she wasn't; I knew that much, but the Tweed Jacket is not known for his savoir faire with the opposite s.e.x, and I had to say something, after all.

'Do you want me to fetch someone?'

I suppose I was thinking of Pearman; as Head of Department, I thought, the whole thing was really his responsibility. Or Bishop; he's the one who normally deals with emotional crises among the staff. Or Marlene - yes! - a ludden wave of relief and affection as I remembered the secretary, so efficient on the day of my own collapse, so approachable with the boys. Capable Marlene, who had endured divorce and bereavement without breaking down. She would know what to do; and even if she didn't, at least she knew the code, without which no male can hope to communicate with a woman in tears.

She was just coming out of Bishop's office as I arrived at her desk. I suppose I take her for granted, as do the rest of the staff. 'Marlene, I wonder if--' I began.

She eyed me with well-feigned severity. 'Mr Straitley.' She always calls me 'Mr Straitley', even though she has been Marlene to all members of the teaching staff for years. 'I don't suppose you've found that register yet.'

'Alas, no.'

'Hmm. I thought not. So what is it now?'

1 explained about Kitty, without giving too many details.