Date: Sat, 5 Jan 2002 15:50:36 EST
From: MGouda3464@aol.com
Subject: School Story

SCHOOL STORY


Assembly

"Oh God, Craig. Who is that delicious hunk?" muttered Desmond Lansdale from
behind his hymn book. "I think I'm in love."

Rays of late summer sunshine fell in parallel slabs through the row of tall
windows onto the lines of standing pupils, lighting up their faces as they
sang the morning hymn. Fluting trebles, reverberating basses and those
in-between crackings of adolescent puberty combined together in a paean of
praise to the public school system. Outside the windows was the green grass
of the Quad and opposite rose the neo-Gothic, granite facade of the School
chapel.

The focus of Desmond's sudden attack of desire seemed to be directed at
someone sitting on the raised dais at the end of the hall. There were lined
up the masters and mistresses, most of whom were well-known to all us
boys. However, in place of the old Classics master, 'Jumbo' Wilson - whose
nickname came from the size of his ears - was a young, dark-haired man,
slim and athletic looking. His face was sensitive and one eyebrow had a
slight lift to it giving him a humorous, quizzical look. As I looked at
him, the man shifted himself uncomfortably and adjusted his legs.

Desmond groaned.

"Shut up, Dizzy," I said, whispering into his ear. "Do you want everyone to
hear?"

"But who is he?" persisted Desmond.

"At least cut the gay stuff." I sighed and then raised my voice for the
last verse of the hymn. Dizzy was my best friend but I wished sometimes
that he would control some of the more outrageous things he came out with.
This whole gay thing for instance. It was all very well to pretend to be
besotted with some young blond boy in the lower form - it had been all the
thing in the sixth form - but sometimes Dizzy seemed to take it all too
seriously. I wondered occasionally whether Dizzy could in fact be
homosexual.

I took a sideways glance at him as he stood next to me. He was dark-haired
himself, his hair worn slightly long so that it strayed over his collar.
His eyes, blue-grey and corniced by lashes, perhaps rather long for a boy -
but there were other boys I knew who had lashes of comparable length.
Dizzy's lips were full and often curled up in a smile which showed white
teeth. A good-looking boy, I had to admit, but not one who exhibited any
feminine campness (unless he wanted to) so that he would never be suspected
of being what my father would call a 'Nancy-boy' but then these days, on TV
for instance, homosexuals are portrayed as looking just like other people.

Like the rest of the sixth-form boys Dizzy was wearing a black jacket - the
lower forms had to wear the school blazer of course - and grey flannel
trousers. I had noticed, though, that Dizzy's trousers always seemed to be
slimmer cut than the regulation size and somehow emphasised his slender
hips and, at the front, displayed a noticeable bulge on occasions. I always
tried to ignore this.

I've come to the conclusion that I'm quite happy with my own sexual
orientation. In the school holidays I go out with a girl from down the
street, Julie. In term time I make do with my hand and my memories of
Julie. Occasionally I wonder what it would be like to have sex with a boy,
but I can't really see myself doing it. Where would I put my cock anyway?

The hymn closed with a resounding 'Amen' . Everyone sat and when the noise
had died down, the Headmaster, Geoffrey Beal M.A., commonly, even
affectionately, called 'the Beak' stood up. His grey, beetling brows,
protruding hooked nose and stern expression made him an object of nervous
awe to the younger boys, though those further up the school knew that he
was a fair man who occasionally displayed a sharp sense of humour.

"Welcome to the summer term," he said., "and especially those new boys for
whom this is a first term. I trust you will all find it a valuable and
indeed enjoyable one."

I cut himself off from the speech which I had heard many times before. This
would be my last year at Oakridge School, a minor public boarding school
for boys. In a few months time both of us would be taking our A level exams
and then, hopefully, go on to Universities or out into the great wide world
outside. I myself aspired to a scholarship to Cambridge. Dizzy, I knew, had
no such exalted plans and I felt a little sad that our friendship, which
had lasted ever since we had met at Junior School, eight years before,
would come to an end, or at least be disrupted by our differing
circumstances.

"I wonder who he is," whispered Dizzy.

"Probably Jumbo's replacement. I heard the old man was retiring."

"Oh God," said Dizzy despairingly. "Is it too late for me to change to
Classics."

The Beak drew to a close in the customary manner. "In summing up," he said,
"I would like to recommend to you a saying by the Latin writer Cicero.
'Vulgo enim dicitur; lucundi acti labores', which, for those who have not
as yet read his work 'De Finibus' translates as: 'For it is commonly said;
completed labours are best.' Completed labours are best," he repeated,
"Never leave a piece of work unfinished." He paused and waited for a wave
of restlessness to quieten.

"This term I would like to welcome Mr Oliver. He will take over Mr Wilson's
Latin and Greek classes."

Dizzy's agonised sigh was almost audible.

"He will also take over the cricket elevens," continued the Beak. "First,
second and third. Practice for the first eleven will be this afternoon
after last teaching period."

For a moment I was afraid that Dizzy would actually cheer and I put out a
restraining hand, grasping my friend's arm in as tight a grip as possible.
I could feel the tension and then it relaxed and a smile, seraphic in its
intensity, spread over Dizzy's face.

"There IS a God," he said.


Summer Term

For some reason at the beginning of that term, I didn't see as much of
Dizzy as I had before. Not that we fell out or anything. Whenever we met,
he was the same as usual, cheerful, full of jokes and quips, if anything he
seemed more light-hearted than ever. I wondered whether he was working hard
enough. I know that I went around with an almost permanent frown on my
face, continually worrying whether I was keeping up with physics, chemistry
and the other sciences I was taking for A levels. Dizzy, of course, was
taking Arts, English Literature and History. Perhaps his schedule was less
demanding than mine. I hoped that was the reason for his lack of anxiety.

I did notice that he was spending a good deal of his time at the cricket
nets and that he had been picked for all the 1st XI matches so far. Often
guys who were in the Upper 6th, and taking their A levels, would not be
chosen but I supposed it was up to this new Mr Oliver, who must know the
score. He soon got a nickname of course. I'm never very sure who invents
them and they're never original. His was 'Twisty' - Oliver Twist of course
- and though Jason Phelps grumbled and said it ought to be 'Bent' because
he was obviously gay, no one paid much attention and I think he was quite
popular, Twisty, I mean, not Jason Phelps who is a complete and utter
fuckwit - and no one likes him, except his mate and sidekick, Kevin, and I
guess he only hangs around with him because he's scared he'll get beaten up
if he doesn't.

I didn't have much to do with the new teacher, of course. Classics masters
never strayed into Sciences - and vice versa - unless there was some other
interest outside of both - like sports, and I wasn't a cricket player.
Dizzy was a bowler, a wimp with the bat but he knew, almost without trying.
how to pitch the ball right into the block hole, time and time again - a
flawless Yorker so that he was forgiven his incompetence as a batsman.

One sunny afternoon I saw him standing on the edge of the 1st Eleven
cricket pitch, a tall, slim figure in cricket whites. I waved but he was
looking in the other direction so I walked towards him. It was one of those
glorious summer days, the grass a perfect green, the beeches around the
edge of the field in full leaf, providing a gentle shade, much too
beautiful to study, but ideal for lying in the grass, chatting idly with a
friend.

"Hey, Dizzy," I called but he didn't turn round and from the other
direction someone approached him. It was easy to make out the figure of Mr
Oliver, dark-haired, dressed casually in grey trousers and pullover. I
could see him smiling and imagined the answering smile on Dizzy's lips.
They met, went off together in the direction of the cricket pavilion and Mr
Oliver put his arm affectionately around Dizzy's shoulder. I could have run
and caught them up but somehow the two of them seemed complete in
themselves, and a third person would have been in some way superfluous. It
was then that I felt what I could only describe as a stab of jealousy.
Dizzy was my friend. Who was this teacher to take him away from me? I
turned and went off alone.

I saw Dizzy later the same day, coming out into the corridor after tea and
before evening study period. He looked happy, in some way sort of
fulfilled. I decided I wasn't going to mention Twisty.

"Where have you been all my life?" I asked, joking.

"Have you missed me?"

"Well," I said. "I haven't seen you around lately."

"Are you coming on to me?" he asked, looking into my eyes and flirting
outrageously.

I looked around hastily but there didn't seem to be anyone listening. "You
still into guys? I thought it might have been a phase."

Dizzy assumed a tragic look. "I guess I am. It seems the anti-biotics
didn't work." He laughed. "Oh come on, lighten up, Craig. You're still my
best friend."

Then I blew it - and did what I knew I shouldn't have, what I had intended
not to do. "What about Twisty?" I said. "Mr Oliver."

His expression changed. For a moment he looked almost embarrassed. "What
about him?" he asked.

"I saw you with him this afternoon."

"Where?" I gave him a sharp look. The question was abrupt, sounded almost
alarmed. "What did you see?"

"In the cricket field," I said.

"Oh," he said, relaxing. "We were just chatting."

"You seemed on very good terms with him. Better than you and me."

"It's completely different."

"Is it?" I asked. "What is it between you and him?"

"Oh, you know." Which I didn't. "We just get on well together. He's not
like the other teachers. He helps me with things."

It all sounded vague, perhaps too vague but I didn't want to probe, to find
out things that I didn't really want to know, couldn't perhaps understand.

"You want to study in my room this evening?" I asked.

"Sure," he said, the tension gone - or at least hidden for a while under
the surface.


Disaster

And so the term went on in its usual uneventful way with me panicking about
the exams and everyone else in the whole school serenely optimistic about
their own abilities and certain of their subsequent success. I worried and
apparently no one else did.

Then the terrible, awful thing happened.

It started, for us at any rate, with a rumour, as these things often do.
The word went round that one of the kids in a lower form had run away.
Well, it happens. Poor kid. Away from home for the first time, missing
mummy and family, gets picked on a bit, I guess, sobs into his pillow at
night. Eventually can't stand it any longer and makes a break for home. Of
course when he gets there, they bring him back and he has to put up with
it. Grin and bear it. You'll get to love it.

Trouble was, or so the story went, the kid never reached home. I can
imagine the panic amongst the teachers - well the Beak anyway. Kid in his
charge disappears. He phones the parents. They say they know nothing about
it. Hours - perhaps the rest of the day passes. Police are informed. The
trail is cold.

There were other rumours, even more fanciful. The kid had robbed the school
of all the silver sports trophies and was off to the 'smoke' to sell them
to a fence.

He had eloped with Matron from the Infirmary and both had gone to Gretna
Green to get married. As the kid was thirteen, fourteen tops and Matron an
obvious fifty plus, this was discounted. Jason Phelps said that it was more
likely that the kid had been raped and murdered - he was obviously a
cock-sucking little trollop, but then no one paid much attention to
anything Jason said - except Kevin.

I guess there was also the nasty possibility that he had gone swimming in
the lake which was the other side of Nobbett's Wood and had got into
difficulties but surely no kid, however hot the weather, would have gone
off alone on a swimming expedition.

Anyway, speculation was rife, and it was obviously to put an end to this
that an Assembly was called on the Wednesday morning, one, to give us what
facts were known - very few - the kid's name was Paul Trent, and he'd
disappeared from school, and two, to say that the police would be in school
that morning and anyone who knew anything at all about the kid, however
trivial, were to tell their form masters and then be prepared to give such
information to the fuzz in due course.

Obviously we discussed it but, apart from the Prefects, we, in the sixth
form, wouldn't have had any contact with such a junior kid so there wasn't
much we could say. We did notice the arrival of the police though. Three of
them getting out of an unmarked car, a tall, grey-haired chap, a much
younger blonde guy with a moustache and a smartly-dressed woman. They went
into the Main Block accompanied by the Beak and disappeared from view.

It all seemed very casual but, like the calm swan on the surface of the
placid water, legs were paddling away furiously underneath. Nobbett's Lake
was being dragged, the wood searched, statements taken at the local railway
and bus stations. The disappearance even reached the Nine o'clock News on
TV and a request was made for anyone who had seen the boy on Monday evening
to contact the local police force. Paul's picture was flashed on the
screen, a kid with short, cropped hair and the face of a young boxer - not
the sort I had expected at all. He looked as if he could well take care of
himself and, for a moment, I wondered whether the silverware was, in
fact. still in the trophy cabinet.

Dizzy got the news first.

He came into the Sixth Form Common Room on the Wednesday afternoon.
"They've found him," he said.

I looked up from a text book I was trying to memorise. "They found who?" I
asked.

"The kid. Paul."

"Oh good," I said.

"No it isn't," he said. "He's dead. He was strangled. His body was found in
the wood."

There weren't many people in the room, but those that were, crowded round.
Some were horrified. Even Jason Phelps looked shocked while Kevin, his
henchman, looked as if he were about to be sick.

"How do you know?"

"The police said so."

"The police told you?" said Jason Phelps sarcastically, reverting to form.

"Not exactly," said Dizzy.

"Told your dirty bum-bandit friend, I expect," said Jason.

"Who could have done it?" said someone.

"Perhaps the police should ask Twisty," said Jason.

"Fuck off, Jason," I said as unpleasantly as I could.


Arrested

I don't know if Jason went to the police with his suggestion. Knowing him,
he'd have been perfectly capable but the next thing we knew was that Mr
Oliver had been carted off to the Police Station 'to help the police with
their enquiries'. I didn't know if he'd been arrested or whatever. Neither
apparently did Dizzy who hadn't been able to see him before he'd gone.

Looking completely distraught, he found me on the Thursday morning. I was
in the Library doing a bit of quiet revision. There was no one else around
except the Librarian down the other end of the room.

Dizzy pulled up a chair and sat down beside me. He had dark circles under
his eyes and looked as if he hadn't slept for a week. "I know it couldn't
have been Ben," he said.

"Ben?"

"Mr Oliver. Twisty."

"How do you know?" I asked. "How can you possibly know for certain?"

"Because I was with him on Monday."

"For a couple of hours," I said.

"I was with him for the whole night," said Dizzy.

For a moment the implications of this took a while to sink in. Then they
did. "Jesus," I said. "You and a teacher?" I didn't want to think what that
meant, what they had done. It just seemed impossibly wrong. "He's old." It
was weak but I guess that was what I was thinking.

"He's only twenty-six," said Dizzy.

Nine years difference! In nine years I would have passed through University
(hopefully) got out the other side with a degree, got a job, out into the
wide, wide world. It sounded an age, an almost immeasurable gap.

"What are you going to do?" I asked.

"He told me not to say anything," said Dizzy, almost in tears. "He said if
I told them, they'd send him to prison."

"And for murder, they won't?"

He didn't answer, just looked miserable.

"I thought sixteen was the age of consent these days. For gays as well as
straights," I said.

"There's some sort of exception which excludes older people who are in
charge of the young - and it includes teachers, youth workers, you know."

"Scout masters," I said, but he didn't think that was funny. Nor on
reflection did I. "They can't find an innocent person guilty," I said.

He looked at me as if I said the most naive thing imaginable, which I
probably had.

"So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know. If they actually charge him with the murder, I'll have to
say something. What else can I do?"

I could see the Librarian peering over his glasses from behind his desk at
us. I knew he'd be over to tell us off if we carried on talking so I picked
up my books and we went out into the Quad. The fine spell had broken and
there was a gentle rain falling. A teacher ran across the green, obviously
late for a class or he'd have walked round the covered area, his black gown
flying, looking like a bedraggled crow. We walked around the square,
Dizzy's head bent down in abject misery.

I tried to think of something. Then an idea struck me, but one so stupid
that I didn't really want to express it.

"Perhaps," I said, and stopped.

Dizzy looked at me.

"No," I said. "It wouldn't work."

"What wouldn't work?"

"I just thought - no it's too fucking stupid."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Craig. Spit it out."

"It's just I wondered whether WE could do some detecting. Perhaps ask the
kids who were Paul's friends. They might tell us things they wouldn't tell
the police. What did the Beak say at the beginning of term. 'Never let a
thing remain unfinished'."

As I expected, Dizzy looked doubtful. "They'd be more scared of the police
than they would of us," he said.

"But they might be too embarrassed to tell them some things."

"What sort of things?"

"Sex things," I said.

"Why didn't I think of that?" asked Dizzy.

But it wasn't as easy as I thought. We were faced with a wall of silence
when we tried to chat to the third year kids. And not just silence. It was
pretty obvious that most of them were terrified. At first we couldn't even
find out who were Paul Trent's special friends, or even if he had any.
Eventually we cornered a couple of oiks who had obviously been smoking at
the back of the fives courts where, as always, they thought no one could
see them, and came down on them heavily. There were dog ends all around
them - it was clearly a favourite spot - and they still had the smell of
smoke on their breath.

"We'll report you to Mr Bates," I said. Mr Bates was the P.E. Instructor
and everyone was terrified of him, including us, to be honest. It wasn't
that he'd use physical force, it was just that he could make you feel about
9 centimetres tall, just with a look, and when he started on the jawing,
you'd dwindle down into something infinitesimal and made of slime.

The two kids looked terrified. One with spots almost started to blubber.

"OK," said Dizzy, nice guy, "your nasty little secret's safe with us. We
just want some information."

The two cheered up a bit, but I didn't want them to get too complacent so I
did the nasty guy stuff. "We're looking for friends of Paul Trent," I said,
putting on my sternest voice and look. "Tell us or we'll go to Mr Bates."

Their reaction was unexpected. Total terror. Eyes wide. The spotty one
looked as if he was about to piss himself.

"Please don't," said his friend. "Please don't do it to us."

I looked at Dizzy but he seemed as bewildered as I was.

"We won't do anything to you," he said. "What are you afraid of?"

"They did it to Paul."

"Who did what to him?"

"You know. They made him do it. At first he thought it made him big, doing
it with the big men, even though it hurt, but they wouldn't stop."

"He used to cry at night afterwards, with the pain," said the other one.

"Who did it?" I asked.

"They told us never to tell - or they'd do it to us."

"We won't let them touch you," said Dizzy. "Just tell us who it was."

And eventually they told us.


Culprit

Jason Phelps and Kevin, of course. They'd been fucking the arse off the
kid, both of them, I guess. Paul had put up with it for a while but in the
end had decided he'd had enough. I suppose he must have told them he was
going to the Head or whatever. They got hold of him, started to beat him
up, just to scare him into silence and then must have gone too far.

And at last the whole story came out, including Dizzy and Ben Oliver. Jason
and Kevin were arrested, convicted, imprisoned, well, juvenile centre for a
year then into adult prison. Couldn't have enjoyed that too much but at
least they were alive - which is more than could be said for poor Paul.

Mr Oliver of course was sacked. It was touch and go whether he'd get a
prison sentence as well but perhaps someone pulled some strings, hushed it
up. Certainly he'd never work in teaching again, nor see Dizzy.

Dizzy was removed from the school by his parents. I suppose he took his
exams somewhere else. Or perhaps never took them at all.

I never heard from him again.

I got into Cambridge and my life changed - but that's another story.


Epilogue

"What's this in the bottom of the drawer?"

"Oh, you can chuck that, Colin. It's just an old photograph. One of my old
school."

"All boys eh? Exciting."

"Pretty boring really."

"Is that you?"

"Yes."

"My God, you were beautiful then."

"You mean I'm not now?"

"Course you are. Who's that one?"

"That's a teacher. He was arrested for murder, though he didn't do it."

"He's good looking, isn't he?"

"Mmmm"

"You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The one you always have when you've had some sort of sexy experience."

"Your imagination, Colin."

"What about those two? They look pretty rough."

"Those are the two guys that did it. Jason Phelps and his mate, Kevin.
Funny I can remember their names but I can't even remember the name of the
kid who was killed."

"I don't remember hearing anything about the case.  Surely it must have
been in the papers."

"Oh yes, Big news. But it happened before you got here from New Zealand.
Before we met at University."

"Who's the hottie next to you?"

"That was my best friend at the time."

"I bet you had him, anyway."

"No."

"No?"

"That was before I realised I was gay - all thanks to you, Colin."

"I love you, Craig."