Chapter 39
39
VENICE, TWENTY-FIVE YEARS EARLIER
The room was stifling, the dormitory stuffy with the smell of eight boys. Phil wished he could switch on the light and absorb himself in his Harry Potter book but he couldn’t risk disturbing the others.
He swung his legs out of bed, un-balled his abandoned socks, slipped his plastic room key into his pyjama pocket and groped his way across the room. He paused, hand on the doorknob, waiting, his breathing fast. One boy kicked at his bed covers in his sleep; no one woke. Six boys slept on; one other boy-shaped hump was missing. Evan wasn’t there. Had he also gone wandering in the night?
The long, panelled corridor was quiet, lit dimly by wall sconces decorated with scrolls and leaves. Phil made his way towards the staircase at the end, his footfall softened by the patterned runner, as quiet as one of the hooded monks with candles who had walked there centuries before him when the building played host to holy men, not boisterous school groups.
He climbed the stairs. A wooden bench stood midway along the upper corridor. He ran his hand along its sturdy back; even at this hour, he could not pass it without stopping to appreciate the fine carving. He’d never be as talented as the artisans who’d created St Mark’s Basilica but one day, he’d learn to make something like this.
The arched doorway leading to the upper floor’s outside balcony was half-hidden behind a sage-green curtain patterned with fleur-de-lys. Phil prayed the door had been left unlocked so he might spend the hours before breakfast watching the city of Venice as it woke up: the coming of the dawn, the changing colour of the sky, the delivery boats taking goods to businesses around the city, the rubbish barge with its red crane lifting sacks of refuse.
He pushed open the door. A sweet, pungent smell, heavy on the night air, hit him. For a moment, he was catapulted back into the stairwell of his London housing estate. A boy sat on the floor, pyjama bottoms rolled up, bare feet resting on the railings. The glowing tip of a hand-rolled spliff illuminated Evan’s face. Phil’s loud gasp came out before he thought to stifle it.
Evan swung around. ‘Oi, Phil! Where are you going? Come here.’
Phil glanced over his shoulder.
‘Don’t worry, no one comes out here, at least not at three o’clock in the morning. And you haven’t been here either. You’ve not seen anything.’ There was an edge to Evan’s voice.
‘I’m not a snitch.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you are. Probably get you stabbed, where you come from. Sit down. Have a drag.’ He held out the joint.
‘No, I’m all right, thanks.’ Phil leant against the railing. ‘But why?’
‘Why am I taking drugs, risking everything?’ Evan’s voice was sarcastic. He sighed. ‘I dunno. Boredom? Stress?’
‘You?’
‘Yeah, me. Straight-A student, captain of the rugby team, bloody rich family. Sometimes…’
‘What?’
Evan’s face closed up. ‘Nothing. Anyway, it’s not heroin, it’s only a bit of blow; it’s no biggie. Some of my mother’s friends snort coke on their girls’ night out. She says she doesn’t but I reckon she does. My father’s pretty difficult to live with.’
‘Yeah, it’s no biggie.’ It was for Phil. Drugs meant next-door’s baby being taken into care and the guy who sat on a sheet of cardboard in the doorway of Poundland shouting incoherent profanities: everyday tales from the world he and Raj had left behind. Phil wasn’t going to stay out here, risk being caught and going back to that.
‘You sure you don’t want some?’
‘Nah.’ Phil yawned theatrically. ‘I’m off back to bed; think I could sleep after all.’
‘Got an alarm clock?’
‘Why?’
‘Set it early, meet me downstairs at half six. My uncle Seb’s arranged a private visit for me to a workshop where they make the gondoliers’ oars. You like all that old craft stuff, don’t you? I saw you studying those picture frames in the Accademia.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘You’re my friend, aren’t you?’ Evan took one last puff, screwed the butt into the ground and flicked it away. ‘If King picks on you again, I’ll back you up.’
‘I told you, I won’t tell anyone,’ Phil said. ‘But be careful, Evan.’
But Evan hadn’t been careful enough. The moment they returned from the oar maker’s workshop and slipped into the breakfast room, Phil knew something was up. Voices were hushed, faces pale. It didn’t take long to piece the events together: the butt of a joint flicked an inch short of the edge of the balcony, the Latin teacher roused from his bed by a bout of heartburn, opening a window and smelling marijuana drifting down. Whispered voices told Phil the school was taking the matter extremely seriously. If a culprit did not confess, the others must not hesitate to report him anonymously. Someone knew who was breaking the school’s zero-tolerance policy on drugs. The reputation, the very future of Hillingdon was at stake.
* * *
Phil stood at the dorm window. It was less than a week since they’d flown back from Venice; his pale arms still showed a hint of golden brown. Three floors below, Raj dragged his trunk across the courtyard. His father hauled it into the boot of his Corsa. The Burton suit he’d sported so proudly at last summer’s prize-giving looked two sizes too big for him. Raj climbed into the passenger seat.
Evan sidled silently beside him. ‘I really didn’t think he’d be expelled; I thought they’d take him off the cricket team, make him spend Sunday afternoons helping the gardener weed the beds. Look at what happened to Jez.’
‘Raj isn’t Jez,’ Phil said. Raj didn’t have a father who’d paid for the new sports pavilion and who promised that his son would spend the holiday volunteering at a drug-prevention project.
‘I didn’t say it was Raj who did it, Phil, I swear.’
‘I know.’ Phil had seen one of Evan’s best buddies sneaking out of the headmaster’s study, guilt written all over his face. ‘I should have said something. Not to drop you in it, just to tell them it wasn’t him.’
The passenger window rolled up and closed. The car stood idling on the gravel as though the two occupants couldn’t quite believe they had to go.
Maybe it wasn’t too late. Phil bolted for the door. ‘I can’t let him leave like this. Not when I know?—’
Evan made a grab for him. ‘Please don’t say anything, Phil. If you tell them it wasn’t Raj, they won’t let it drop. They might even make us all take a drugs test. I’ll never forget you standing by me, Phil. It means everything to me, you being such a good friend.’
Phil pushed past him, took the stairs two at a time.
Mr King was leaning against the newel post at the bottom. ‘Where are you going in such a hurry, Philip?’
‘Raj… he…’
‘Best let him go. You wouldn’t want to get Evan into trouble now, would you?’
‘Evan? What do you mean?’
Mr King dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I don’t walk around with my eyes shut, Philip. Pretty stupid of Evan, don’t you think? But the school doesn’t want to lose a boy like him. Bad publicity, no good for business. Best for someone like Raj to take the fall, wouldn’t you say? One of your type, no one will miss him.’
‘But…’
‘Imagine how lonely and unpopular you’d be if Evan left. All the boys would blame you. There’d be no one to look out for you.’ Mr King’s hand strayed across Phil’s backside.
Evan was coming down the stairs, his usual swagger gone. ‘Oh, hello, sir.’
‘Hi, Evan! I’ve put you on the team sheet for Saturday against Eton. Maybe you should start coaching Philip. He was just telling me what good friends you are.’
Evan slung an arm over Phil’s shoulder. ‘I’m starving, let’s go to the tuck shop. Fancy some crisps?’
They walked out of the huge double doors and across the quad. The sky was a dull grey. Light rain was starting to fall. The green car had reached the far end of the long drive, two red spots fading into the distance.