Chapter 30
Anthony Marshall really, really needed to use the bathroom.
Ordinarily, that wouldn’t have been a problem.
Each of the dorms—which were all named after Maine notables, Anthony’s being John Ford—had a bathroom at one end, with a trough urinal and three stalls, but the ones in the main building were out of action because of a leak in the pipes, so the water had been shut off and the doors locked.
It wouldn’t have been such a big deal if Anthony only had to pee, because that was one of the reasons the Lord created empty soda bottles and plastic chamber pots, but unfortunately the chili from dinner was disagreeing with Anthony in a serious way, and no bottle or pot was going to be up to the task, not at all.
But Anthony hadn’t yet reached the stage of outright despair when it came to the bullying.
Right now, all he wanted to do was empty his bowels, but that would mean leaving the dorm, going down the stairs, and crossing the campus to the gym, where bathrooms had been designated for day and night use pending the repairs.
A door was left unlocked so students could enter and leave, and they were required to sign a sheet if they used the restroom after lights out to encourage them not to make a mess, or clean up after themselves if they did.
Anthony’s bed was by a window that looked out on the green space between the dorm blocks and the main school building, with the pathway illuminated by four weak, solar-powered lamps.
When he realized what he had to do would require leaving the safety of the dorm, he spent a good two minutes staring through the glass at the path, and more particularly, the blackness to either side.
Having determined that the way was clear, he was about to kick back his sheet and slide into his Spero-issue Crocs when one of the lights appeared to flicker.
Had he not been looking directly at it, Anthony might have mistaken this for a fault, or the waning of the battery.
But the light hadn’t just flickered—it had been blocked.
Then the obstruction moved on, or might not have been there at all were a person disposed to call themselves delusional, though Anthony Marshall was not so disposed.
He’d glimpsed a similar shape before, and he knew that at least three other students had too, but nobody wanted to say anything to the staff because it wasn’t unknown for boys to be outside after dark, even if it was a serious breach of school rules, with penalties to match if they were caught.
The likelihood of being spotted was greater since Scott Theriault’s death, when motion-activated cameras were installed at the gates, the cabins, and over by the main school building, a textbook example of barring the stable door after the horse had not only bolted but also broken a leg and drowned.
On the other hand, Jamie Hanscomb, whose dad worked in security, claimed the cameras were just for show and the school’s internet was too primitive to support that kind of system.
So Anthony regarded the dark, and waited.
When the subject of someone moving about out at night was first raised among the students, no one would admit to being involved.
This kind of evasion wasn’t without precedent.
Also during COVID, two boys were expelled for what Mr Santopietro later described as “succumbing to unnatural urges,” being queer for another boy rating one step below murdering a teacher on Spero’s scale of wrongdoing.
“What if it’s one of the local kids trying to break in?”
This from Kaspar Filipowski, who was the second youngest of the boys at thirteen, and might have been even more scared of the world than Anthony.
Kaspar wouldn’t reveal why his parents had sent him to the Spero.
Most of the other kids came up with some reason, even if it was just a shrug followed by “I hated my school,” “I didn’t get along with my mom’s new husband/father’s new wife/family’s new dog,” or whatever, but Kaspar gave them nothing.
“There are no local kids,” said Jamie Hanscomb, “or none that give a rat’s ass about us.”
Which was true. You could currently count the number of non-Spero kids in The Plains on one hand. Everyone else, as far as the students could tell, was old, weird, or dead.
“It could be a ghost,” said Troy Cafferty, but he sniggered as he said it.
Troy was one of those who had set out to make Anthony’s life as miserable as possible, but he was an instrument rather than the instigator.
The real malevolence at Spero took the form of the boy who spoke next: Leonard Levesque, sixteen years old, with the face of a baby, the body of a mature man, and a quick mind that, were it not so damaged, might have destined him for a distinguished adulthood.
Leonard was so good with numbers that Mr Santopietro, who also taught math and science, now left him to his own devices during class, supplying him with workbooks that were checked as they were returned, all at Leonard’s pace, which varied according to his mood.
As for the rest of the curriculum, Leonard largely declined to participate, but he knew a lot about history, geography, and even literature, and if asked a direct question, he could usually answer it.
But the teachers rarely so inquired, preferring to leave Leonard undisturbed.
The shadow side of him was a morass of random acts of violence, destruction, and sadism, as well as an inability to view even the most modest exercise of adult authority as anything other than a personal affront.
Since his features naturally assumed an expression of placidity, even when he was roiling beneath, gauging whether it was appropriate to involve him in lessons was a hard task, so it was deemed wiser to let Leonard decide for himself.
Oddly, despite his volatility, Leonard and Mr Santopietro had reached an understanding, one that extended to the rest of the staff.
This understanding could be summarized as: The dorms are your fiefdom and the students your subjects.
Don’t leave bruises and don’t break bones.
If you cross us, you’ll suffer the consequences. The rest is up to you.
Now, in the recreation room, Leonard Levesque uncoiled from a chair and blinked once, slowly, at Troy Cafferty, who stopped giggling.
“If it’s a ghost,” said Leonard, “whose ghost might it be?”
“Stewie Daigle,” suggested Austin Bernier. Stewie Daigle was the boy who’d killed himself during COVID.
Leonard blinked again.
“Any other bidders?” he said.
Nobody spoke. Leonard’s gaze flicked to Anthony Marshall.
“What about you, piss boy?”
Anthony shook his head.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, Leonard, the cat hasn’t got my tongue,” said Anthony. “We don’t have a cat.”
Anthony didn’t know where that one had come from.
For a mad moment, he was usurped from his own body, his dominion contested by some rogue self.
Unfortunately, he was back inside his body when Leonard Levesque’s right hand slapped him so hard across the side of the head that his vision blurred.
The second blow knocked him to the floor, so he was on his back when Leonard placed a foot on his balls and applied unwelcome pressure.
“You talk back to me like that again,” said Leonard, “and I’ll rip your tongue out and make you swallow it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Leonard,” said Anthony, and the weight on his groin eased. He stayed where he was for a few seconds, in case Leonard was tempted to hurt him again should he move. Only when Leonard turned his back did Anthony get to his feet. He was doing his best not to cry, but his eyes were prickling.
“There are no ghosts,” said Leonard. “Not here, not anywhere. Either you’re hallucinating like overexcited little girls, getting each other all worked up over nothing, or we have a liar in our midst. No one is going to drive all the way out here just to run around the grounds at night, so if someone is playing tricks, it’s one of you. And you’d better cut it out, y’hear?”
Mute nods, followed by a silent dispersal.
Anthony risked a peek, only to catch Leonard staring back at him, those infant features marred by confusion.
Whichever of the boys he might have expected to smart-talk him, it wasn’t Anthony Marshall, the little bedwetter.
This meant Leonard had misjudged him, and action would have to be taken to maintain the status quo.
Leonard Levesque would brook no dissent.
All this and more was communicated between the two boys in that look: Anthony, though he could not have said how, spotted that Leonard was worried.
He wondered if Leonard, too, might have seen a boy at night but was reluctant to admit it.
That little piece of theater, concluding with the naming of Stewie Daigle, was a distraction, or a test, because Leonard had relaxed slightly after Daigle’s name was mentioned.
What Leonard might have feared to hear spoken was a different name, one Anthony had been tempted to utter before discretion overcame valor, only itself to be overturned by a foolhardy impulse to get in Leonard’s face.
You were afraid someone would name Scott Theriault. What did you do to him, Leonard? What did you do?