Night Shift(62)

'Got to run,' Simmons said. 'Department heads are meeting on course evaluations. You look a little run-down. Feeling okay?'

That's right, a little run-down. Like Billy Stearns.

'Sure,' he said.

'That's the stuff,' Simmons said, and clapped him on the back.

When he was gone, Jim opened the folder to the picture, wincing in advance, like man about to be hit.

But the face wasn't instantly familiar. Just a kid's face. Maybe he'd seen it before, maybe not. The kid, David Garcia, was a hulking, dark-haired boy with rather negroid lips and dark, slumbering eyes. The yellow sheet said he was also from Milford High and that he had spent two years in Granville Reformatory. Car theft.

Jim closed the folder with hands that trembled slightly.

'Sally?'

She looked up from her ironing. He had been staring at a TV basketball game without really seeing it.

'Nothing,' he said. 'Forgot what I was going to say.'

'Must have been a lie.'

He smiled mechanically and looked at the TV again. It had been on the tip of his tongue to spill everything. But how could he? It was worse than crazy. Where would you start? The dream? The breakdown? The appearance of Robert Lawson?

No. With Wayne - your brother.

But he had never told anyone about that, not even in analysis. His thoughts turned to David Garcia, and the dreamy terror that had washed over him when they had looked at each other in the hall. Of course, he had only looked vaguely familiar in the picture. Pictures don't move or twitch.

Garcia had been standing with Lawson and Chip Osway, and when he looked up and saw Jim Norman, he smiled and

his eyelid began to jitter up and down and voices spoke in Jim's mind with unearthly clarity:

Come on, kid, how much you got? F-four cents.

You f**kin' liar - look, Vinnie, he wet himself'

'Jim? Did you say something?'

'No.' But he wasn't sure if he had or not. He was getting very scared.

One day after school in early February there was a knock on the teachers'-room door, and when Jim opened it, Chip Osway stood there. He looked frightened. Jim was alone; it was ten after four and the last of the teachers had gone home an hour before. He was correcting a batch of American Lit themes.

'Chip?' he said evenly.

Chip shuffled his feet. 'Can I talk to you for a minute, Mr Norman?'

'Sure. But if it's about that test, you're wasting your -'

'It's not about that. Uh, can I smoke in here?'

'Go ahead.'

He lit his cigarette with a hand that trembled slightly. He didn't speak for perhaps as long as a minute. It seemed that he couldn't. His lips twitched, his hands came together, and his eyes slitted, as if some inner self was struggling to find expression.

He suddenly burst out: 'If they do it, I want you to know I wasn't in on it! I don't like those guys! They're creeps!'

'What guys, Chip?'

'Lawson and that Garcia creep.'

'Are they planning to get me?' The old dreamy terror was on him, and he knew the answer.

'I liked them at first,' Chip said. 'We went out and had a few beers. I started bitchin' about you and that test. About how I was gonna get you. But that was just talk! I swear it!'

'What happened?'

'They took me right up on it. Asked what time you left school, what kind of car you drove, all that stuff. I said what have you got against him and Garcia said they knew you a long time ago. . . hey, are you all right?'

'The cigarette,' he said thickly. 'Haven't ever got used to the smoke.'

Chip ground it out. 'I asked them when they knew you and Bob Lawson said I was still pissin' my didies then. But they're seventeen, the same as me.'

'Then what?'

'Well, Garcia leans over the table and says you can't want to get him very bad if you don't even know when he leaves the f**kin' school. What was you gonna do? So I says I was gonna matchstick your tyres and leave you with four flats.' He looked at Jim with pleading eyes. 'I wasn't even gonna do that. I said it because

'You were scared?' Jim asked quietly.

'Yeah, and I'm still scared.'

'What did they think of your idea?'

Chip shuddered. 'Bob Lawson says, is that what you was gonna do, you cheap prick? And I said, tryin' to be tough, what was you gonna do, off him? And Garcia - his eyelids starts to go up and down - he takes something out of his pocket and clicked it open and it's a switchknife. That's when I took off.'

'When was this, Chip?'

'Yesterday. I'm scared to sit with those guys now, Mr Norman.'

'Okay,' Jim said. 'Okay.' He looked down at the papers he had been correcting without seeing them.

'What are you going to do?'

'I don't know,' Jim said. 'I really don't.'

On Monday morning he still didn't know. His first thought had been to tell Sally everything, starting with his brother's murder sixteen years ago. But it was impossible. She would be sympathetic but frightened and unbelieving.

Simmons? Also impossible. Simmons would think he was mad. And maybe he was. A man in a group encounter session he had attended had said having a breakdown was like breaking a vase and then gluing it back together. You could never trust yourself to handle that vase again with any surety. You couldn't put a flower in it because flowers need water and water might dissolve the glue.