The School of Night: A Novel Read online

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraphs

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part Two

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part Three

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part Four

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Also by Alan Wall

  Copyright

  To Monsignor George Tancred

  lifter of burdens

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the following for their help:

  Bob Bass, Elizabeth Cook, David Elliott, Marius Kociejowski, Anita Money, W.S. Milne and Bernard Sharratt.

  Thanks to Ann Denham for everything.

  Philip Byrne was, as always, invaluable for his detailed critique, and for his friendship through difficult times.

  Anthony Rudolf kindly shared with me his insider knowledge and much else besides.

  Ray Leach restored first my house and then my good humour.

  David Rees employed his bibliographic know-how on my behalf.

  Thanks to Mike Goldmark and Fiona for their heartening response, and for the hospitality at Uppingham.

  I am grateful, as ever, to the staff of the London Library for their assistance.

  I would like to thank Eileen Gunn and the Royal Literary Fund for their generous support.

  Lastly, but a long way from least, my agent Gill Coleridge and my publisher Geoff Mulligan supplied more active solidarity over the last year than any reasonable writer could normally hope for. The final shape of this book owes much to both of them. Not forgetting Lucy Luck and her mighty labours on my behalf.

  Blessings on all their heads.

  The oddest thing about the School of Night is the irresolvable effect it produces in regard to memory and analysis, one not dissimilar to that of the synoptic gospels, and which might be described thus: how something so luminous in its brilliance, its sheer intensity of life, is in all crucial respects neither provable nor disprovable, but must remain a matter as much for faith as science.

  THOMAS BRIDEWELL, Ralegh’s Secret Circle (1926)

  The hue of dungeons, and the School of Night

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Love’s Labour’s Lost

  Part One

  Come to this house of mourning, serve the Night

  GEORGE CHAPMAN, The Shadow of Night

  1

  Five days ago I stole the Hariot Notebooks. From the university library where they had been put on display. Two buckram-covered volumes, only recently discovered, in an archive not long before acquired. Thomas Hariot was the scientist of genius who spent much of his life providing Walter Ralegh with intellectual companionship in the Tower of London, but because he does not currently have the fame he deserves there wasn’t much security in the room, merely one of those wooden cabinets with a slanted glass top and a Victorian lock, which was more decorative than it was secure.

  I’d come to see the notebooks the week before. I knew Hariot’s script well enough to be able to transcribe what was written on the four pages displayed, though the enciphered passages were as unintelligible to me then as they were to everyone else. Only once I’d arrived home and spent a day going through the transcription with my code books did I realise what I was looking at. Even then, it wasn’t until I’d returned from my last trip to see Daniel Pagett that I sat down and, for the first time in my life, planned a crime. What I had deciphered, you see, in amongst the cryptic stresses and inversions, the algebraic signs and equations, was a single phrase, ‘the School of Night’. I didn’t really need to look since I knew the passage more or less by heart, but still I took down my old copy of Thomas Bridewell from the shelf and flicked through its chapters until I came to the paragraph I had marked twenty years before:

  We have only ever located one reference to the School of Night, and that is in Shakespeare’s play, Love’s Labour’s Lost. The discovery of another, which might confirm the speculations constituting this little book, would be something of an event in the world of literary and historical scholarship.

  I still find myself asking one question: would I have found the courage to carry out the crime I’d planned if Dan hadn’t tempted and taunted me in? The following morning I went out and bought the heavy screwdriver. (But it was always my father who did all the stealing in our family, so why did I do it? What pushed me over to the wrong side of the law, after a whole lifetime spent so timidly obeying it?)

  Five days ago I stole the Hariot Notebooks; the evening before, Daniel Pagett had died. Daniel, who was not my brother, and yet was the nearest thing to a brother I have ever had. Did his death unhinge me? I don’t feel unhinged. If anything, my mind for this last week has brightened with unexpected clarity. My thoughts have grown sudden – electric eels signing their gloomy element with rapid and sinuous traces. The blackness in my heart, that fetid ditch of sorrow and suspicion, is now being burnt away. I think I might be seeing the light at last, though it’s certainly taken long enough. I’ve spent most of my life in the shadows; that’s where I’d chosen to live.

  * * *

  Dan’s final words are buzzing still in my head. I am now a criminal. The present has not yet noticed, though the past is in a mighty uproar: one of its beloved crew has been rescued at last from the salt of oblivion, from four centuries of incomprehension and obscurity. The testimony of Thomas Hariot is now being resurrected through a loving act of theft.

  I don’t often smile these days, but I can’t help smiling briefly at my location. Here I am in a tower, looking down on moving water. I can’t see it, of course, in the anthracite darkness out there, but I can hear it. The sea is a medley of turmoil and patience, washing away mountains, swallowing its guests in fluent mouthfuls. I am here because later today, once the dark makes way for dawn, Daniel Pagett will be taken from this place to a furnace and burnt. Daniel Pagett, my friend Dan. Only at night are heavenly bodies at their brightest, even as they fall. That was the wisdom of the School of Night.

  How I wish I could start at the beginning, then I might write a book as memorable as Dan’s life. But I can’t start at the beginning because I don’t know where it is. Anyway, if twenty years spent editing news for the BBC taught me anything, it is that the beginning of any story is simply wherever you start to tell it. And the end comes (or could you still be listening, Dan?) when you run out of breath. So I think of this, which is, I suppose, a kind of beginning. Two boys,
both twelve years old. An asphalt playground, severely slanted because the school is built on a steep hill outside town. The boys know little of each other except names. Their homes are in the same town, but one of them (Sean Tallow, me) lives with his grandparents on a council estate, and the other (Daniel Pagett) lives with his mother and father in a detached millstone-grit house on the other side of town. This is in the north of England where Dan’s father owns a chain of grocery stores called Pagett’s General, thereby indicating a precise economic and social gap that could be measured in inches with a pair of steel callipers; reason enough in itself for the pair of us to keep our distance.

  On this particular day my constant tormentor, Mark Scully, has decided to make a feast of my fear. Not content with the usual kick in the shins and slap round the back of the head, his persecution is growing noisy and a crowd is gathering. He jabs sharply with his right fist into my mouth and then follows with a straight hard punch. As that one lands, the bone tenting the flesh of my nose thrills with electricity; tears scald my eyes. The boys are shouting, ‘Hit him, Tallow, hit him.’ I don’t, though. I could never bring myself to hit anybody, one of the reasons I’d become such a focus of attention in the first place. Scully is growing enthusiastic for his work now and a grin fills his over-large face as he moves in for the finale. He taunts over and over again. ‘Tallow’s dad’s a tealeaf, Tallow’s dad’s a tealeaf.’ He stinks of victory, and I am merely praying that this humiliation might be over and done with quickly when something unexpected happens. A figure muscles through the swaying ring of spectators – Daniel Pagett. He pushes me away, squares up to Scully and belts him hard in the gut. Astonished, Scully buckles and as he comes back up for air, Daniel hits him in the face, first with one fist then the other. Thud thud thud as Scully lets out a whimper, a cry for mercy, but by now the little crowd has sensed the fall of a playground tyrant and they start spitting at him as he reels and stumbles. Daniel lands a couple more blows, then leaves it to the other boys to spit, copiously and accurately, until Mark Scully is covered from head to foot in great gobbings of phlegm and saliva. A whistle blows, everyone runs except for Scully, bent over in the corner by the railings, howling in the invisible tunnel of his grief now that the end of his reign has at last arrived. His fingers are frantically raking through the gluey substance his clothes are smeared with as the teacher walks quickly towards him, but the rest of the boys have already scattered.

  And that evening, when I mounted the school bus and saw the vacant seat next to Daniel Pagett, I went and sat down. Not a word passed between us all the way into town, but before he stood up to get off at his stop in the centre, Daniel breathed on the windowpane and wrote a single word. It was already fading, leaving only ICKEN but I didn’t have much doubt that the vanished first letters had had been a C and an H.

  That was how we met nearly thirty years ago. I looked courage in the face and realised it had a name. Now it is about to become no more than memory and ashes, buried in a little graveyard by the sea, leaving me here inscribing that name painstakingly on the glass, then watching it fade as the mist of my breath disappears. Daniel. Daniel Pagett. Dear dead Dan.

  2

  Maggots are clean as cats, but they do sweat. Any place that contained them was soon pervaded by a lingering and slightly suffocating smell, as though the air itself were being subtly eaten away.

  They were kept in big green plastic tubs and they squirmed and wriggled over each other like dwarf anaemic worms. When they split open, what came out was acrid milk. We would hand over our cloth bags to the owner of the fishing shop, who scraped up our sixpenny portions in a silver scoop.

  In my memory Daniel Pagett and I are still sitting at the side of a canal waiting for the rain to pour out of a blackening sky, our luminous floats upright in the dead, unmoving water. From time to time we reel in, rip the drowned maggot off the hook and carefully attach a new one, the juiciest we can locate. We thread the hook’s point between the tiny beige freckles of those embryo eyes, as the maggot wriggles between thumb and forefinger. There is a creamy spurt as the barb cuts through, then our lines are flicked smartly back over the water. And we wait.

  The symmetrical windows of warehouses and mills stare down at us and now and then a narrow boat chugs along between the locks, seeming to take an age before it arrives, its vivid paintwork freakish against black water and black stone. Occasionally there might even be the wet flapping miracle of a fish, a roach perhaps or a perch with its poisonous dorsal. You had to press it down flat like a fan so it couldn’t sting you. But not the pike we always talked about; that was to remain only a gleam of menace in our darker thoughts. Then back home again on the top deck of the bus, with a stale sensation in my mouth of smoke and sour metal, a taste like the word futility on my tongue. Did Dan feel that way too? Was that why he always said, ‘A maggot’s life, Sean, is it really worth it?’ I surface from the memorial contamination of these murky trawls and wish I could ask him. I think I might have left it too late. Before many hours have passed I’ll watch his coffin rolling slowly through the curtains in the crematorium chapel. I could ask his wife, I suppose, but she is in another room below me, sleeping.

  Daniel Pagett, whose dying wish was to bequeath me that portion of his life he couldn’t stay around to finish for himself. Shall his gift be a curse or a blessing? Only by following the thread of the days that lie ahead will I ever get to the heart of the matter and find out.

  * * *

  It is December and the weather is dirty. I stare at the notebooks lying open before me. I have already decoded most of their names, the members of the School of Night: Christopher Marlowe, Thomas Hariot himself, the Wizard Earl, Thom Nashe, Lord Strange, George Chapman, Matthew Roydon. Every now and then the names of John Dee and Giordano Bruno appear, brilliant reflections that glitter on a shifting surface. And always and everywhere Walter Ralegh, who lived like a star, a light that blazed even in the eyes of those who hated him. These men entrusted to one another thoughts so startling and illegal that each held the life of the others in his hand and on his tongue. A few words in the wrong ear could mean death for any one of them. Another reason for them to congregate only when the lights had gone down. Creatures of darkness, one and all.

  If you could see me out there from the far side of this glass, which nobody can, you wouldn’t notice anything unusual in my appearance. A little over six foot tall, thin, my dirty yellow hair just about neat enough, at least for my occupation. I am obviously not a businessman; I lack any precision of grooming or dress. Even in new clothes, which I very rarely buy, I retain a mildly dishevelled look. But I have acquired a certain appearance of public confidence, however misleading the persona might be. I even have a deep tan, which could make me stand out in these sunless regions. You would certainly not guess from my expressionless face tonight what loathing once filled me at the spectacle of my own body. It was this self-directed disgust, not so uncommon perhaps in adolescent boys, which made me wake every morning and think of Daniel Pagett.

  These days when so many memoirs recount the late discovery of an occulted sexuality, it might be as well to make something plain: I never wanted to have Daniel Pagett, indeed I could not properly have imagined what such a possession might mean. I didn’t want to have Dan, I wanted to be him. I would have preferred to inhabit his body and his mind, and would have been only too happy to relinquish my own in return. But instead I would lie on the sheets in the early morning and look down: the ribs protruded clearly underneath my skin and all I could think of as I stared at myself was the turkey at Christmas being gradually picked clean, a hull’s skeleton emerging slowly through the sand.

  I was taller by a good two inches, but painfully thin, while Dan’s body seemed somehow more serious, solid all the way to the ground and built for business. As the years passed, this contrast grew more pronounced, with me finally breaching six foot, all bony, stooping hesitancy, and Dan there beneath me taut and trim as a sail. I would stand on the sideline, in rese
rve, and watch him slick down towards the goal. Any comparison of bodies led swiftly to despair, so I thought I’d better concentrate instead on the matter of mind.

  Dan had never communicated with me since that day in the playground, not even by writing another message in the mist of his breath on a windowpane. Once, when asked by Crawley which category of man he found most despicable, he had answered without hesitation, ‘The coward’. I watched from the other side of the class as my contemptuous saviour raised hands and answered questions, passed examinations, received the incessant praise of those in authority. Then, ill at ease in any case out on the streets around my home, I took to the library.

  It had risen over the previous year, a great tower of concrete and glass in the city centre, a tribute to the north’s wary respect for learning. Our sons and daughters, it announced in solemn tones, will suffer no impoverishment in matters of the intellect. As for the wariness, that was easily explained, since whenever its sons and daughters started to distinguish themselves in any intellectual field they left town by the next train.

  Here, on the seventh floor, I began to read and discovered, contrary to so many experts I’ve encountered subsequently, that intelligence could be acquired and enlarged; that the innate part was no more than the ghost of a chance with which to get started. As I read books in greater and greater quantities, I felt the minds that fashioned them entering me, bringing new words and sensations, opening up unexpected reaches inside which I’d never imagined possible (I even discovered that the vast territory of nameless dread was not one experienced by me alone). My hand went up in class too, and as I was rewarded with encouraging nods and even an occasional smile from Mr Crawley, I began to answer as often as Dan. An unexpected fluency issued from my mouth; the dead had taken to speaking through me. If that sounds grand, I can’t think of a more mundane way of putting it. I certainly hadn’t spoken that way before and I hadn’t learnt it from anyone at home, so how else can I describe what was going on?