Ralph Aged 40…

When I reprimanded my students in Ghana for writing lacklustre sequels to 'Lord of the Flies', a girl challenged me to do better, so I wrote this.

Ralph Aged 40…

 

“Good afternoon, Mr Townsend. Take a seat. How are you today? How have you been sleeping since our last meeting? Have the nightmares abated?”

Ralph Townsend sank his tired body into the armchair indicated and wondered whether his psychiatrist were blind. Couldn’t he see the bags of umpteen sleepless nights under his eyes? Couldn’t he read the anguish of nightmare after nightmare etched in the lines on his face?

“I’m no better, no worse,” Ralph replied. “Every time I shut my eyes, the dream comes. It’s killing me.”

“The same dream? The one with the pig’s head, the boys called Simon, Piggy, Jack and Roger and your own head on a sharpened stick?”

“Yes, yes. We’ve been through this many times, Doctor Freeman. You know my story. I’ve listened to your arguments about how wrong I am to blame myself for the boys’ deaths; I’ve read that book you gave me about conquering guilt; I’ve followed your advice about getting out and meeting people; I do volunteer work at the mentally handicapped hospital; I exhaust myself running each evening; I’ve listened to all that soothing classical music. I’ve tried every strategy that you’ve recommended, but I’m still as depressed as hell and I can’t sleep. As soon as I doze off, the pictures come back, and I wake up in a frenzy.”

The psychiatrist studied his patient. 40 years old, twice divorced, highly intelligent, a civil servant with an excellent career ahead of him and a suicide attempt behind him. This was proving a tricky case. Depression, attempted suicide and recurring nightmares triggered by feelings of guilt were not uncommon. Usually, a combination of sound advice, good companionship, community service and physical exercise would cure the sufferer, or at least, reduce the suffering, but, alas, not in the case of Mr Townsend. How then to proceed?

“Mr Townsend, so far we’ve tried sweet reasoning and indirect methods to drive out your feelings of guilt. Now we have no alternative but to grab the bull by the horns.”     

“What do you mean?”

The psychiatrist stood up, walked over to the window and gazed out. It was a ground floor window, and, through the net curtains, the London traffic could be seen passing up and down the busy little street. All noise, though, was excluded thanks to the triple glazing. Since the end of World War Three, twenty-four years ago, London had rebuilt herself and recaptured some of her former glory. The psychiatrist was formulating in his mind the best words to use in proposing the only strategy now left.

“Mr Townsend, the source of your…er…trouble seems to be that boy Jack Merridew. If he hadn’t been on the island, you and the others would have lived in harmony and been rescued. Roger is unimportant: without Jack to protect and encourage him, he would have been quite harmless. Since everything we have tried so far has failed, I suggest that now we must go to the very heart of the problem. We must find the source.”   

“You mean…find Jack Merridew? How would that help?”

“Mr Townsend, it is possible that it wouldn’t help at all. However, assuming Jack Merridew is still alive, if he shows remorse and takes some responsibility for the deaths of Piggy and Simon, the burden of guilt may well be lifted from your mind, and you should be able to resume a normal life.”

 

Finding people called Jack Merridew was not difficult. A brief internet search yielded three likely candidates, of whom the likeliest was the following: Jack Merridew, aged 40, graduate of Oxford University, Headmaster of Stoneham Preparatory Boarding School for Boys in Reading, not far from London. The school catered for 220 boys aged between 7 and 11. The age was right, and Jack’s upper-crust school background would have qualified him for such a position. Whether the Headmaster was the Jack Merridew remained to be seen.

 

Ralph took the day off from work and travelled by train to Reading.

Entering the main gate of Stoneham School, he was immediately struck by the cowed demeanour of the students. It was obviously lunchtime, but instead of running around and having fun, the boys were walking heads down, in virtual silence, as if at a funeral. They wore caps and short trousers and socks pulled up to the knee. This seemed bizarrely old-fashioned to Ralph; in twenty-first century England, schoolboys were allowed to dress much as they pleased. Not here, though, apparently.   

A notice caught Ralph’s eye. Pinned to a board was a list of playground rules. It read:

 

1. All boys must walk slowly at all times. Any boy caught running will be punished.
2. During break times there will be no loud noise. If you wish to talk, do so in a whisper. Any boy caught making excessive noise will be punished.
3. When you see the Headmaster or Deputy Headmaster outside class, you must be silent, doff your cap and bow respectfully. Any boy failing to do so will be punished.
4. Eating and drinking are confined to the dining hall at official meal times. No food or drink may be consumed at any other time.
5. Detention for offenders will be held in the gymnasium every day after lessons from 4pm until 6pm. The Deputy Headmaster will supervise.

 

Ralph approached a small boy.

“Excuse me,” he said, “where can I find Mr Merridew, the Headmaster?”

The boy seemed to shudder and then, without raising his eyes from the ground,

whispered:

“His office is at the end of the corridor straight ahead, sir. His secretary is next door.”

“Excuse me for asking,” continued Ralph, “but are you happy here? And what sort of a fellow is the Headmaster?”

The little boy finally raised his eyes to meet Ralph’s, smiled " more of a deathly grin than a smile " and said:

“Oh, yes, sir, I’m very happy. All the boys here are happy. I respect and admire the Headmaster.” And still wearing his fake smile, the little boy moved off.

Ralph knocked on the door which said ‘Headmaster’s Secretary’ and was greeted by a man who looked at least 70 years old. Usually Headmasters’ secretaries are female and either young or middle-aged.

“You wish to see Mr Merridew? Do you have an appointment?”

“Actually, no I don’t. You see we are old friends, and I wanted to surprise him.”

“Right then. Your name, sir?”

“Ralph. Tell Mr Merridew that Ralph is here. Don’t bother about the surname.”       

“Right, sir. Please take a seat and just wait a moment.”

Ralph was sweating freely. On this meeting depended his future well-being, his very sanity. Probably Jack Merridew had matured into a respectable member of society, strict and old-fashioned maybe but decent enough to have risen to the top of his profession. When reminded about events on that island, he would express profound regret and take responsibility for the way things had turned out. Ralph would go home, his conscience clearer, his heart lighter. Or so he hoped.

“This way, sir. Mr Merridew is ready for you.”

The Headmaster was sitting behind a huge desk writing something. The face was not completely visible, but the shock of vivid red hair told Ralph that this was indeed the Jack Merridew.      

Laying his pen down, Merridew looked up for the first time and coldly assessed his visitor. Ralph stood there uneasily, waiting for some greeting, some words, but none came. The face that now searched his was bony and cruel, the face of one born to rule, of one accustomed to obedience. Merridew continued his appraisal, as if he were inspecting a new item of furniture.

“So, Ralph. What brings you here?”

“I just wanted to talk about the past. I dream of that island every night…”

“Dream?” Jack interrupted. “I dream about it too.”

“You do? So you are suffering like me?”

Jack laughed scornfully.

“Suffering? My dreams are delicious dreams. Delicious. Oh, the power and freedom I had in those days!”

“But don’t you realise you were responsible for the deaths of Simon and Piggy? And you would have put my head on a stick if it hadn’t been for the Royal Navy. Without you, we would have been one big happy family on that island. Haven’t you grown up since? Have you no remorse? Don’t you see what havoc you caused? Because of you I’ve had two failed marriages and nearly killed myself…”

“By overdosing on sleeping tablets in October 2020, leading to your first divorce in January 2021...”

“My god, how did you know that?”

“And to your second divorce in May of last year. Your wife, Deborah, could not stand the panic attacks and the screaming in bed. So you sought psychiatric help. You visited the surgery of David Freeman, a leading practitioner. Oh, yes, Ralph, I know all about you. Your sad little life fascinates me.”

Ralph stared in horror at the figure behind the desk. He was bemused, lost for words. His gaze wandered to the wall behind Merridew’s head where a glass case housed something that looked like…But it couldn’t be…Surely Merridew wouldn’t have…

Ralph walked up to the case. There was no doubt: inside were the spectacles that Piggy had worn until the night they were stolen from him. What sort of a sick mind would have kept them all these years? Not only kept them but glorified them like a tiger’s head or some other hunting trophy.

“How did scum like you end up in charge of children? You are insane! You should be locked up!” Ralph was furious and shouting now.

“Locked up? For what? It wasn’t just me that killed Simon. What about you? Remember? Surely you haven’t forgotten what you did that night? And it was Roger that killed Piggy, not me.” Merridew sat grinning in his chair, plainly enjoying himself. Ralph renewed his assault.

“Without your malign influence, Simon and Piggy would still be alive. You were the driving force behind all the evil on that island. And now you are in charge of a school! By the looks on the boys’ faces, you are running this school like you ran that island. You are a sadistic monster!” Ralph was by now almost speechless with rage.

“Yes, Ralph, I enjoy the spectacle of other people suffering. I admit that I have sadistic tendencies. And what better place than a school for a sadist to practise his art? All those little boys too scared to tell their parents how the nasty Headmaster gets his kicks. I like the littluns best. Provided I am careful, Ralph, I can continue like this for years to come. This is my new island. And now I would like to introduce you to my Deputy Headmaster.”

Merridew made a short phone call, then sat back casually, fixing his gaze the whole time on Ralph’s tortured face.

The door opened and a tall figure entered.

As soon as Ralph saw those deep-set icy blue eyes he knew who it was.

“Ralph, permit me to introduce Mr Turner, the Deputy Headmaster. You may not recognise the surname, but I am certain the first name will be familiar to you. Roger, meet Ralph Townsend. He’s come to talk about old times.”

Ralph turned his back on the pair of them and fled from the room, down the corridor, through the gate, into the road.

Two sick perverts were running the school, abusing their positions of power, wallowing in nostalgia for the evil past. All hope had gone now. Ralph would live till the end of his days racked by guilt for what had happened on that island twenty-eight years ago. Why had Piggy, and not he, died? Piggy, the brainbox, the upholder of civilized values, in so many ways Ralph’s superior. And perhaps Merridew was right: was not he, Ralph, as guilty as anyone of the murder of Simon?   

He realised that only one possible road lay open to him now. A lifetime of regrets, of nightmares and of failed relationships would be his, unless he completed now what he had failed to complete in 2020. Ralph headed homewards, all passion spent, serene in the knowledge that, in just a few hours’ time, he would be enjoying a very long and very deep slumber.

 

Kevin Mulqueen 28/29 March 2008  

 

(2050 words)