Spud by John Van De Ruit

Christmas decorations. The school was in an uproar. Boys were sent home and the school closed for the holidays a week early. Faulkner and the headmaster, Aubrey Thomas, both resigned, although it was claimed that this had nothing to do with the death of Macarthur. The localpaper made a passing reference to a local teacher who had died under suspicious circumstances.
    ‘The thing is,’ said Fatty with a moggy intensity, ‘the thing is… everything’s been hushed up. The archival material, files, police reports and death certificates are all missing. There are huge gaps in the records of the days and weeks that followed. If you look at the archives for any other time, there are almost daily reports, clips, articles and entries – but at the end of 1944 and beginning of ‘45 suddenly there are massive gaps. The school was definitely covering things up!’ Fatty thumped his fists on his locker and glared at us in triumph like he’d just solved the mystery of the JFK assassination.
    He looked at each one of us in turn and then said, ‘Something is wrong, very wrong. There is a mystery behind this that we must unravel. This man Macarthur was hanging from the ceiling for a reason. And nothing will stop me from finding the truth!’ In the candlelight Fatty’s eyes were flashing red, his jaw resolutely fixed. Nobody doubted his belief and commitment.
    A long silence passed with all of us mesmerised by the candles and the story. Simon whistled and Rambo grunted. Mad Dog seemed to be deep in thought (although I’m not sure if that’s possible). Only Boggo remained cynical. With a defiant sniff, he said, ‘So what? The school hushed it up because it would look bad. What’s wrong with that?’
    Now there was a gleam in Fatty’s eye and with the same deep whisper he said, ‘That’s right, Boggo. It would look bad, very bad. But perhaps they hushed it up because of the reasons behind the suicide.’
    After another pause Gecko opened his mouth (quite out of character except when vomiting) and spoke for only the third time in a month. ‘What if it wasn’t suicide? What if he was murdered?’ There was a snort of mocking laughter and Rambo, Simon and Boggo all jeered at him and told him to grow up.
    More stony silence followed until Mad Dog said, ‘He would have needed a ladder or somebody to help him. Or maybe he came in through the roof.’
    ‘No mention of that in the archives,’ said Fatty. ‘In fact there’s nothing in the Guardian newspaper’s archives either. More black holes and missing pages. Either the newspaper didn’t run a story or the records have been hidden.’
    ‘But why would the newspaper cover it up?’ asked Boggo. ‘They love giving the school a good grilling.’
    ‘Because,’ said Fatty, ‘my research into the Guardian newspaper archives has revealed a crucial piece of information.’ He paused and took a huge bite of what looked like sponge cake and then chewed slowly, all the while glancing around the room as if he half expected Macarthur’s ghost to suddenly appear out of the walls.
    ‘Hurry up, Fatso, what’s the beef?’ spat Rambo angrily.
    ‘The beef is,’ said Fatty, spitting a few chunks of sponge cake onto his duvet cover, ‘the beef is that the editor of the Guardian from 1936 to 1952 was none other than Ron Walsh, old boy and, coincidentally, head of the board of governors from 1942 to ‘44!’ I felt myself gasp as the conspiracy became more real in my mind. Was it possible for a bunch of first years to stumble onto something so huge?
    ‘So how do we find out about Macarthur’s suicide then?’ cried Simon with eyes as wide as saucers. ‘Surely there must be a way to solve this thing?’
    Fatty nodded solemnly and promised to keep hunting until he’d solved the mystery. He said he would search the archives of the Durban newspapers over the long weekend and try to snoop around for relatives, friends and other informants. Fatty leaned forward and brought us all to