Garden of Evil Read Free Page B

didn’t really mean that kind of spiritual guidance. I meant, do you ever give your class the benefit of your . . .’ He paused, his right hand circling around and around, as if he couldn’t quite find the word for it.
    Jim waited patiently, but eventually he said, ‘Yes? The benefit of my what?’
    â€˜I’m sorry, sir. I should be going, shouldn’t I?’
    â€˜No, come on, Simon. The benefit of my
what
?’
    Simon Silence looked at him. The last of the smog was clearing away and the sun suddenly shone on him through the faculty room window. It lit up his face so brightly that he appeared to have hardly any features at all. His eyes were very pale blue and his eyebrows were blond. He could have been a watercolor painting that somebody had tipped their paint water over, so that all the colors had washed away.
    â€˜My father says that we all have a gift, sir, every one of us. It is how we use our gifts that makes all the difference. I know
you
have a gift, Mr Rook. You have a rare and wonderful gift. That is why my father sent me here. I was simply asking how freely you share it with your students.’
    Detective Brennan laid his hand on Simon Silence’s shoulder. ‘Come on, kid. That’s enough.
Vamos.
Come back tomorrow.’
    Simon Silence stayed in the doorway for a while, still staring at Jim with those pale blue eyes, as if he were prepared to wait for an answer for as long as it took. The smog momentarily drifted across the sun again, and as the room darkened his features became more definite. At the same time they appeared subtly to alter, so that instead of looking innocent he appeared strangely
knowing.
    â€˜There’s just one more thing,’ he said, lifting the white canvas sack off his shoulder, loosening its drawstring, and starting to rummage around in it.
    â€˜You really should go home, Simon,’ Jim told him. ‘Whatever it is, it can wait till tomorrow.’
    Detective Brennan began to close the door. But before he could do so, Simon Silence took his hand out of his sack and held out a shiny pink-and-green apple.
    â€˜This is for you, sir,’ he said. ‘We have an orchard near Bakersfield, and we grow our own.’
    â€˜An apple for the teacher?’ said Jim. ‘This isn’t grade school, you know.’
    â€˜My father says that if somebody gives you a gift, you should always give them something in return. This is
my
gift, as a thank you for
your
gift.’
    Jim took the apple and sniffed it. It smelled very sweet and aromatic, but it had a sourness to it, too – almost like a tamarind, more than an apple.
    â€˜It is a variety called Paradise,’ said Simon Silence. ‘We are the only orchard in the region to grow it. We bus down-and-outs and homeless people up to our orchard to pick them, and we allow them to eat as many as they like. Then we distribute them free to anybody who comes to our church to pray.’
    â€˜OK, then thanks,’ Jim told him. ‘Maybe I’ll see you in the morning.’
    Simon Silence gave Jim another faint smile, and then he turned around and walked away, his sandals slapping on the floor.
    â€˜Don’t envy you, teaching that fruitcake,’ said Detective Brennan, closing the door.
    Jim said nothing, repeatedly tossing up the apple that Simon Silence had given him, and catching it again. For several reasons, the boy had unsettled him. He was completely unlike most of the students that he had to teach in Special Class Two. He had seemed shrewd, and self-confident, and although he had a strong Southern accent he had spoken grammatically and without any slang whatsoever.
    What had disturbed Jim was the way that he had wanted to talk about his gift. If he hadn’t mentioned ‘spiritual guidance’, Jim might have thought that he was referring to nothing more than his talent for teaching semi-literate slackers to compose a sentence that almost made some kind