***
‘Dude, you okay?’
‘Shelly, can you hear me?’
I feel fuzzy.
‘Shelly, can you open your eyes, honey?’
I feel a little bit sick.
‘I feel sick.’ I say.
‘You’re okay Shelly…It’s okay, honey. It’s Mrs Mitchum. You’re in the medical room.’
I slowly open my eyes. I’m on a bed.
‘Where am I?’
There’s a wall to my left and three figures to my right. I turn my head to focus on the voices a little more. I can see Derek, Mrs Mitchum - the school nurse - and a medic in a green uniform.
The man in the green uniform speaks, ‘Shelly just look at me for a second. Can you count how many fingers I’m holding up?’
‘Three…four…one’
‘Good.’ He has a deep voice. He shines a light into my eyes.
‘Shelly, it’s Mrs Mitchum here. Can you remember what happened, Shelly?’
‘I think I got hit on the back of the head.’
‘Thanks Shelly, It looks like you took quite a whack.’
Dezza is looking at me with a face of relief.
‘Was…it…Evelyn?’ I enquire disjointedly.
‘What’s her surname?’ Mrs Mitchum leans forward enquiringly, ‘Whoever it was…I’ll make sure that it’s investigated.’
Mrs Mitchum looks at Dezza who shakes his head.
Derek speaks, ‘I didn’t see, Shell, but she was behind you, whoever it was?’
‘My bag; who has my bag?’
Derek holds it up by its one strap, ‘Don’t worry, Shel'. I’ve got it here.’
I look down at my arm and see that the face on the front of my new watch has been smashed.
I rub my eyes and groan as big hands envelop the back of my head, checking for further damage.
‘Shelly, we’ve tried calling your mum and dad but we can’t get hold of them. Do you have another contact number?’
‘Owwww.’
I feel a sharp pain.
‘No, sorry. I think my mum’s mobile contract has been cut off.’
The medic speaks, ‘Okay, it’s not quite as bad as I thought it was, but you’ll need to stay here until your parents can be contacted and they can come and collect you.’
Dezza adds, ‘It’s just her mom you need to contact.’
‘Shelly, Derek’s offered to stay here with you until we can get hold of her. I’m just in my office next door. I’ll leave the door open, and I’ll be in and out to check on you.’
She turns to the medic, ‘Shannon, do we need to do anything else?’
The man in the green overalls responds immediately. (A man called Shannon. Has the knock affected my hearing?)
‘Yeah, I think her thick hair has absorbed most of the blow, but she’s still been knocked unconscious. Shelly, I’d like to have you checked out at the hospital.’
Standing up, he pats the pockets on his green overall, searching for something.
‘Mrs Mitchum, could you keep an eye on her for a second – I just need to grab something from the ambulance.’
She nods and then informs me that she’ll contact mum from her office, and if she can’t reach her – she’ll call my Aunty.
I nod, and then suddenly remember. I look around frantically.
‘…My bag!’
‘I’ve got it here, Shel’. I already said, mon...’ Derek repeats, shaking his head and holding the bag to me.
‘You’ve taken quite a knock.’
I can see the book jutting out of the top. Mrs Mitchum looks concerned at this lapse in memory as she departs for the door to her office.
I breathe out a long relived sigh.
‘Thanks mate...listen Dez, It’s definitely Evelyn. She was bad-mouthing me and kicking my chair.’
‘Evelyn. Ya reckon?’
‘Yeah, she was right behind me.’
‘Man, I think it was Camille, she’s the blonde one right?’
‘Camille, really?’
‘Yeah, I think so… I don’t know yet which one’s Evelyn.’
‘Jet black hair, face like she’s chewing a wasp.’
Dezza shakes his head slowly.
‘Dat could be any of them.’
I try shaking mine back at him, but it hurts.
‘You’re new here, Dez. I’ll point her out to you sometime.’
‘Well yeah – you’ve mentioned her before. She gives ya hell. It did sound like someone was egging Camille on.’
‘Yeah, Camille is her number one crony.’
‘Geez, that’s the last thing you need....Double-teamin'.’
I can’t help but think that Camille has taken the rap for an Evelyn clout.
‘She was taking the piss out of Buddy and my family this morning as I walked into school.’
‘She’s bang out of order to do dat.’
I stroke my head and contemplate the morning’s events. When I look back up, Doo-lally’s smiling at me.
‘What?’
‘Shelly, I’d love to come over sometime and meet ya brother and your mom an’....’
I drop my gaze towards the bed and circle my hands over the contours of my bag. Derek for all his spaced-out-ness can be very perceptive sometimes.
‘Look, I really would. Don’t be embarrassed. Me not embarrassed about it. Don’t be ashamed of where you live and who you live with, man.’
‘Dezza…I’d love for you to come over. It’s just my other brothers would give you a hard time.’
‘What, cos I is Black? What about Jerry; he’s half and half isn’t he?’
He has an infectious wide smile on his face and his hair looks particularly pointy.
I nod, face still down.
A voice calls from the room next door.
‘Shelly. I’ve got hold of your mum. She’s coming over to the school to pick you up, lovie. She wants to take you to the hospital’
‘Thanks.’
I suddenly feel a pang of pain in my head – this time at the front. I let go of my bag and it falls off the bed as I clasp my face.
‘You okay?’
The sharp pain subsides.
‘Yeah, that cow really whacked me.’
Derek reaches down to get the bag and hands it back. As he hands it back, realisation creeps in suddenly. I take it in both hands and shake it.
‘Oh no.’
‘Wagwan?’
‘The bell!’
‘Eh?’
I shake again: There’s no ringing from my bag. The massive clang, painfully evident when I dropped my bag outside Mr Washwater’s classroom is absent. I examine the front pocket and see that it’s already unzipped. I rummage frantically but I already know that it’s gone.
Derek looks confused.
‘Maybe it dropped out.’
‘No way, she’s got it Dez; she’s lifted it.’
Derek admonishes me with a silent shake of the head as I attempt to get off the bed, the dull pain now cutting through to the front of my forehead again.
‘Stay here, Shel’. I’ll go and tell the Head of Year.’
I hiss: ‘Dezza, she’s too sharp. She’ll have hidden it or passed it on to one of her cronies.’
‘What ya want me to do?’
‘Distract her.’
‘Eh! Distract who?’
I nod in the direction of the nurse’s office. Dezza follows my gaze slowly. It dawns upon him what I have asked him to do and with wide eyes, he jolts back around towards me.
‘Err, no mon.’
I understand his reluctance, but I can’t help but grasp the hope this whole saga has afforded me in such a short space of time. The strange events, the bizarre coincidences – for me anyway - it was meant to be. The bell is important; it has meaning; it has a purpose and I can’t let the single most exciting thing that has ever happened to me slip away before I have even had chance to discover its meaning.
‘The ambulance guy will be back soon, Shel’.’<
br />
‘Derek, I need you here…’
His face changes as he connects with the desperate emotion I’m conveying. He turns back towards Mrs Mitchum’s room. I lean down and grab my bag not really knowing what choices are left, but I know I have to act.
Derek groans, ‘Hold on a second then.’
By the time I have my bag on my back, I can see Derek’s large frame lumbering over to the nurse’s office. He looks gigantic as he stands in the doorway. I hear him muttering something meaningless but distracting, and as hastily as I can - head banging away - I dart past him and into the main hallway. I have no plan. I hope I can avoid the medic too.
There’s nobody around and through the floor to ceiling windows in this section of the school, the clouds in the sky look typically foreboding.
I move over to one of the large panes of glass and press my forehead against it. I feel hot. I rub the back of my head and think.
So, I know that Evelyn and Camille are in French – it’s period four.
I don’t know how, but they’ve somehow grabbed hold of my rucksack and extracted the bell in the commotion. Why the bell, I don’t know?
Spite? Hate?
I consider this for a moment. They’re perfectly acceptable reasons for an ignorant bully. I then remember that my wallet and my mobile phone were in there too – why not pilfer those as well – why not take everything valuable?
I consider this enigma as I roll my forehead across the cold, smooth pane of glass. Something doesn’t add up. I remind myself to be rational. It was properly zipped back in the front pocket.
Who else knew about the bell? Dezza did. It’s possible that he might have taken it - just to say possible. I reject this line of enquiry straight away; he has no reason to lie to me. What about Eren? He helped me re-pack my bag. He definitely saw the bell. Why would he take it? His dad’s the History teacher; maybe he recognised it for being some ancient antique. I give this some consideration, but it just doesn’t make sense: Eren, the artefact-thieving skate-boarder? Truthfully though, I really don’t know him at all, so who’s to say.
Hmmm. Go for the simplest explanation, Shel’, the simplest. Evelyn’s got to have it.
I scan the clock in the hallway. It’s nearly quarter past twelve; fifteen minutes before the end of my French lesson – Evelyn’s too. I walk the deserted corridor in the direction of the Languages department. Eventually, I pass a teacher, Ms Golding, who takes us for drama. My heart beats quickly as I consider an explanation for my wanderings, but she just smiles and walks by; the teachers’ trust me. If Shelly’s in the corridor there must be a good reason. I think about this advantage for a moment as I approach the narrow glass window, set vertically in the front of a green classroom door.
I’ve arrived.
I pin my back into the shadow on the far wall opposite and edge sideways along, to have a look inside the classroom.
I curse as I realise that my rucksack won’t permit me to press as far back as I’d like. I peer in through the door. From this angle, I can see only several rows in, but I can’t see Evelyn or her evil clan. It’s nearly lunch time. I have to act quickly. I’m running out of time. Maybe she’s not even in there. Maybe she’s been transported to the Head of Year’s room for an interrogation.
And what am I to do if she’s still in the classroom anyway; wrestle her bag off her in front of her mates, as she comes charging through the door in search of lunch? My heart pounds savagely - desperate for some inspiration. Should I report that she’s stolen something off me, and when the teachers can’t find it, (or even if they do) have my miserable school life made worse for having reported it?
My options are Zilch.
She may have already had chance to transfer it to a cloakroom or another friend’s bag between lessons, but regardless, I’m going to have to do something, or…do I just do nothing?
Shall I just let it all go? It was a nice little exciting interlude in my life for about twenty minutes; mysterious and thrilling, but like the simplest of half-baked pleasures that I have experienced; just a glimmer of hope – a fleeting moment, never lasting.
I can feel myself resigning to defeat; let it go Shel’, it’s just a bell? It doesn’t matter. It’s vain hope. It’s all been wistful daydreaming. Everything has a rational explanation…It’s just a small, chiming bell.
I glance around exasperatedly, succumbing to my usual defeated state. There’s a large, impenetrable wall between what I know I must do and what I actually will do.
I bow my head. It’s dark in the hallway but it’s even harder to see things through the bitter tears now forming in my eyes. I look up, feeling the anger and self-hatred bubbling inside. Why can’t I just do something; any bloody thing?
And then, I do something…
…that others would say is ‘outside my box.’
It’s the craziest thing.
My right arm raises itself slightly - almost of its own accord - stretches out, extends itself at full length.
My fist clenches and I smash the small red box on the wall next to me.
All hell breaks loose.
I slink further into the shadow, as through the door I watch the pupils begin to clamour, rising to their feet, jostling each other excitedly. The French teacher looks bewildered.
I have just transgressed in a big way.
What the hell have I just done?
One by one, the school alarms trigger their shrill cacophony. I press myself as far back against the wall as I can.
I am a vandal. It doesn’t feel remotely good.
Instead, I feel: Guilt; terror; impending doom and then…guilt again.
The door opens before me as streams of pupils hurry out excitedly. I pray that they don’t see me set far back in the shadowed wall, but their minds are too consumed with thoughts of impending danger for them to bother looking around.
Evelyn Parker extracts herself from the classroom minus her bag. I see most of her cronies follow out behind her. My head is pounding; I’m desperate to rub it, but I don’t move a muscle.
I then realise two fatal flaws in my reckless action: Firstly, the teacher will lock all the bags in the classroom for safe-keeping. Secondly, and much more pressing, I’m very clearly standing amidst pieces of glass. The remnants of the fire alarm are scattered across the floor. They shimmer in the little sun that has managed to permeate this dark corridor.
I keep my eyes on Evelyn as she stops and turns around suddenly – suspiciously.
Somehow, twisted and predictably, she seems to sense something is wrong. She’s the kind of girl who would bang fire-alarms up for free. She, the would-be Hench-Queen of pulling off these kinds of bizarre ploys, just for the hell of it.
I barely move, but I know that she’s wondering if there is a real fire or something slightly coincidental about the timing of this. Her eyes scan the corridor and I wonder if I’ve taken in any oxygen in the last two minutes. Her eyes fall to the glass on the floor. I feel panic rising. I’m acutely aware of the pounding vein in the top of my head. Her eyes rise in my direction just as the last of the pupils file out and Mr Digard, the language teacher, comes to the door.
Suddenly, she turns on her heels and follows the others.
I can’t believe it.
Close-call.
I breathe out, but only a fraction. I know that I’m totally screwed if I can’t get back into the classroom because my French teacher has locked it. My eyes turn to him; he’s still inside.
I will myself to do something as involuntary as the hand-smash that emptied the pupils out of classrooms and out of my way.
Maybe he’ll forget to lock the door; fat-chance.
Mr Digard is prowling around; he has one last glance around the classroom and takes out his key, he then walks steadily towards the door.
Just one step outside, he pauses, and turns his head to watch the progress of his pupils ahead of him. Taking hold of the handle behind him, he pulls it closed, but then
wavers for a moment. Suddenly the door is fully open again and he’s heading back inside. I see him moving towards his teacher-radio on his desk. He picks it up and tucks it into his belt and is about to turn.
Now dammit, now, think of something, Shelly, think of something.
I search my blazer pocket frantically; a penny, a receipt, nothing else. I hold the receipt in my hand. I’ve got nothing of any use.
With his back to me I can see Mr Digard bending over to pick a piece of scrap paper from the floor next to his desk. He scrunches it up, and throws it at the bin; he misses.
I stare at the penny and the receipt. Come on, think.
And then, I roll up my receipt as tightly as I can. I charge towards the door.
The French teacher is sideways on to me as he sweeps down to retrieve the scrap paper – he gets it into the bin on the second attempt. I take the door with one hand and shove the small paper ball I’ve made into the key hole, and press it inside with all my might. I can feel my nails crack and my fingers cut with the force I’m exerting.
He turns; I’m caught.
His radio crackles into life.
‘Erique, you there?’
His eyes shift immediately downwards to his belt as suddenly he sweeps the receiver from his waist - into his hands.
I push myself away and half leap, half fall, back into the shadows.
I thud against the wall and begin to slide down it. My departure from the door leaves it swinging as Mr Digard looks up, the walkie-talkie pressed to his ear. He frowns, but as he comes outside again, he’s trying to answer the radio with one hand while getting the key ready in the other.
He shoves his key into the hole.
To my horror it turns.
He stops to answer his walkie-talkie.
‘Just coming... hold on.’
‘Erique, we think it’s a false alarm; keep an eye out for anyone in the corridors.’
‘Sure will…will do…damn it…’
‘What’s up?’
‘Can’t turn my key. So, it’s not a fire then? Who’s missing? Damn it. Turn..!’
I experience a moment of ambivalence as I see Erique Digard struggle to turn the key one eighty.
The door won’t lock. I sense a real chance to get inside, but, the teachers are on to someone, they just don’t know that it’s me that’s caused this chaos…until they take the registers outside.
Two emotions beat the hell out of one another inside me; one is warm hope in my head and the other is cold fear in my heart. The next line I hear turns everything to icy dread...
‘Leave it, Erique, don’t worry, we need you out here. We’ve got the security cameras trained on that corridor. Leave the door, if anyone’s around we’ll catch them; we’ll catch them anyway.’
I’m in deep, deep trouble – what was I thinking?
I feel my fate being sealed with every passing second.
Another permanent exclusion meeting for the Clovers. The one good apple was in fact just like the others - rotten to the core. I picture my mum weeping - standing in another school back room with more governors as I maintain the family tradition.
I’ve just sealed my own execution. Well done Shelly and…many Happy Returns…
There’s a fizz of static and a pause on Mr Digard’s radio as he gives up trying to lock the door. He closes it and takes out the key. He swivels round looking up and down the corridor. Game over. He brings the walkie-talkie to his mouth like some American cop.
‘John…’ He let’s go of the button. Fizz.
Oh no, he’s talking to my Head of Year, Mr Walker.
He curses.
‘John...I have been helping the premises team! I’ll tell you this; none of these bloody new cameras are working! They’re not connected up.’
‘The pupils don’t know that.’
‘Yeah, but we’re not going to catch who did it, are we?’
‘So, one student gets lucky, but we’ll catch others in future.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Don’t worry then – get yourself outside; we need you pronto. All the kids know we’ve got cameras; just the sight of one is good enough in most peoples’ eyes. Big Brother’s watching, they just don’t know he’s been blind since installation.’
‘Okay. Coming. Over and out.’
Erique Digard charges up the corridor. I feel hope. I won’t be seen.
I won’t be seen I tell myself. I can’t believe it: Game on. He’s barely out of sight and I’m advancing towards the door.
It’s extremely light inside in comparison with the corridor. I’ve got to do this quick and then get back to the register line. I rush to the back of the classroom where I know Evelyn sits. I spot her usual place and spy some bags lying underneath the tables at the back. I don’t know which is which, so I check the school timetables that each pupil keeps in the front pockets of their bags.
The first is Mageritta Houndslow’s. I rummage through. There’s lots of crap in there to sift through and it’s hard to reach to the bottom. I’m wasting valuables minutes and so I cut to the chase. I pick up the bag and shake it.
No ring.
I discard the idea of trying to identify whose bag is whose, and resort to picking up each in turn and shaking them hard.
I shake another one - nothing there.
Likewise; with another.
I’m out of bags on the back row. I look around wildly: Scrabbling back through the last bags, I check the timetables to find the identities of the owners: Arleen Bunty and Kobi McKelly. No bag for Evelyn and no bag for Camille.
I think back. Evelyn definitely left without her bag; Arleen, Kobi and Mageritta were close by her side. Was Camille even in the classroom? Come to think of it, did I see her leave?
I stand there rubbing my brow. This is confusing. Maybe Camille was moved to the front for being a hell-hound to Mr Digard like she’s been in the past. Time’s running out – I have to go.
I survey the orange exercise books lying scattered around and then frantically bomb around each table searching for Evelyn’s book in the hope of finding her bag close by. I do this meticulously and quickly and I make it all the way to the front row.
Nothing.
I stand at the front looking at the back, completely lost. Is this cow so arrogant that she doesn’t even bother bringing her bag to school?
Failure. Time to go.
I scurry out of the French room and up the corridor. Mrs Mitchum will be looking for me, so I can’t just go outside; she’ll be wondering where I am and no doubt will be tearing her hair out at the health and safety implications. I hope that Dezza’s still there.
I dart towards the exit, aware that blood is dripping down my fingers. My nails are blue and throbbing from where I jammed them into the keyhole and my palm is cut from smashing the alarm. I think about what my mother will say when she arrives to pick me up. I turn the corridor and hear two voices – I’m pretty sure one of them is Mrs Mitchum’s.
I crash through the door of the girls’ toilets directly ahead, and lean back against it breathing heavily. Do I wash my hands of the blood? I quickly turn on the cold tap. The water stings as I rub it over my hands as fast as I can. I dry them with a paper towel, scrunching it up and discarding it in a bin. Most of the blood is removed, but fresh blood starts to well up in its place. I then exit the toilet right in front of Mrs Mitchum and Derek.
I pre-empt.
‘Hello Miss. Sorry, I felt sick and rushed to the toilet.’
Mrs Mitchum looks aghast. ‘Shelly...I was worried sick.’
I lie again and it feels uncomfortable.
‘Sorry, I didn’t have time to tell Derek. It came over me all of a sudden and I had to go. I was in the toilet when the alarm went off, but I felt too queasy to move.’
Mrs Mitchum surveys me. I hope that I look bedraggled and stressed enough. Derek’s face displays a mixture of relief and utter bewilderment. Thankfully, the pressure of the last few minutes has clea
rly drained my face white and Mrs Mitchum attempts to start several sentences that express her concern, but she only stutters out single syllables. She finishes with:
‘Alright, Derek thought that you might have gone to the toilet.’
I silently thank him in my mind.
‘Come on, we all need to go. We’ll need to be accounted for. I hope you’re feeling better.’
She adds this in a matronly manner.
That was relatively simple and I smile a weak smile as I fall in line, and we move towards the exit, with grey clouds in the sky and the alarm belting aggressively overhead.
‘Maggie, hold up!’
A voice calls out to our right as we approach the exit that leads out of the old build.
A tall, formidable man, strides forward. He has short brown hair and a dimple on his strong, square chin. He’s Mr Walker, my English Teacher and Head of Year. To his side: Camille Karrington, her bag slung over her shoulder; she’s looking nervous.
‘Hello John.’ Mrs Mitchum replies with a smile. She flashes Camille a dirty look.
‘That’s the one who hit ya.’ Dezza whispers.
‘John, who set the alarm off?’
‘I’ve just been talking to Mr Digard on the radio. Hopefully we’ll catch them.’
The school nurse smiles back at him warmly.
‘How’s the office move coming along?’
She stoops in to whisper, but I still hear over the din.
‘I can’t believe the Head moved in like that without giving you chance to move your things.’
‘Tell me about it.’ His voice is deep.
He’s not a man to mess with. He’s the same height as Mr Jessobs and he doesn’t take any grief off the students.
We join one group and walk outside, away from the noise.
My mind races. So it was Camille. She was the one who hit me. I walk along, head down. She’s slightly ahead of me, stooping like a lickspittle next to Mr Walker.
My Head of Year has hardly ever spoken to me. Apparently, he rings bells on the Island, but I’ve never seen him on our circuit. I sit there shyly in his class. I work hard for him. He gives me good marks. I deliberately keep my head down, intimidated by the tone of his baritone voice, his demanding questioning at the front of the class, and his physical stature. The students grudgingly respect him. We are currently working on a dream diary in his lessons, as part of our creative writing. I complete all his work meticulously. I continue looking to the ground as I walk.
‘Ms Clover. Are you okay?’
He knows my name.
I look up and catch his eyes before I look down nervously. He has one of those authoritative and perceptive faces and he might just know that it was me that set off that fire alarm.
‘I’m okay, thank you.’
I feel so guilty and yet this is my opportunity to say to him that I think that either Camille or Evelyn has taken something that belongs to me. Yet, having performed bravely and heroically for the last twenty minutes – now face-to-face with one of my enemies – I feel like an utter coward.
‘Camille has admitted to smacking you with her bag – that’s quite a nasty bump by the way – and she’ll be dealt with accordingly: An exclusion…’
He darts a ferocious look at her, and on hearing these words, Camille’s blonde head drops slightly. I see malice and anger flash across her eyes, as I see her considering a retort, but it doesn’t come.
Oh my goodness. She’ll be out of school for days! Ample opportunity to hide the bell – if she’s got it that is?
I catch Derek’s gaze and hear him whisper,
‘Tell sir about the bell.’
I look away.
Outside now, the siren-like noise above our heads diminishes substantially, as the alarms stop sounding one by one. Old meets new, as behind us, the towers and turrets of the original school, blend in with more modern, soul-less architecture.
We walk over cobbled paving as I consider my cowardice. We get closer to the lines of students, when the alarms stop sounding altogether. I’m listening to the commotion and excitement of the kids when the following suddenly happens:
Camille Karrington falls flat on her face with Derek sprawled out on top of her.
Mr Walker jerks out of her way as he too nearly topples over.
Derek lets out an apologetic, ‘Whoops’ as he lands on her legs. She lets out a scream. Her bag loops over the top of her head and hits the cobbles hard. There’s a resounding chime from somewhere deep inside.
‘The bell!’
I say it once, and then repeat it louder. I sound like Buddy when he gets fixated on saying something over and over again. I continue to repeat.
‘What the hell is going on?’ Mr Walker takes a resolute step forward and hovers menacingly over Dez.
‘Sorry – sor – so sorry, I tripped. On the cobbles, I tripped. Sorry.’
Derek uses those desperately pleading, dozy eyes, to good effect.
Mrs Mitchum bends down to assist Camille who is close to tears and in obvious discomfort. The ringing in her bag continues. I repeat my phrase over and over until an irate and not remotely convinced Head of Year looks directly at me.
‘What’s that Shelly, what are you saying?’
I immediately get stage-fright and clam up.
Nobody says anything; an awkward pause.
‘Sir, Camille’s stolen my bell.’ Dezza blurts out.
‘Wha-?’
That’s me exclaiming.
‘I found it a few days ago. It makes a coooool sound. I let Shelly borrow it to have a look at, this mornin’ and Camille’s taken it from her bag.’
From me, he looks to Mr Walker with a cursory glance, and for good measure, at Mrs Mitchum too. He rubs his knee vigorously for added effect, as he awaits a response. I can see Camille busting to respond and so I jump in.
‘Sir, Miss; it went missing when I was knocked out.’ I stumble through my words nervously.
‘Derek let me have a look at it cos he knows I ring bells. It’s gold and has small symbols on it; it’s about twelve inches long and it’s narrow. It’s got a particularly loud ring.’
There’s clearly enough honest angst in my pig-like squealing to suggest surprise at hearing the bell in Camille’s bag. What follows leaves me bewildered.
‘It’s mine; she took it from me the thieving bitch! She pinched it from me in registration, or something. I don’t know how she did it sir, but I promise; she’s taken it.’
Mrs Mitchum, from her crouched position, looks back across at me. She looks confused, suckered by Camille’s lie. That girl can lie!
Mr Walker stands tall and impassive.
Derek, who hit on the wonderful but risky idea to floor Camille to make the bell ring out, coughs and then gives his best shot at defending his story.
‘Sir, Shelly’s tellin’ the truth, I gave it to her to look at during registration. She was with me all the time during registration, and then we went to hear The Rev Lulu – whateva’ his name is - give that weird sermon…about pig guts.’
Camille’s eyes are wide as she fires back quickly:
‘She took it from me this morning, either her, or this fat, stupid, retard did it when I went to the toilet. I came back to my bag and it had gone.’
‘I’m not fat.’
Camille sounds far more convincing than Derek. But, she’s a born liar…
I feel my blood boil and something snaps inside me. Before I even know that I am doing it, I’m tearing into her:
‘What the hell are you even talking about...?’
I move forward and bend down before her and...scream into her face, incensed by her lies.
This knocks everybody out of sync.
Mr Walker steps over Camille and sensing the situation, puts his hands on my shoulders. It comes just in time. I try to peer at her round the side of his massive frame.
‘You’ve bullied me ever since I got here. You’ve beat me today. You take the piss ou
t of Buddy, and he’s never hurt a soul and you abuse me every day…EVERYDAY!’
Spit flecks from my mouth.
‘What have I done to you? You make my life here miserable. My life is miserable anyway but you don’t see that, you don’t care. You only care about yourself. You look for excuses to turn the screw so that I don’t even want to exist, and now you’ve taken something that’s not even important to you, when you could have just mugged me for my purse or my “brick” of a mobile phone; my ‘Fisher Price model’ and have done with it, Camille...’
Phlegm and tears stream from my face as I scream my tirade - bottled up for years.
I’ve suppressed for so long, and it suddenly feels like the cork has been released. I can feel myself pressing against Mr Walker with all my might, as I stretch past him to make sure that she feels the full weight of my fury. I simply cannot hold it in, and when I’ve finished unleashing, my whole body is shaking violently.
Camille sits there in stony silence. I see several emotions flash across her face, but I can’t quite discern what they are. She wants to speak, but her mouth keeps dropping open and nothing comes out. She looks increasingly more shocked as if she’s having an epiphany – some kind of revelation. I hope beyond hope that it’s to do with her etiquette around me from now on...
But, then she whispers...
‘You know… don’t you?’
‘Huh! What! What the..?’ is all I can manage, halting the expletive.
Mr Walker is looking me straight in the eyes. He doesn’t say anything but waits until he knows that I am not going to leap on Camille and pound her brains out: He searches my eyes a few moments longer and then speaks:
‘Shelly, you’re bleeding.’
He drops his eyes to my blackening finger nail and cut palm. I swallow hard.
He turns around and sweeps Camille’s bag off the floor. Any remorse that she feels instantly dissipates, as she launches forward from her fallen position at the Head of Year, trying to claw it from him,
‘It’s mine.’
John Walker sidesteps out of the way; even he is surprised at her last ditch attempt. He unzips the pocket on her bag and produces the bell. He rings it. It chimes so loud that he jerks it away from himself. He studies its detail, matching it to my description. He’s shaking his head though. Obviously he’s thinking; what the hell are these three fighting over a bell for?
Camille lies still, mesmerised, but clearly apprehensive.
I wait for someone to speak; Mr Walker studies it with disdain, as it blares out a garish noise. The noise it makes is more like a signal – a call to action. It demands attention.
‘Oranges and Lemons say the bells of St Clements, I owe you five farthings rings the bell of St Martins.’
The words flash across my mind like lightning.
I feel my rucksack vibrating on my back. I know it’s the book; it’s trying to tell me something. Suddenly, it feels like someone has placed twenty kilos over my right shoulder and I yelp in surprise as I only just manage to let it slide on to the ground without slamming it hard on the cobbles.
The rest of the verses keep coming into my mind, faster and faster until:
‘Here comes a candle to light you to bed….Here comes the chopper to chop off your head.’
The bell stops chiming in my Head of Year’s hands.
He looks puzzled.
Mrs Mitchum flashes a wild and concerned look,
‘Is everybody losing their marbles here?’
The towering English teacher stares into space, contemplating what to do. It appears that he isn’t in the least bit convinced by anyone’s story.
‘I think Mr Walker will keep this until, we’ve had a proper investigation….when everybody’s calmed down a bit.’ Mrs Mitchum implores.
He turns his gaze from me to Camille, and then to Dezza. I feel scared. We’re all in trouble. I can feel my bag partly resting upon my feet vibrating incessantly. I step in front of it so nobody can see it. It’s got something important to tell me and it needs to tell me quickly.
John Walker hands the bell straight to Dezza.
‘I think this is yours, Derek. Sorry Maggie, I maybe should investigate, but knowing Camille’s track record, it’s safe to say that it doesn’t belong to her.’
Seemingly hundreds of voices bring us back to reality, as the first set of pupils begin to stream past us chattering noisily, heading in the direction of the canteen. All those who pass by our spot fall silent; momentarily fascinated by the scene. It looks like we’re rehearsing an ill-conceived play; a freeze frame of something random and clearly not well planned.
‘Mr Walker?’
Mr Washwater appears out of nowhere, intermingled amongst the lines of kids, he looks from John to the bell, and then to me.
‘John, I’ve accounted for you, Maggie, and our three compatriots here on the registers...’
Mr Washwater glances at us all.
‘…As I know you were all taken from my class this morning...for various reasons.’
He scowls at Camille.
Mr Walker nods an acknowledgement.
I try to maintain my courage and stare back at Camille, but she’s not looking at any of us; she’s staring into the crowd of gawping kids.
I follow her gaze…what is she…?
Evelyn Parker is staring at Camille unsupportively - shaking her head disparagingly.
She brushes her raven hair away from her face, revealing its sharp, pointed contours. She has arched eyebrows and cold, shadowy eyes. She looks disappointed in Camille.
Camille looks away and down at her feet.
Evelyn then cocks her head slightly, turning and leering dangerously at me. I’m in deep trouble now. Her face is the Ace of Spades and she wants to deal me my death card. She mouths:
‘Your brother’s a spastic.’
I immediately avert my stare and look towards Mrs Mitchum, who is rising to her feet. She gently takes the Head of Year by the arm to tell him something privately – probably about me. I wonder if she just noticed Evelyn and heard what she just said.
‘John, are you there? Where are you?’ There’s a sudden crackle on the radio attached to his belt.
He takes it and answers it straight away. ‘Here.’
‘John, we’ve got Mrs Clover here at reception to collect Shelly.’
‘Okay. Coming over.’
I catch Derek’s gaze. I quickly nod in the direction of my bag.
He mouths, ‘What?’
I motion for him to give me a hand. I will not have the strength to shift whatever is causing this weight in my bag, especially with a cut and bruised hand and only one working strap. Derek is maybe a couple of inches under six foot already; he has a better chance. I let him crouch down without anyone seeing. He places the bell in the front pocket. He then attempts to pull the bag over his shoulder and flashes a look of dismay as it gives very little. He renews his efforts and with wild eyes and shaking hands, he chuffs and chunters the bag into both his forearms, holding it like a very large baby.
‘What the hell have you put in here?’ he whispers.
I shush him.
All of us, including a hobbling Camille, troop to the front of school.
‘I haven’t put anything in there. It just suddenly got heavy while it was on my shoulder.’
Derek’s big black eyes and spiky hair make him look at times, like the most shocked person in the history of being shocked. He hulks his largish frame forward staring fearfully at the bag as if it contains some exotic and illegal snake that will deliver him a fatal bite at any moment.
‘Shel’, what was going on back there, and…what the hell is happening here?’
I shake my head silently; I haven’t got the foggiest.
‘I haven’t got the foggiest.’ I say.
Chapter Four
Electus Unus
Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover Page 6