by Suzy K Quinn
‘Do you see them?’ says Mr Cockrun. He points at wire mesh. ‘There. All solidly repaired.’
I stoop down, seeing cut wire repaired with coat hangers and an old bike lock. Despite the unprofessional job, the holes are most certainly secure.
‘As I say, the holes have been temporarily repaired until the Christmas holidays. I find them unsightly too, but they are no more than that. There is absolutely no security issue. None at all. Quite the opposite – we’re one of the most secure schools you could find. Very well safeguarded.’
‘With a padlock on the front gates,’ I say.
‘Well, of course,’ says Mr Cockrun. ‘I admit the padlock on the front gate is a little … old-fashioned.’
‘Yes. Most schools have an intercom system. Remote locking. And unlocking.’
‘The school building is very old,’ says Mr Cockrun. ‘A remote locking system wouldn’t work in our case. But a padlock does the job.’
‘With a padlock, I suppose you can control who has the key.’ I make the suggestion lightly, but watch Mr Cockrun’s face.
He gives nothing away.
‘We have to keep the children safe. And the staff.’
‘From what?’ I ask.
‘Look, we really care about these children,’ says Mr Cockrun, spreading his palms wide. ‘It prays on my mind, the wrong people getting in. Miss Riley has come from a very stressful situation. Divorce and so on. New house. I don’t mean to be unkind, but she’s paranoid.’
‘Why has the fence been cut in the first place?’ I ask. ‘Could someone have been trying to get into the school?’
Mr Cockrun cocks his head, clearly working out the most agreeable way to answer.
‘Mr Cockrun,’ I say. ‘Spare me the politician’s spin. Just tell me the truth. I’m not here to audit your school.’
The headmaster hesitates. Then his eyes meet mine. ‘No one is trying to get in,’ he says. ‘Actually, someone is trying to get out.’
Lizzie
‘Come on, Tom. We have to go. I promised we’d see your grandmother.’ I’m at the school gates, calling across the playground.
Tom’s pale face flicks away from Pauly. He crosses the tarmac in a few seconds.
‘Grandma?’ he asks. ‘Or Granny?’
‘Your dad’s mum.’
‘Ye-ess!’ Tom does a little air punch.
‘We’ve got to walk quickly,’ I say, taking his hand.
‘Why?’
‘We’re catching the London train.’
‘I hate going to London.’
‘It’s okay, Tom. I always plan these trips carefully. I know you’re worried about seeing Dad, but it’s a very big city. We’ll be safe.’
We head down the country path and then across the park towards the train station.
As we pass the swings, Tom says, ‘Guess what? Pauly Neilson has the same social worker we have.’
My feet slow, despite the imminence of the train. ‘What?’
‘Our social worker. Kate. She’s Pauly’s social worker too. He told me.’
‘It doesn’t surprise me that Pauly has a social worker,’ I say lightly. ‘But it should tell you he’s someone to stay away from.’
‘What’s wrong with having a social worker? We have a social worker.’
‘But we shouldn’t,’ I say. ‘We shouldn’t have one, Tom. They only got involved because of your father. They should have closed our file down by now. The school … If only you’d talk to me. Give me some answers.’
‘There’s nothing to talk about, Mum.’
When we reach the station, the train is at the platform and we have to run.
‘How long will it take before we see Granny?’ Tom asks, as we jump onto the train. ‘I can’t wait to see her.’
‘Not long. Just this train, then a short walk to the play park.’
It’s a specially chosen play park, of course – one that’s very public, with lots of escape routes.
I know Margaret loves us. She’s proved it time after time. But she still sees Olly. So I always plan our meetings very carefully.
You can never be too careful.
Kate
3.05 p.m.
‘Who is trying to get out of the school?’ I ask.
‘Lloyd Neilson,’ says Mr Cockrun. ‘Social services force problem children on us, Mrs Noble, and it becomes a constant struggle to remain unblemished. It’s a mystery to me why the government pressures us to get good results, then jeopardises everything with these damaged individuals. Why not send them to a failing school?’
‘The idea, Mr Cockrun, is that your outstanding school improves the behaviour of troubled children,’ I say. ‘That in a school full of well-behaved kids, children with issues can follow good examples. Make better friendships.’
‘Theories,’ says Mr Cockrun dismissively. ‘We live in the real world. A real world with boys like Lloyd Neilson. If there’s a loose railing, an open gate or a low fence, that boy will be over, under, through and out. That, Mrs Noble, is why there are holes in the school fence.’
‘So Lloyd is cutting the fence?’
Mr Cockrun nods. ‘And every time Lloyd Neilson is seen larking about in town, we’re forced to report an unauthorised absence. It’s all a matter of government record and makes it that much harder to keep our outstanding status.’
I notice the headmaster says, ‘every time Lloyd Neilson is seen’ not ‘every time he gets out’. Presumably absence records are only made when they have to be.
‘So Lloyd Neilson makes the holes, climbs out and makes a run for it?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He was seen. The caretaker watched him going at the wire. By the time we reached him he’d already cut the hole and made a run for it. The caretaker’s pliers went missing at the end of last term. We suspect Lloyd has hidden them somewhere in the school.’
‘Do other children play back here?’
‘All three Neilson boys. That goes without saying. You give those boys a rule and they break it.’
I think of my car parked on zigzag lines. ‘Anyone else?’ I ask. ‘What about Tom Kinnock? Have you ever seen him back here?’
‘No.’
I look over the hole again, assessing it for possibilities. ‘And no mention of adults lurking by the fence?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘You know about the marks on Tom Kinnock’s arm, don’t you?’ I say. ‘The pin pricks.’
‘Yes, the mother came in to make a fuss about that. I’m sure it was nothing. Boys rough and tumble. Especially boys of a certain type, if you get my meaning.’
‘Oh, you mean social services boys,’ I say. ‘Did they ever teach you about self-fulfilling prophecies, Mr Cockrun?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Self-fulfilling prophecies. Decide a child is naughty and he’ll become naughty. Not every child with social services involvement is badly behaved. Some of them are delightful.’
Mr Cockrun laughs coldly. ‘I’ve yet to meet a delightful one.’
‘Maybe you just don’t see the delightfulness. Can I ask … do you keep injection needles at school?’
Mr Cockrun doesn’t answer right away, jingling coins in his pocket.
‘Injection needles?’ I ask again. ‘Do you keep any at school?’
‘For diabetic children,’ says Mr Cockrun, turning away. ‘We keep the needles locked up, all safely managed. Tom Kinnock did not get any weird and wonderful marks at this school, Mrs Noble. And certainly not from an injection needle.’
‘Why lock up the needles? Why not just keep them out of reach of the children? This isn’t a mental health facility. It’s a school.’
‘Look, we’re going to have to call time on this for today, Mrs Noble. I’ve provided you with everything you asked for. You wanted to see the school fence and hopefully I’ve put your mind at ease.’
‘Mr Cockrun—’
‘I know you understand, Mrs Noble. Publ
ic sector employees have to manage our time efficiently. We have so little of it. So if you don’t mind, I’ll show you out.’
‘If you don’t have time now, we’ll have to meet again,’ I insist.
‘I really think we’ve covered everything.’
‘No, we haven’t.’
Mr Cockrun sighs. ‘I have a little time this Friday. After three p.m.’
This Friday I’m booked solidly from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., but … ‘Yes, okay,’ I reply. ‘3.30 p.m.?’
The headmaster nods, then notices something on the woodland floor. A small brown bottle – like a medicine bottle. Unlike the chocolate-bar wrapper, he doesn’t pick it up.
I follow his gaze.
Mr Cockrun’s head flicks up then. ‘Let me show you out.’
‘That looks like a medicine bottle,’ I say.
Mr Cockrun laughs. ‘It does a bit, doesn’t it? Someone must have thrown it over the fence. Let’s head out.’
I stoop to pick up the bottle.
Mr Cockrun watches me, and I get a sense of a bear, cornered and dangerous.
On the shiny brown plastic there’s a damp white label with computerised letters printed across it. ‘It’s prescription medicine,’ I say. ‘Look, there’s the chemist’s logo.’
‘I’d say it was fairly impossible to read,’ says Mr Cockrun, squinting. ‘As I said, someone must have thrown it over the fence.’
The writing is faint, but I can see the outline of a name. My eyes walk along the faded letters, lips moving as I sound the words:
‘Oliver Kinnock.’
This medicine belongs to Tom’s father.
Mr Cockrun turns back to the school. ‘Let’s talk in my office.’
Lizzie
I have bruises on my arms again. Small finger marks with brown centres and yellow edges.
Yet somehow, amid all this chaos, Tom has grown into a little boy who feels and thinks and has his own voice. I don’t know quite how it happened. It’s like he grew while we were trying to cope with everything. And now Tom’s school-aged, trying to make sense of the crazy world we’ve brought him into.
It’s a cool evening and my skin is goose-bumpy, but I refuse to wear a jumper.
The truth is, I want Olly to see the marks.
This is what victims do – beg for mercy.
Olly is on the red leather sofa, drunk and apathetic. He’s gone the other way this week, willingly taking his pain meds – too many, sometimes – and mixing them with alcohol. An empty blister pack of codeine is beside him, but there’s more in the cupboard. It wouldn’t do to run out.
I sit beside him. ‘I’m freezing,’ I say.
He turns, but doesn’t notice the bruises on my arm.
‘When I can get back on the slopes, everything will be better,’ he says, a tired old mantra I’ve heard for years now.
We’re silent for a moment, neither of us acknowledging the truth.
Olly will never get back on the slopes.
‘If you’d just take the meds how you’re supposed to take them—’
‘Don’t start that again, Lizzie. I’m not an addict, okay? The hospital gave me those painkillers to take whenever I want.’
‘Not whenever you want. Whenever you’re in pain.’
‘I’m always in pain.’
One of my nursing friends, Fatima, thinks Olly’s leg injury could be doing something to his brain. ‘Look up Fat Embolism Syndrome,’ she said. ‘It all fits. The paranoia. The agitation. He needs to see a specialist.’
But Olly is so suspicious of the medical profession now – missing appointments left, right and centre. I try so hard to make him go, but these days he just point blank refuses, flying into a rage if I push things.
And he is so furious about the injury. Furious enough to take his anger out on me. Accusing me of all sorts of things.
In his worst moments, Olly says it’s all my fault. He blames me for everything – his broken leg, stalled recovery, failed Olympics dream.
Everything.
There’s a knock at the door.
‘Who is it?’ Olly calls out.
Silence.
Then Stuart calls back, ‘Only me, mate. Um … just had a question about the lease. But it can wait. Sounds like you’re in the middle of something.’
We hear the tramp of footsteps going downstairs.
Stuart is a terrible liar.
I’ve tried to stay away from him. From the ‘us’ that happens whenever I feel low. But it hasn’t been easy and I’ve lapsed. Several times over the last few years.
‘He came up to see you,’ says Olly, turning to me. ‘Didn’t he?’
I stiffen. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘He came up to see you!’
‘Please,’ I say. ‘Don’t shout. Tom’s sleeping. He has school tomorrow.’
Olly stands then, towering over me. ‘Matt said he saw you coming out of Stuart’s flat the other week.’ The words are full of menace. Matt is one of Olly’s best friends. A believable testimony.
Oh God. I feel sick to my stomach.
‘He saw you!’ Olly shouts. ‘What were you doing?’
‘It was probably about a parcel or something. Matt … he’s just trying to stir things. He’s always been jealous of us. You know that.’ A terrible excuse, but the best I can think of. I’m trapped on the sofa, nowhere to hide.
‘How many times?’ Olly demands, eyes blazing.
‘Olly, you’re being jealous. Irrational. It’s the pills. Nothing’s happening between me and Stuart,’ I say, desperately.
Olly throws an art deco vase on the floor and it smashes.
I cover my head and suddenly I’m on the floor too, crawling towards and out of the apartment door. Now everything flashes black, white and red. I hit the staircase with my arm, my hip, my cheek as I tumble down, down, down.
I land in a crying heap on the floor below, feeling like I’ve been beaten with truncheons.
Olly stands at the top of the stairs, a look of utter contempt on his face. ‘Why did you do that?’ he asks. ‘Why did you throw yourself down the stairs?’
I want Stuart to come and rescue me. But I don’t think he heard. Or maybe he went out.
Olly goes back into the flat and I limp slowly back up the stairs, a beaten, broken animal, back to the shadow I stand in, the man who says he loves me.
Back to our son, whom I pray has slept through all this.
I just don’t know what else to do. I’m so desperate for a stable home. To give Tom what I never had. But this isn’t stable. It’s more dysfunctional than my own upbringing.
When I reach the top of the stairs, I see Tom’s bedroom door is open and hear he is crying.
I run to him. ‘Tom!’
In the bedroom, Olly stands over Tom’s bed, chest heaving.
‘What are you doing?’ I scream. ‘Why is Tom crying?’
Olly eyes are both drug-glazed and panicked. ‘I—’
‘Why is he crying?’ I demand. ‘What did you do, Olly? God, what did you do?’
I pick up Tom and see his hand fall at an odd angle from his body. ‘Oh God. Oh my God.’ I turn to Olly, shaking my head. ‘What did you do?’
Lizzie
Margaret is on a swing when we arrive at the play park, swaying back and forth, feet scuffing the ground.
She’s dressed young for a sixty-something woman, in a long, blue crepe dress that swills around her white sequin-covered plimsolls, but she carries it off. Some people can wear teenage clothing just the right way, no matter what their age.
This forever youthfulness reminds me of Olly.
Margaret is chatting to a grey-haired man who’s leaning against the swing post. She is a very friendly person, Margaret. The sort who could strike up a conversation with anyone.
‘Tom! My little Tom!’ Margaret’s face explodes with smiles when she sees us. She comes bounding over. ‘How’s my grandson? I’ve missed you.’
The play park is the sort you see all ove
r London: a tangle of wood logs connected to a wobbly bridge; a nest swing of children’s limbs; a zip line whooshing back and forth.
I don’t feel safe here, but then again, I don’t feel safe anywhere.
‘All right?’ Margaret waves at me.
‘Hello, Margaret,’ I say, managing a smile. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine, love,’ says Margaret. ‘All the better for seeing you two.’
Tom is all smiles – a rarity since he started his new school. ‘Hi, Granny!’
‘Come and give your granny a cuddle then,’ says Margaret, spreading her arms wide. Happily, Tom accepts the hug. ‘I’ve got all sorts of things for you in my bag, Tom,’ says Margaret, pulling Tom back, eyes darting over his face. ‘How are you feeling? You look a bit peaky.’
‘Tired,’ Tom admits, confirming this with a yawn.
‘Has your mum been keeping you up?’
Tom laughs.
‘Well, a bit of fresh air will do you good,’ Margaret decides. ‘Shall we go on the roundabout?’
Tom considers this for a moment, then says, ‘Yeah, all right!’
‘Good boy. Come on then.’ Margaret puts an arm around his shoulder and leads him to the roundabout, where she pretends to be a bus driver and asks to see his ticket.
I hang back, watching Tom and Margaret play. I suppose, from the outside, you’d think we were a happy family.
If only people knew our history.
I keep my head down for the next half an hour, pretending to play with my phone, heart racing.
Time passes slowly. It’s a great relief when I can finally call out, ‘Tom. Time to go now, love.’
‘Oh, can’t he stay a bit longer?’ Margaret asks. ‘We’re having so much fun.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, grabbing Tom’s hand.
Around me, children run around shrieking with laughter and parents watch on, smiling adoringly. They are safe. Happy. They can’t see that right beside them is a woman who lives in daily terror of her ex-husband finding her.
‘Hang on a sec!’ Margaret calls. ‘Can’t I even say goodbye?’
Tom says, ‘Mum. I don’t feel well.’