Don't Tell Teacher

by Suzy K Quinn

  ‘Stop!’ I try to grab Lloyd, but he’s strong.

  I’m not really sure what happens next, but suddenly I’m on the floor and Lloyd is standing over me, fists clenched.

  ‘Fuck off. Just fuck off.’

  Little Joey jumps on him, arms around his neck, screaming, ‘Lloyd, don’t. Don’t. She’ll put you in prison.’

  I get to my feet. ‘Lloyd Neilson, sit down right now.’

  My jaw stings – I think I caught a punch somewhere along the line.

  Lloyd doesn’t sit down. Instead, he starts pacing the room like a caged dog.

  Pauly watches him, looking worried.

  Joey is crying.

  In training, I was told to exit any situation that gets physical, for my own safety. I think that’s what the boys expect me to do. But I can’t leave them. They haven’t even had dinner.

  ‘Listen.’

  Three faces turn to me.

  ‘What are you still doing here?’ Lloyd asks. ‘Leave. Go on. Grass me up to whoever.’

  ‘I’m going to get you some fish and chips,’ I say. ‘And when I come back, I want you all calm. Okay? Lloyd, you need to sit down.’

  Pauly nods rapidly.

  Joey says, ‘Yesss!’

  Lloyd glares.

  ‘Okay, Lloyd?’ I say, my voice sterner.

  ‘Lloyd,’ Joey whispers. ‘She’s gonna get us fish and chips. Say yes or you’ll go to prison.’

  Lloyd looks at his shoes. ‘All right then.’

  ‘All right, what?’

  ‘All right, sorry.’ Lloyd sits on the sofa.

  ‘Lloyd, forget Tom Kinnock for a moment. The headmaster says you’ve stolen medicine from the school before. I need to know if that’s true.’

  ‘Fucking Cockface. I don’t tell, he don’t tell. He promised. Adults are all liars.’

  I turn to Joey and Pauly. ‘You two – upstairs. Right now.’

  The boys exchange worried glances, then two little pairs of feet trot upstairs.

  ‘Lloyd, this is extremely important.’

  Lloyd chews at the skin around his thumbnail. ‘I mean … yeah, I’ve taken medicine. But Mr Cockrun knows about it. He lets me.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound quite right, Lloyd.’

  ‘Forget it then. Don’t believe me. Adults are bullshit.’ He looks sullen.

  ‘Is there anything else you want to tell me?’

  ‘Nothing. Just forget it. Are you gonna tell the police what I did?’

  ‘I’ll have to write it up. But I’m not going to tell the police. You’re hungry. You shouldn’t have been left without food so long. You’re only eleven. But listen – don’t ever do that again.’

  ‘Kate?’

  ‘Yes, Lloyd?’

  ‘I’m, like, sorry for what I did. I shouldn’t have done it. You’re one of the good ones.’

  I sigh. ‘Thank you, Lloyd. It’s very grown up of you to apologise. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, okay? Please don’t burn the house down. I really, really shouldn’t be leaving you, but you need to eat.’

  ‘Twenty minutes is nothing. Mum’s left us for the whole weekend before.’

  ‘I know.’ I head out the front door.

  When I’m five paces from the house I burst into tears. No one’s ever punched me before.

  Stop it, Kate. Stop crying. Get a hold of yourself – you’re an adult.

  Anyway, this is a happy occasion. The Neilson boys are going to get their first proper dinner in months.

  Lizzie

  ‘Okay, Tommo?’ I squeeze Tom’s hand. He’s beside me on a hospital stretcher, being wheeled towards the ambulance by a green-suited paramedic. ‘We’re getting out of here.’

  ‘Are we going home?’

  ‘Not yet. We’re going to a hospital near home.’

  ‘Will Granny tell Daddy we’re here?’ Tom asks, a slight quiver in his voice.

  ‘She wouldn’t mean to, but … anyway, best to move. Nothing to worry about.’

  We’re not in the ambulance yet. Not free from danger. And until we’re loaded on and driving away, my chest will be full of bats, beating their wings.

  When we reach the ambulance doors, the paramedic says, ‘Hello, Tom. Been in the wars, have you?’ He’s a black-haired man with a lean, toned body.

  ‘A little bit,’ says Tom.

  ‘Well, we’re going in this nice big ambulance and then we’ll have a quick drive. Okay? Shouldn’t take too long. Do you like being driven around?’

  ‘Not really,’ says Tom. ‘I get car sick.’

  The paramedic asks me, ‘Are you hopping in the back with him?’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Of course.’ I climb into the ambulance, strapping myself in beside Tom, and stare out through the blacked-out windows.

  Two visitors are approaching the hospital – a younger man and older woman. As I watch, the mechanical ambulance doors whir shut and the tyres start to creep over the tarmac.

  The woman’s arm is linked through the man’s. He seems to be pulling her along, faster than her older legs can manage. The man is tall, with longish blond hair around his ears.

  It takes a moment.

  Then recognition hits me like a hammer.

  The woman is Margaret.

  And the man is Olly.

  I unclip my seatbelt, rushing to the window by Tom’s stretcher.

  Leaning over Tom, I sway dangerously, face pressed to the glass as the ambulance swings around a corner.

  ‘Madam!’ the paramedic shouts. ‘Sit down, now.’

  I pull back from the window, eyes still riveted to the glass, but now the ambulance has turned I see only buildings and road.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  Olly looked ill. Gaunt. Still with that handsome bone-structure and tall body, but a shadow of his former self. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him …

  I think I’m going to be sick.

  Margaret brought Olly here.

  Emotions whirl around, and it’s hard to know what is most overwhelming.

  Panic, confusion, fear.

  Betrayal.

  She brought him here. I thought she was on our side.

  ‘What were you playing at?’ says the paramedic. ‘You could have fallen.’

  I feel tears coming.

  ‘It’s all right.’ The paramedic looks embarrassed now. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, love. I just didn’t want anyone getting hurt.’

  ‘It’s not you,’ I explain. ‘I just saw Tom’s father. There’s a restraining order against him.’

  ‘Oh lord,’ says the paramedic. ‘That’s a situation. Should I phone the police?’

  I shake my head. ‘We’re going now. He didn’t see us.’

  ‘You’re safe with us,’ says the paramedic, voice warm and reassuring.

  ‘I hope so,’ I say.

  ‘Tom should be back at school in a few days,’ the paramedic continues, giving us a cheery smile. ‘That’s what the nurse was saying. Give you a bit of time to yourself, Mum.’

  I look out the window, thinking: That’s the last thing I need.

  I want Tom at home with me. Tucked up on the sofa where I can see him. As far away from that school as possible.

  Kate

  11.34 p.m.

  Col is still awake when I get home. I’m so tired, I trip on the front door mat.

  ‘Hi, love,’ I call out, hanging my coat in the hallway.

  There’s a pause. Then Col appears from the office room wearing his black glasses, a T-shirt and some tartan pyjama bottoms.

  His usually neat blond hair is fluffy and his broad face pale with tiredness. I’m guessing he was waiting up for me – probably playing one of those strategy games he likes.

  ‘Where did you get those pyjamas?’ I ask. ‘You never wear pyjamas.’

  ‘Oxfam,’ says Col, yawning and stretching his long arms into the air, touching the low ceiling with his fingertips. ‘You’re even later than usual.’ He hasn’t noticed the bruise on my jaw yet and I’m in no hur
ry to point it out.

  ‘You went into town?’ I ask.

  ‘I had the interview. Remember? Kate? What’s wrong?’

  I’m crying again and I can’t answer.

  ‘What happened?’ asks Col. ‘Was it something at work?’

  I nod.

  ‘What is it, love?’ He studies my face, eyes widening at the mark on my jaw. ‘Good God. What happened?’

  ‘One of the kids,’ I blurt out, letting more tears come. ‘I’m so tired.’

  ‘Leave this job immediately,’ says Col, pulling me into a hug. ‘Hand in your notice tomorrow. This is completely unacceptable. Someone struck you.’

  ‘Col, I always knew it wouldn’t be an easy road. This is a trial. A test.’

  ‘I love you, Kate Noble,’ Col replies. ‘I love your faith and determination. But this is getting too much. Hop into bed. I’ll bring you a glass of water and we’ll talk.’

  I head into the bedroom, pulling off my black lace-up shoes and lining them neatly in the wardrobe beside my running shoes. I can’t sleep properly if things aren’t neat – a little OCD quirk of mine.

  Even undressing is exhausting.

  Col returns with my water, glances at the bruise on my chin and says, ‘I’m serious, Kate. You should leave this job. It’s a safety issue.’

  ‘I’ve trained for years,’ I say. ‘It’s my path. This is … a bad day. A bump in the road.’

  ‘Come on, Kate. I haven’t seen you in months. And when I do, you’re exhausted. This isn’t one bad day. It’s a bad job.’

  ‘That’s why people like me need to be doing it.’

  ‘You’re going to make yourself ill.’ Col walks into the en suite. ‘I’ll brush my teeth and then we’ll talk.’

  ‘I’m too tired to talk.’

  ‘Seriously, Kate,’ Col calls, his words gargled with toothpaste. ‘How are we ever going to have children if you fall asleep the moment your head hits the pillow?’

  ‘It’s not every night.’

  ‘It is every night. We’re husband and wife now. Not flatmates.’

  Col comes back to the bedroom frowning. Wordlessly, he folds his glasses, puts them on his bedside table and climbs into bed.

  ‘Col?’

  But Col pulls the duvet over himself, rolling away from me.

  ‘Are you going to sleep?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ says Col. ‘You are too, I imagine.’

  He does this sometimes – gets in moods.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, giving his shoulder a shake. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘You’re always tired,’ he tells his pillow. ‘We only just got married – oh, it doesn’t matter.’

  I know what he’s saying.

  We haven’t had sex in a long time.

  And yes – he’s right. I’ve been too tired.

  I lie back on my pillow, knowing I will fall asleep straight away, then wake up at 3 a.m., thinking, thinking.

  I’m just closing my eyes when I hear my work phone bleep from the hall. It does that when emails come in – a very irritating setting that I haven’t yet worked out how to turn off.

  ‘Leave it,’ Col says, his back still turned.

  ‘I need to turn it off, Col. Otherwise it’ll bleep for the next hour.’

  I grab my phone, return to the bedroom, and think: Better check my emails quickly.

  Col, reading my mind, says, ‘Don’t do it, Kate. Go to sleep.’

  ‘If someone’s sent something at this time of night, it must be urgent. I just want to make sure I’m not walking into anything major tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, Kate.’

  ‘It’ll only take a minute.’

  ‘It never takes a minute.’

  I know he’s right, but I open up my email account anyway, bracing myself for bad news, tension rising in my chest.

  And there it is. Right at the top of the pile.

  The worst news.

  I’ve been sent a secure, encrypted email from Westminster Hospital.

  It’s from a paediatric consultant, informing me that Tom Kinnock fell unconscious this week. Not quite a seizure, but something like it.

  While Tom was passed out, the doctors found a partially healed head injury and are flagging this up as cause for concern.

  The consultant paediatrician believes the injury happened several days before Tom was taken into hospital and is consistent with being hit with a blunt object.

  My working days just got longer.

  I need to arrange a multi-disciplinary meeting urgently.

  And Col’s sex life will just have to wait.

  Lizzie

  Tom stayed in hospital last night.

  I slept beside him on a narrow pull-out bed. Actually, I didn’t sleep much. It was hot, bright and uncomfortable, and I had a lot on my mind.

  I’m home now, getting Tom a few bits and pieces – fruit, tea, snacks, clean clothes. I’ve packed a bag, showered off the hospital smell (putting too much shampoo in my new short hair as usual – I’m still not used to the length) and now I’m dressing.

  While I’m pulling on my jeans, I hear a knock at the door. I freeze, one foot hovering off the ground, jeans halfway up.

  There’s a long pause.

  Then another knock – louder this time.

  I creep to the window, peeking through the line of daylight shining between the curtains. If it’s my mother, I can’t handle her right now. I just can’t.

  In the front garden, I see the top of a woman’s head. Black, curly hair. A leather holdall over her shoulder. Glasses.

  Thank God. It’s Kate Noble. I need to talk to her.

  I pull on my jeans, doing them up as I hurry down the stairs.

  Common sense tells me Kate won’t wait long. Social workers don’t have time to stand on doorsteps.

  Sure enough, the letterbox rattles as I reach the bottom step.

  I cross the living room at speed, but I’m too late.

  Kate is gone, leaving an unstamped brown envelope on the doorstep.

  Inside is a letter:

  Dear Miss Riley,

  I’d like to arrange a strategy meeting as a matter of urgency. Dates and paperwork will follow.

  In the meantime, if Tom is absent from school this must be accompanied by a medical note.

  Please call or email using the details below.

  Sincerely,

  Kate Noble

  Oh my God. A strategy meeting. Social workers don’t organise those for no reason. And that line about needing a medical note – they’re trying to stop me keeping Tom off school.

  I feel there is a net hanging over our heads.

  And it’s about to drop.

  Kate

  10.03 a.m.

  ‘I need that report now, Kate.’ Tessa stands over me, hands on hips.

  ‘I haven’t done it.’ I don’t even bother looking up. ‘I need to set up a strategy meeting for Tom Kinnock. He’s had another unexplained injury, which in my opinion means he’s at risk of serious harm.’

  Tessa considers this. ‘Who reported the injury?’

  ‘A consultant paediatrician at Westminster Hospital.’

  Tessa raises a thick, dark eyebrow. ‘Well, you can’t ignore that one, I suppose. Yes, for once I agree with you. Fine. Make Tom Kinnock a priority. What are you doing now? A report for the mother to read?’

  ‘Yes. It’ll go to Lizzie Riley by first-class post this afternoon.’

  ‘Get all the facts in there,’ says Tessa. ‘Don’t worry about saving her feelings. Make sure everything is outlined.’

  ‘I have done.’

  ‘Not a nice letter to land on your doorstep,’ Tessa remarks.

  ‘No. But she’s been to this sort of meeting before. In London. She’ll know what to expect.’

  ‘Don’t waste too much time on this,’ Tessa cautions.

  ‘I never waste time. I don’t have nearly enough of it.’

  ‘So when is this meeting going to be then? I have a very full calendar.’


  ‘The end of this week.’

  ‘Ha! You’ll be lucky.’

  ‘As long as I don’t get distracted by anything else and the doctor can make it.’

  ‘Not get distracted?’ Tessa snorts. ‘When does that ever happen? So listen. I need you at ten-thirty—’

  ‘I won’t be free. I’m still trying to find Tom Kinnock’s father. Ideally, I’d like to talk to him before the meeting.’

  ‘Watch out there, Kate.’ Tessa wags a finger. ‘There’s a restraining order against him, isn’t there? He’s violent.’

  ‘Watch out yourself, Tessa,’ I say. ‘It’s beginning to sound like you might care what happens to me.’

  ‘No fear of that,’ says Tessa casually. ‘I learned my lesson years ago. You’ll leave in the end. All the good ones do.’

  Lizzie

  Tom went back to school today. As my little boy crossed the playground, my heart dragged on the back of his heels. This tightrope of pain is familiar. I balanced on the same barbed wire when I left Olly. No choices are good here. Carry on and life is unbearable. Fall and you could break your neck.

  Mum came to visit mid-morning, which was awful. But she didn’t stay long because she was angry that I had no tea or milk.

  I survived the rest of the morning by Googling parents’ rights and child protection laws in different countries. What would happen if we moved abroad?

  Now I’m eating lunch – fish fingers I bought for Tom, but am using as an emergency meal.

  Perched on a sofa arm, I chew slowly without appetite, swallowing crunchy, charred breadcrumbs and thin, white fish.

  Beside me sit social services documents, still unread. They arrived today, and will explain how the meeting will work. It will involve Tom’s headmaster, a doctor and other ‘relevant’ people.

  I remember how this all works because of Olly. Time smooths rough edges, makes pain more bearable, but it also rubs away memories. Makes the past hazy.

  I must never forget how dangerous Olly is.

  Balancing the bowl of fish fingers on the sofa arm, I pick up the envelope, turning it in my hands.

  Kate Noble is more competent than the other social workers I’ve met – something for which I suppose I should be grateful. I mean, at least she’s doing something. Taking an interest in us.