Don't Tell Teacher

by Suzy K Quinn

  I see him at the doorway, a black cloud, pacing back and forth, gait unsteady. He pulls an all too familiar blister-pack of codeine from his pocket, pops out a handful of pills – four or five, probably, I can’t see – and throws them into his mouth.

  In the suddenly silent room, Faye wants to know why I didn’t mention these bruises before.

  ‘Because I’m ashamed,’ I say. ‘Ashamed that I stay with a man who does this to me. That I had a child with him. And that I’m too pathetic to leave. But I never thought he’d hurt Tom. Never.’

  ‘Does your husband hurt your son? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘I’ve never seen it,’ I say. ‘I’d have left a long time ago if I had. But I’m not sure I know my own mind right now. Olly is very good at … manipulating things. Making me see things that aren’t there. And he takes so much medication these days. Then he drinks on top of that … It makes him aggressive. I never thought he’d be capable of this, but …’

  ‘Mrs Kinnock, do you think your husband caused Tom’s injury?’

  ‘It’s … possible.’ Tears come. ‘Living with Olly – sometimes it’s hard to know what to think. I didn’t want to believe it, but what other explanation is there?’ I break down again then, head in my hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ I stutter. ‘If Olly’s been hurting Tom and I’ve let it happen …’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Faye puts her hands over mine. ‘It’s okay.’

  But it’s not okay.

  Not okay at all.

  Kate

  5.25 p.m.

  The Neilson brothers are in good spirits, testing the family centre’s play equipment to the maximum.

  Lloyd has already broken a plastic penguin slide and is now kicking the swings. He is full of energy, having been given a three-litre bottle of Coca Cola by Leanne before he arrived.

  Lloyd innocently shared this news with joy and gratitude: ‘We were lucky, Kate. We got big Coke for lunch. My favourite!’

  I suppose when you’re used to missing meals, the larger the bottle of coke the better.

  ‘Stop it,’ I shout, as Lloyd kicks the heavy swing high in the air. ‘Lloyd!’ Joey, half asleep on my lap, gives a start.

  ‘What?’ Lloyd turns with feigned innocence.

  ‘Stop doing that.’

  ‘When’s Dad getting here?’ Lloyd asks.

  I glance at the clock. The boys arrived at 5 p.m..

  It’s now 5.25 p.m. and their father still hasn’t arrived. Probably he’s forgotten. Or can’t be bothered. If a parent doesn’t turn up within fifteen minutes we’re supposed to cancel the appointment, but we’ve learned to give James Neilson more leeway. He does sometimes arrive within half an hour.

  Sometimes.

  ‘Your dad might not make it this time,’ I admit.

  Lloyd slams the swing with all his might, hitting Pauly.

  ‘Lloyd!’ Pauly shouts. ‘Watch it.’

  Lloyd pushes the swing again, whacking Pauly in the chest.

  Furious, Pauly runs around the swing, trying to grab his brother. He’s smaller than Lloyd, but rage gives him superhuman strength.

  Lloyd easily sidesteps Pauly, sneering and holding up two fingers.

  ‘Boys!’ I shout, causing Joey to flinch again.

  ‘I’ll tell on you,’ yells Pauly.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Lloyd shouts back.

  Now it’s Pauly’s turn to run. ‘I will tell. I will!’ He darts around play equipment, shouting, ‘Kate! Kate! Mr Cockface lets Lloyd take drugs from school!’

  ‘Shut up!’ Lloyd bellows, chasing after him.

  Pauly comes to hide behind me. I seat Joey on his own chair, then grab Lloyd to stop him killing anyone.

  ‘Stop it. Stop it! Sit down!’

  ‘He’s lying,’ Lloyd shouts.

  ‘Just calm down.’

  Lloyd looks furiously at his new Nike trainers, which are almost certainly stolen.

  ‘What’s Pauly talking about?’ I ask. ‘Drugs? Does he mean medicine?’

  I expect Lloyd to issue red-faced denials, but he doesn’t. Instead he sits on a plastic seat and starts crying.

  I realise my mouth is hanging open and close it.

  ‘I’m the honest one,’ Lloyd shouts, tears falling. ‘But no one ever believes me.’

  ‘Honest about what?’ I ask.

  ‘I already said,’ Lloyd wails. ‘I already told you. About the medicine.’

  Joey puts a small hand on Lloyd’s knee. ‘It’s all right, mate.’

  I sift through memories. ‘You said Mr Cockface … I mean, Mr Cockrun let you steal medicine from school. And I said that didn’t sound very likely. Is that what you mean?’

  ‘You see?’ says Lloyd. ‘Even you don’t believe me and you’re one of the nice ones.’

  ‘So Mr Cockrun lets you steal medicine?’ I ask, not sure where this is going. ‘From the medicine cabinet? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘It wasn’t stealing. Cockface let me do it. He left his office open and everything unlocked.’

  ‘Why would Mr Cockrun do that?’

  ‘He was setting me up, wasn’t he? So now I’m on camera stealing medicine. If Cockface tells, I go to prison. And who’ll look after Pauly and Joey then?’

  ‘I can look after Joey,’ says Pauly, chest all puffed out. ‘I made him scrambled egg yesterday, and—’

  ‘Shut up, Pauly,’ says Lloyd, giving him a shove.

  ‘So … when the police came the other day,’ I say, ‘had you taken tablets from the school medicine cabinet?’

  ‘No.’ Lloyd bangs his fist on the cushioned chair. ‘Not that time.’

  ‘I’m confused.’

  ‘I got those tablets from another kid. I told you. The headmaster never wanted me arrested that time. It was the caretaker who phoned the police. Cockface was furious with him.’

  ‘I’m still confused.’

  Lloyd’s forehead bunches in frustration. ‘And they say I’m the thick one. Listen – Cockface left his office open for me so I could take medicine. You with me so far?’

  ‘Yes. But when?’

  ‘Ages ago. This was way before the school inspectors came. Cockface set me up. He wanted to get me on camera stealing medicine. So now he has something over me. If I do the wrong thing, he’ll give the video to the police and I’ll go to prison.’

  ‘You wouldn’t go to prison for that, Lloyd.’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ Lloyd insists. ‘Because it’s drugs, isn’t it? That’s what Mum went to prison for. I’d get at least two years.’

  ‘Is that what Mr Cockrun told you?’

  Lloyd nods.

  ‘So the headmaster is blackmailing you?’ I ask, horrified. ‘Is that what you’re saying? He has camera footage and he’s using it to make you behave?’

  ‘Behave and keep quiet.’

  ‘Keep quiet about what?’

  Lloyd shuffles in his seat.

  ‘Lloyd, you can tell me,’ I say. ‘You won’t go to prison. Mr Cockrun isn’t telling you the truth. If he’s making you keep secrets … well, that’s not okay.’

  Lloyd sighs. ‘All right. Fine. Cockface does things to make the school look good.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘When the school inspectors come,’ says Lloyd, ‘Cockface opens the holes in the fence and lets us out. All the special needs kids. We go to the park. If anyone asks what we’re doing there, we say it’s a nature project.’

  ‘We run for it,’ Joey pipes up. ‘Prison break!’

  My head is whirling. ‘Why?’

  ‘So we don’t make the school look bad,’ Lloyd explains. ‘By being thick and that. Cockface cheats on the exams. Gets us in his office and tells us the answers on exam day. If the inspectors met kids like us at the school, they’d wonder how Cockface’s exam results are so good. Because some of us can only just write our own names.’

  ‘How many children does he let out of the school?’

  ‘Hundreds,’ says Joey.

  ‘Us three
and maybe twenty others,’ says Lloyd.

  ‘Why have none of these children told?’

  ‘You’re not getting it.’ Lloyd let’s out another very adult sigh. ‘Cockface finds out stuff about us. He gets us in his office. All friendly at first. Pretending to listen. But he’s finding out our secrets. Working out how he can scare us. Then he sets it up so we have to behave. And keep quiet. Like with me and the medicine cabinet. But he does different things with different kids.’

  ‘Good God.’ I put a hand to my mouth.

  ‘God is bollocks, Miss,’ says Joey.

  ‘You’ve got to give Cockface credit,’ says Lloyd, with surprising maturity. ‘It does work. Everyone says the school is good.’

  ‘A good school cares about the children, not results. Lloyd, thank you for telling me this. I promise, the headmaster will be the one in trouble, not you. My word, this is absolutely shocking.’

  I sound like Tessa.

  ‘So what will happen to Cockface?’ asks Lloyd.

  ‘I imagine your headmaster will be suspended from school, pending a full investigation.’ I’m mentally reeling at the days of paperwork ahead. ‘I knew something wasn’t right at that place.’ ‘Cockface in prison!’ says Pauly, rubbing his hands together. ‘What about the other kids?’ I hesitate, knowing I’m crossing a professional line. ‘What about Tom Kinnock? Does the headmaster see him in his office too?’

  ‘He does,’ says Pauly. ‘Tom gets called there sometimes.’

  ‘If Tom is being blackmailed by the headmaster, it would explain a lot,’ I say. ‘A lot.’

  But not everything.

  Lizzie

  The doctors’ surgery smells of fresh paint and has newly laid grey floorboards and beech-wood chairs.

  I type Tom’s date of birth into the computer screen and we take a seat beside the fish tank. Tom kneels by a beads-frame toy and starts clacking beads around. They seem to be a fixture in hospitals and doctors’ surgeries, those things. Tom never gets bored of them.

  There’s a beep and my eyes flick to the LED board.

  Tom slides counters along, click, click, click.

  No. Not our name yet.

  Click, click … click.

  Another beep. Another name. Still not us.

  I turn to Tom. He’s stopped moving beads, eyes dreamy.

  ‘Tom?’

  He doesn’t reply.

  I stand.

  ‘Tom. Tom.’ I shake his arm.

  But Tom doesn’t react.

  He’s staring into space.

  Then he falls to the floor, rigid and jerking his legs crazily, eyes rolled back in his head.

  It’s such a shock that at first I just stare, heart pounding.

  Oh God.

  ‘Help!’ I hear myself sob. ‘Please help us! Call an ambulance. My son is having a seizure!’

  Kate

  7 p.m.

  I’m starving. My freshly prepared sandwich was left unopened – there were reports to write, then the mad rush to the family centre and the Neilsons. I didn’t bother taking my lunch there – I’ve learned from experience you need both hands to deal with Lloyd Neilson.

  After that, there were frenzied phone calls to the police, OFSTED and the Steelfield School academy group. I didn’t leave the Neilsons until I could assure Lloyd that Mr Cockrun wouldn’t be allowed back on the school premises.

  Not until there’s a full investigation.

  Leanne came to collect them late, as usual, and moaned about having to wait for my phone calls.

  By the time I returned to the office, Tessa had eaten my sandwich. It was for environmental reasons, apparently. She can’t stand waste.

  Fortunately, I’d packed a few snacks this morning in case I ended up working late. Now finally back at my desk, I have an opportunity to crack open my Tupperware box of cheese, crisps and a Pink Lady apple.

  I’ve been thinking, thinking, thinking about Steelfield School, Mr Cockrun, the Neilson boys and Tom Kinnock. Something isn’t adding up and it’s driving me crazy, throbbing like a toothache.

  I believe Lloyd. But it doesn’t explain what’s happening to Tom Kinnock.

  As a teenager, I liked Isaac Asimov sci-fi novels. They were logic puzzles, most of those stories. A robot would misbehave in some way and you had to figure out how it had broken its programming and gone against one of the three robot laws.

  But this logic puzzle I’m not enjoying. More pieces are in place, but things still don’t make sense.

  Just as I take a crisp from its rustling plastic bag, the phone rings. Reluctantly, I put my lunch/dinner down and pick up.

  ‘Hello, Kate Noble, Child Services.’ My eyes wander to the crisp packet.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Noble, it’s Doctor Khan here. I’m a paediatric consultant at the general hospital.’

  ‘Hello, Doctor Khan.’ I lift my crisps, hoping to grab a quick mouthful while he’s talking. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I’m told you’re the social worker assigned to Tom Kinnock. Is that right? He’s on your caseload?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Tom has been brought into hospital again. Did you know?’

  ‘No.’ I put the crisps down. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Another seizure.’ The doctor clears his throat. ‘We thought it worth flagging up, given his history. I know he’s had injuries before. And the seizures … they’re following rather an unusual pattern.’ There’s a pause. ‘I had a chat with Tom earlier. I got a very distinct sense there was something he wanted to talk about. He mentioned someone called Pauly. And your name.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. I think you should come in. There could be something he wants to tell you.’

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ I stuff my crisps back into the Tupperware box.

  ‘Where are you running off to?’ Tessa barks. ‘Not another home visit – there are reports to write.’

  ‘Tom Kinnock is in hospital again,’ I say. ‘A seizure.’

  ‘Another one?’

  ‘Yes. Another one. And he wants to talk to me.’

  ‘Be careful, Kate. You’re in danger of wearing yourself out with all this running around. And we can’t have you signed off long-term sick – you’re too useful.’

  It’s the kindest thing Tessa’s ever said to me. It would have been kinder still if she hadn’t eaten my sandwich.

  Lizzie

  We’ve been in hospital for hours.

  Tom didn’t fall unconscious for long, but he’s slept a lot ever since. Apparently, this is normal. Seizures take it out of people.

  I need to go home. There are things to pick up: night clothes and so on. But I’m putting it off, not wanting to leave Tom for a minute. Sitting around in hospitals, you get a lot of time to think. To imagine.

  A man waits outside the ward. He is dressed in jeans and a frayed sweatshirt, scruffy but handsome. The moment I leave, he walks casually into Tom’s ward, flashing a nice smile at the nurses.

  The receptionist’s back is turned.

  The man flips blond hair out of his eyes, catches Tom’s attention, winks.

  ‘Hey. Tommo. Come on out here for a minute. Your mum’s a liar – I never hurt you. Let’s get away from her.’

  He takes Tom’s hand.

  They head past the reception desk, out of the hospital, into a camper van and Tom is gone …

  I squeeze my eyes tight, willing the images to go away.

  Security in hospitals is excellent. Tom couldn’t be safer.

  I whisper, ‘Tom. Tom. I need to pop home again. I have to get a few bits and pieces. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  I hate going home without him. It’s like I’m leaving an arm behind. But we need clothes. Healthy snacks. Stuff the hospital won’t provide.

  I don’t remember the journey back, but at home I walk around in a daze.

  What do I need? What do I need?

  A knock at the door makes me leap out of my skin.

  Oh Go
d.

  The letterbox rattles, and a thin voice calls through: ‘Elizabeth? Are you in there?’

  My mother.

  I freeze, mooting the possibility of hiding in here, hoping she thinks I’ve gone out.

  I’ve done that before. In fact, I’ve even slithered across the floor on my stomach in a bid not to be visible from the windows. I know it’s childish, but that’s how I am around my mother. You have to be in a strong frame of mind to deal with being constantly put down.

  Also, the house is still a state. She’ll be furious about that.

  ‘Elizabeth.’ Even muffled by the front door, I hear the irritation in my mother’s voice. ‘I know you’re in there – I can see you moving around.’

  I have an image of Mum, powdered face pressed to my letterbox, listening for movement, waiting to catch me out.

  Oh God. There’s no escaping it …

  I cross the living room and open the front door, knowing my forehead is pinched with worry, grey bags under my eyes.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  My mother stands in a cloud of rose perfume, black hair in tight, styled curls around her head.

  ‘You were hiding from me,’ she says. ‘Trying to pretend you were out.’

  ‘I’ve had a terrible day.’ I’m a guilty teenager caught with a cigarette. ‘Tom’s in hospital again. I’m just picking up a few things for him.’

  ‘My goodness, your hair still looks terrible.’ My mother tries to enter the house, but I block her path.

  ‘I’m just on my way out, Mum.’

  ‘Please don’t tell me you intend to wear that scarf outside the house.’

  My hands go to the soft orange wool – Tom’s favourite colour. ‘Didn’t you hear me? About Tom?’

  ‘This place looks disgusting.’ Mum wrinkles her nose at the living room behind me. ‘Absolutely disgusting.’

  I pull myself up tall, and with as much dignity as I can manage say, ‘Tom’s in hospital again. I’m terrified. Housework hasn’t been first on the agenda.’

  ‘Tom is in hospital again?’ Mum adjusts her Louis Vuitton handbag. ‘What’s wrong with him this time?’

  I break down in tears. ‘Another seizure.’

  Mum watches me, mouth open. Then she puts an awkward hand on my shoulder. ‘There, there. Let’s not make a scene. What did the hospital say?’