by C. P. Wilson
The officer shrugs, a gesture that goes unnoticed by the Cambuscraig pupil.
Somewhere distant, somewhere in perhaps his chest, Harry feels the presence of what might be the beginning of a panic attack. Dully he removes his attention from it. It may as well be happening to someone else.
Cold Edinburgh air rushes in as a second officer opens his door. The world tilts and Harry falls, sidelong, into the officer’s hands. Strong hands, which drag him gently out to rest on the tarmac beneath. Whilst Harry’s body hyperventilates, whilst his heart races and his arms and legs tremble uncontrollably, the officers watch over him. One officer has his hands on his shoulders, gently holding him in place. The other sits lightly across Harry’s knees, keeping him from wrenching or bucking. Harry’s mind is not present to hear their conciliatory words and soothing tones. He is unaware of the officer’s sure fingers removing his own tongue from his airway. Harry Jardine is simply elsewhere.
∞∞∞
“How’s the boy now?” DI Stephens asks.
Casting a quick sidelong glance at the social worker who is seated in the corner of the interview room, Stephens mentally crosses his fingers whilst the doctor he is addressing mulls over his response.
Dr Prescott, a long-time contributor at the Fettes HQ, is seated at a little desk in the centre of the room. He looks along his nose and over the small rectangular glasses perched judgementally at the tip.
“The boy had a panic attack as he arrived at the station, quite a severe one,” he offers. “Two of your officers prevented him from choking on his tongue.”
Stephens makes a little gesture with his head. Part acceptance, part yeah, but…
“I’ve just come from the hospital, Doctor Prescott. I can assure you that Mr Black is in a worse condition than his attacker.” Both hands placed on the desk between them, Stephens leans over the seated physician. “As is the poor teacher who witnessed his attack on Mr Black and administered first aid, despite her own mental trauma.”
Prescott merely shrugs. “Be that as it may, DI Stephens, neither of those people are my patient. Harry Jardine is, and you will simply not be speaking to the boy today.”
Whirling around in frustration, Stephens makes a throwing gesture with his hand and glares openly at the passive social services agent, before returning to the table. Visibly calming himself, he takes a seat across from Prescott, who is indifferent to the detective’s minor tantrum.
“Look, John, we're getting conflicting stories from the pupils at Cambuscraig. That’s to be expected, with an incident like this and so many teenaged witnesses, but I need to know what the suspect has to say, and quickly.” Searching the doctor’s face and once again finding him unsympathetic, Stephens slams both hands onto the table.
“This kid just tried to kill his Biology teacher. I need to speak to him sooner… not later.”
Prescott actively exudes the same level of sympathy for Stephens’ plight as the table that lies between them.
“The boy is responding to instructions, he is going where he’s told and doing everything required of him at present.” Prescott stands and makes for the door. “You will not be speaking to him until I decide that he is able.”
Stephens barges past Prescott to leave the room. Whipping back around, he jabs a finger an inch from Prescott’s face.
“That boy will be examined and evidence removed from his person by my forensics team.”
“Of course. Evidence must be preserved, but when you’ve completed the retrieval of evidence, Harry Jardine will be in the infirmary under my watch for at least twenty-four hours.”
Leaving a stream of obscenities in his wake, DI Stephens makes for the medical room. Dr Prescott strolls along behind.
Interlude
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The Scotsman (Web Edition)
Pupil detained for attacking teacher at Cambuscraig High School.
A fourth-year pupil from Cambuscraig High School has been detained by Police Scotland this afternoon following what seems to have been a violent attack on a teacher in the school building. We are unable to name the pupil at present, but reports on social media have identified the victim as sixty-four-year-old Mr Douglas Black, a Biology teacher who has taught at Cambuscraig High for almost forty years. Witnesses report that Mr Black was attacked by the fourth-year boy in his classroom and then in the hallway.
Detective Inspector Stephens of Police Scotland has issued the following statement:
“A sixteen-year-old boy has been arrested on suspicion of attempted murder and held in custody for questioning at St Leonard’s Station. We have detectives at the school questioning the pupils who were present in Mr Black’s class, as well as key staff members, a process we anticipate will be complete by late this afternoon.”
A statement from the school informed us that the head teacher, Mr Storrie, has been unavailable for comment as he is present at the pupil interviews with two detectives from DI Stephens’ team.
The statement also informs that Mr Black was taken by ambulance to Edinburgh Royal Infirmary shortly before lunchtime. More as we have it.
1267 comments: 145 shares
- Shannon Francis: We’re going to be having metal detectors in schools after this.
- Tracy Lauder: Poor man.
- Gaz: Yeees! Fucking hate teachers, man.
- Marilyn Brox: Are the kids still in school?
- BradyBob: Def something weird here, no-one gets attacked for nothing.
Sean Tait: Aye, it’s a bit strange.
Allen Miles: Probably just told him off for his phone or summat. These teens are wild these days.
- Mags Brown: Bella? Is this where your David goes?
- Jason Knowles: least the kids could hope for was a day off school. Lol.
-------view more comments.
Chapter Eight
“This is Ms McKay from social services.” Mr Storrie leads a stoic-looking middle-aged woman into the conference room, followed by a red-haired teenage boy and a man in his early fifties.
One arm extended towards some chairs, Storrie steps aside to allow them to pass.
“This is James Beath, one of our sixth-years who was present in Mr Black’s fourth-year class during the incident.”
Gilmour expresses confusion at Mr Storrie’s words.
Catching the look, Storrie smiles. “Some of our sixth-year pupils are involved in a peer teaching programme where they sit in with younger classes, especially those about to enter the senior school, and assist the teacher.”
Gilmour nods his understanding and flicks his eyes to the sixth-year pupil. The kid, dressed in the school’s black and green blazer and tie, adorned with various prefect and captain badges, appears a little rattled, but determined also.
He nods a greeting at Gilmour.
“This is Mr Beath, James’s father,” Storrie continues.
Mr Beath offers a firm nod. The man looks concerned, but has a similar determined expression to his son.
“Thanks for coming in, James… Mr Beath.” Gilmour stands to offer each of them a hand. James first. Moving aside to allow McCreadie to approach the young man and his father, Gilmour introduces the DC who smiles warmly at Mr Beath and his son.
Gilmour places a hand supportively on the kid’s forearm.
“Thank you for coming to speak to us, James,” she smiles at the kid. “I know you’ve had a hard day.”
James shrugs stiffly, failing to convey any real indifference, but it’s an admirable attempt at normality for the teenager.
“Thanks,” he says, returning her smile despite himself. The tension in the room relaxes instantly. Gilmour smiles tightly. It was the right choice, bringing McCreadie along. She’s much better with kids this age than he is himself.
“We’ll try to keep this brief.” Gilmour motions to a circle of chairs around a little coffee table.
Ms McKay takes a seat near the window. Mr Beath and his son join Gilmour, seating themselves around the table in the centre
of the room. The chairs are large, soft and encourage their occupants to relax deep into them. The tautness on the faces of the Beath family eases further as they sink into the chairs, watching Gilmour and McCreadie both sit. McCreadie offers a supportive smile to James. Mr Storrie completes the circle of chairs.
A silent exchange between the police officers conveys that McCreadie will take the lead.
Seated at the edge of her chair, so that she can keep her back straight, rather than sinking into the upholstery like the others, McCreadie maintains an open posture.
“Can you tell us what you saw happen in Mr Black’s room, period two today, James.”
Mr Beath places a hand on his son’s shoulder. His boy visibly draws confidence from his father’s small gesture of support.
“Mr Black was teaching about cells dividing,” James begins.
“Sounds interesting,” McCreadie offers.
James gives her a duh look.
“Yeah… Mr Black’s classes always are.” The kid is plainly puzzled that she doesn’t already know this, like it's common knowledge.
McCreadie nods along.
“Mr Black’s a good teacher then?”
James shrugs and throws her a look that’s equal parts sarcasm and pity that only a teenager can muster.
“He’s a great teacher!”
Mr Beath smiles at his son’s manner before turning his attention to McCreadie.
“James was finding Biology very difficult in third year, but Mr Black was kind enough to offer him extra sessions at lunchtimes and after school. His grades shot up since. James is doing Advanced Higher this year. We’re very grateful to Mr Black for using his own time to tutor the kids.”
James nods along with his father.
“That’s good of him,” McCreadie offers. “Does he do that a lot?”
James’s face darkens. “Don’t you already know this? You must know Mr Black?” James blurts, abruptly.
McCredie’s eyes dart to Mr Storrie in response to a cough from the head teacher
“I, eh, mentioned to the kids that you were a former pupil,” Storrie explains. “I thought it might relax them to know you were one of them… so to speak.”
Concealing her annoyance, McCreadie nods before turning back to James. “I know Mr Black, of course,” she says, “but I never had him as a teacher. I had Ms Ferguson. I wasn’t trying to trick you, James, I just need to know what you think of him.”
James regards DC McCreadie for several long moments before rearranging his expression into forced neutrality. Reclining back into his chair, he says, “Okay then.”
“So, Mr Black offers support to pupils?” she prompts the boy.
He nods. “Yes. He’s always in his room with a load of pupils. Everyone who struggles with Biology goes to Mr Black…” James’s eyes go distant. “Or Miss Malone. Both of them are brilliant.”
McCreadie nods, smiling at the kid.
Thanks, James,” she says. “Could you tell us what was happening in Mr Black’s room before Harry came in?”
“We were doing this learning activity in the middle of the room with Mr Black.” James smiles at the memory but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Mr Black has us do these activities to help the pupils learn hard stuff.”
McCreadie nods once, encouraging the boy to continue.
“Active learning, Mr Black calls it. We were all in a big circle made from red wool, being chromosomes.”
James’s eyes drill into McCredie’s waiting for a reaction. Giving him none, she allows him to slip back into his story.
“So, he had us move around, pair up, line up along the equator of the nucleus. Forming nuclear membranes from the wool as the chromatids separate… All the stuff that happens in mitosis.”
“Sounds like his teaching really works for you, James. You know your stuff.”
James shrugs, throwing her another pity/sarcasm look.
“Aye.”
“There was nothing unusual about the lesson, or Mr Black?” McCreadie asks.
“Like what?”
“Did Mr Black seem nervous, or worried? Perhaps not his usual self in some way.”
James doesn’t need to think before he replies.
“Nup. He was the same as always, smiling and getting us busy around the room.” James’s expression loses all its vigour. Melting into melancholy his eyes stare off into the middle-distance. “It was just another day.”
McCreadie allows the silence to hang until the kid rolls his eyes up to look at her. Brimmed in red and moist, James’s eyes are very suddenly those of a child.
“I was cheeky to him… to Mr Black today,” the tears break. “It wasn’t anything, just snapped at him for rushing me in the corridor this morning…” James wipes at his tears with the back of his hand and cuff.
“Wish I hadn’t now,” he offers.
“We can stop for now if you need to,” McCreadie suggests.
Visibly steeling himself, James shakes his head.
“Naw. I’m ok. I want to help if I can. For Mr Black, y’know.”
McCreadie looks to the boy’s father, who nods for her to continue
“Can you tell me what happened when Harry Jardine came into the room?”
James’s face darkens once again at the mention of Harry’s name.
Animatedly, James begins using his hands as he speaks. “Jardine came into the room. He looked angry, but that angry-crying way.
“Some of the fourth years started laughing.” James, who can’t seem to stop himself, rises to his feet to act out his description.
“Jardine just stood there for a second, just glaring at the class.”
“Not at Mr Black?”
James shook his head. “He was definitely staring at… the class. Mr Black stepped in front of us. He didn’t look all that worried. His voice sounded like it always did. He told Jardine to calm down, to go to the head teacher’s office, and he’d come see him after class.
“It was like Jardine didn’t hear him at all. He just kept staring at the class. Then he pulled the knife out.”
James wraps his arms around his torso as though hugging himself.
“No-one was laughing then.”
McCreadie rises to her feet. Placing an arm around the boy, she speaks softly.
“What happened next, James?”
James picks a spot on the floor to stare at, but continues.
“Jardine ran at Mr Black. He slashed across his body.” James demonstrates the action.
“Cut Mr Black across here.”
Using his own body, James slices a line with his hand from his shoulder to his chest in a diagonal.
“Mr Black grabbed his wrists, but Jardine kept lunging at him. I saw the knife stab into Mr Black twice. Into his stomach. The whole time, Jardine’s eyes were fixed on us, on the class. He was trying to get Mr Black out of his way so he could get to us.”
Mr Beath rises from his chair and moves to stand next to his son.
The lad cuts a sidelong glance at his father before resuming.
“Mr Black ran, shoving at Jardine, pushing him through the door, out into the hall. The door slammed shut. And the automatic lock slid over. We heard it. Most of us ran to the door to see what was going on in the corridor.”
James takes a long pause to compose himself.
“We didn’t see Mr Black. Him and Jardine were off over next to Miss Malone’s door. We heard shouts and cries and what I think might have been someone being hit.”
McCreadie gave the boy’s shoulder a squeeze. “You’re doing great, James, but stick to what you saw.”
The kid nods.
“I saw the door close, and Mr Black and Jardine moved towards Miss Malone’s room. Mr Black was shoving and pulling him away from our door.”
James sags a little.
“After that, through the glass panel on the door, I saw Jardine standing over Mr Black and Ms Ferguson take him away. I stayed at the door, I wanted to cover the glass, stop the fourth years from see
ing… Some paramedics came and took Mr Black away, then forensic people, who laid out a long sheet for us to walk on and led us out.”
James, hugging himself once again, begins to shake.
“There was blood everywhere. I saw that. I saw Mr Black’s blood. We all did. There was so much of it.” The shaking worsens and James’s composure disappears.
His father puts a large arm around the boy, who presses his face up against his father’s chest. Mr Beath embraces his son, inside who a fundamental determination that’s been keeping him functioning has finally faded. The kid sobs uncontrollably into his father’s shirt.
Ms McKay, forgotten by most of the room’s occupants, steps forward, placing herself between McCreadie and the Beaths. She offers a statement no-one needs to hear.
“This interview is over, officers,” she says tartly.
DC Beth McCreadie ignores her completely. Looking past McKay, McCreadie smiles at James’s dad tightly.
“Thank you, James. You’ve been a big help.”
The boy doesn’t turn. His father leads him out of the room. A moment later, James, puffy-faced and broken looking, returns.
“Mr Black didn’t deserve to get hurt. All he ever did was help people. Get that wee bastard, Jardine.”
Unable to respond, McCreadie bobs a firm nod in acknowledgment then watches James leave for a second time.
Turning to Gilmour and Storrie, who both remain seated, McCreadie sighs, the short humourless sigh a person makes through their nose in lieu of something positive to say.
“Gonna be a long day.”
Deepest grief rolls off Mr Storrie in waves.
Gilmour merely nods.
Chapter Nine
“Thanks so much.” Seated in a plastic chair, arms resting on her knees, her upper body slumped forward, Frankie reaches for the Styrofoam cup offered by Nurse Fletcher whose eyes give the tired young teacher an overt once-over.
“You sure that you’re feeling alright?” the nurse asks.
Frankie shrugs, “Yeah, I just had a little moment…” Frankie indicates the door to the ICU behind her. “It’s… well, it’s a lot, y’know.”