by C. P. Wilson
Jenna’s mouth pinches and her face darkens. McKay lifts her eyes for the first time. Her voice is flat, matter of fact.
“Let’s stick to questions about the day’s events and Harry Jardine please, officers.”
Gilmour and McCreadie exchange an exasperated look.
“Okay,” McCreadie begins again. “So, you know Harry and have been messaging him for the last three months. He seemed fine? No strange messages or awkward moments?”
Jenna is clearly angry, but regains her composure quickly
“Nothing… except he sort of disappeared about two weeks ago.”
“From school?” McCreadie asks.
Jenna rolls her eyes. “No. He just stopped messaging me. I think he blocked me.”
“I see. Did you message him?”
“Nope. He blocked me, why would I message him?”
McCreadie gives the girl a few moments to elaborate. The silence that follows is deliberate, edged in defiance.
“Do you think he just forgot? Or was too busy?”
Jenna sits back into her chair for the first time since she entered the room. Her body language has morphed from worried, to keen to assist, to simple boredom.
“Don’t know,” she says.
McCreadie flashes her a smile.
“Alright, Jenna. Did you see Harry in school in the two weeks since he stopped messaging you?”
“No… Hang on, yeah. Just once, passed each other in the corridor.”
“You didn’t speak? After all the messages between you?”
Jenna shakes her head. Her eyes mist slightly. “I went to say hello as he passed, but there was around four people between us. When I made eye-contact with him, he looked away. He ignored me.”
Jenna sits back up straight again; her hands meet and begin gripping at each other once again. “I don’t know why, before you ask,” she says defiantly.
McCreadie relaxes back into her chair, hoping that the kid will mirror the gesture. Jenna remains seated at the edge of her chair, her back a steel rod.
“Can you describe for us what happened in Mr Black’s room?”
Jenna nods. Her eyes flick off up and to the left and stay there as she speaks.
“He came into the room. His face looked, well, it didn’t look like him. The way he looked at me… At us, I mean. It was like he wasn’t in there. The expression, the rage on his face. It was like someone bad was wearing his face and twisting it into shapes he never did.”
Jenna’s eyes dart up to assess McCreadie’s response before she continues.
“He moved toward… the class and Mr Black stepped in front of him. He was trying to calm Harry, to get him to look at him. When Harry tried to shove past Mr Black to get to us, Mr Black held him, sort of shoved at him. Harry began hitting Mr Black in the stomach.”
Jenna’s hands move up towards her abdomen, indicating where her teacher had been struck.
“I remember screaming at Harry to stop. I thought that he was punching Mr Black. Then there was blood, just everywhere.”
“You’re doing well, Jenna.”
Following a moment’s silence, McCreadie motions for the girl to continue.
Jenna nods, more to steel herself than to communicate.
“Harry stabbed Mr Black several times, so fast. It was like it was happening in a nightmare. Not in real life, there in our school.”
Jenna scans the faces in the room, seeking understanding, or perhaps comfort. Gilmour looks up from his notes to find her fixing her wide eyes on him. He gives her a conciliatory smile.
“Mr Black looked over his shoulder at us. He looked scared, but for us, not himself.”
Jenna lets out a loud sob, her hand moves to her mouth to catch the already escaped sound. She blinks slowly and deliberately several times before continuing. “Mr Black started shoving at Harry. He pushed him out of the door and slammed it shut behind them. Even though he’d been hurt, Mr Black was more worried about us, his class.”
McCreadie nods. “Sounds like he was very brave.”
Jenna nods her head several times sternly. “He was heroic,” she states flatly.
McCreadie allows a beat to pass.
“What happened after that, Jenna?” she asks.
Jenna fists tears from her cheeks and eyes. “The class rushed towards the door, to try to see out of the glass panel. I was near the back, I couldn’t see out, but the people at the front said that they couldn’t see much as Harry and Mr Black were over nearer Ms Malone’s room.”
Jenna composes herself, arranging her hands palms down on her lap.
“They took the whole class out after Harry and Mr Black were taken away. They had to put a strip of plastic down for us to get over all the blood.”
Jenna’s thoughts drift.
Gilmour signals Storrie. Rising from his chair, he motions for Jenna Hopkins to join him.
McCreadie stands also.
“Thanks Jenna. You’ve been very helpful,” McCreadie says, holding a hand out to shake.
The kid looks at the offered hand for a moment before deciding to accept the gesture. Holding DC McCreadie’s hand loosely she says, “Harry Jardine deserves to be punished for what he did to Mr Black. He’s a good teacher who only tried to help people.”
McCreadie bobs a nod in reply and watches as Storrie leads the teenager out of the meeting room.
McKay maintains her detached silence as the detectives exchange quiet words, their mouths near to each other’s ears.
“We need to interview her again at some stage, at the station,” McCreadie states.
“Agreed. James Beath as well. He’s holding too much anger for Harry for it to be a result of just the attack. Even with feelings as high as they are today, my gut tells me it pre-dates today’s incident.”
McCreadie leans in. “Doesn’t really matter though, does it? They all agree that Harry attacked Mr Black,” McCreadie says.
Gilmour takes a step back and makes a silent gesture that they’ll discuss it later.
Both detectives remain standing, awaiting their next interviewee. Mr Storrie returns with a tall boy who looks like he’ll fill out into the shape of a rugby player in the next few years.
Gilmour indicates that he’ll take the lead for this interview and the detectives make ready for the remainder of the kids they must question. Whilst McCreadie seats herself and readies her notepad, Gilmour smiles a welcome at the kid. Pushing back the natural distaste he always feels at these moments when debriefing people about what is probably the single most traumatic day any of them will face, Gilmour steps to the boy hoping that the kid is as emotionally able as he appears to be physically.
Three more to go, the DS repeats to himself internally.
“This is Connor Phillips,” Storrie introduces the lad, who steps forward confidently to shake Gilmour’s hand.
Partly due to the teenager’s demeanour, but mostly because of training and experience, Gilmour’s reservations about the task ahead disappear and he gets on with his job.
Interlude
Jordan, Steve McVey, Tiegan, Jason, Molly, James, Jenna. WhatsApp Group chat:
Jordan:
Can’t believe that at school today.
Steve:
Yeah, what the fuck, man? Fourth year class as well.
Jordan:
See the blood outside Blackie’s door?
Steve:
Every cunt saw it, mate.
Jordan:
Aye. It’s a shame, but, innit?
Steve:
Totally. Blackie’s a good cunt. That Harry Jardine… Didnae think he had it in him.
Tiegan:
He’s always gave me the creeps.
Steve:
How? Seemed quiet to me.
Tiegan:
That’s cos you’re a boy. It’s different for girls.
Jordan:
Don’t talk shite, Tiegan. Jardine barely said a word at school.
Tiegan:
I know what I know.
Jenna:
You know fuck all, Tiegan. You’re only saying that to look involved. Harry is a nice boy. Well… he was.
Jordan:
It was definitely him?
Steve:
Definitely. Miss Ferguson took him away and then the police came for him. Billy Garrity said Harry was covered in blood. I mean, everywhere, like he’d had a fucking shower in it.
Jenna:
I was in the room, it was him. But it was like, he wasn't really there. He looked like someone else.
Steve:
How’d you mean?
Jenna:
He just looked different, angry, sad, more than anything he looked terrified.
James:
Jardine is a madman. I’m not the least bit surprised.
Tiegan:
Fucking loony. Poor Mr Black. He’s sound as well. Why him?
James:
No idea.
Jenna:
Wrong place?
Jordan:
There’s stuff up on Twitter and on Facebook saying Mr Black is a paedo.
Jenna:
No fucking way!
James:
Bullshit. Not Mr Black.
Jordan:
I’m just telling you what’s up there.
James:
Well it’s total shite. Don’t go repeating that to anyone.
…
….
Chapter Fifteen
Frankie rouses, only distantly aware that she isn’t in her own house. The once intrusive beeps, whirrs, clicks and suction noises of the room begin to seep into her conscious mind and awareness soon follows.
Habit prompts her to check her phone screen. Frankie curses when she realises the battery has died. Her screen is dead, useful only as a black mirror. Fishing in her handbag, she curses some more before feeling her hand close around a little portable battery pack.
Slipping the charging cable in, Frankie checks the clock. It’s 3:40pm. Almost the end of the school day. The realisation that all the pain and hurt and stress she and Dougie, the whole school really, have experienced has occurred over a single working day makes Frankie shake her head to clear it, then she gives Dougie a look over. Other than the slant of light slashing through the window having moved position as the day passes, he looks as before. Still, peaceful and empty.
A few second later a cheery welcome from her phone joins the other electronic beeps in the room and draws Frankie from her growing self-pity.
The instant the little apple disappears on her screen, the device finds a signal and begins buzzing and vibrating continuously. A cascade of blue and green banners flash across and pile up, one after the other, on the screen.
Message from Mum…
Message from Lisa…
Message from John…
Message from Mum…
Message from Bailey…
Facebook notification…
WhatsApp group notification…
Messenger from Carolyn…
Facebook notification…
Messenger from Todd…
“Christ-sake!”
Frankie presses her thumb to the home button and starts with her text messages. Skimming through the texts Frankie reads through a series of messages from her mother saying that she’d heard what had happened at the school and was worried for her. Frankie composes an apologetic reply, assuring her that she’s absolutely fine, just upset and concerned for Dougie.
The remainder of her texts are from concerned friends who have seen the news on TV or online. Frankie replies to a few then cuts and pastes her reply to the rest.
One single message remains in her Inbox, from John. It reads:
You need to read the Facebook threads on Cambuscraig High.
Blinking the last remnants of gumminess from her eyes, Frankie reclines into the chair, crossing her legs as she opens the Facebook app and selects the search bar.
‘Cambuscraig High School’
The search returns dozens of posts. Most are speculative and posted from the accounts of individual people, but some have been published from news agencies.
Attempted murder at Cambuscraig High
Teacher assaulted at local high school
Police investigation of serious assault at Cambuscraig
Frankie scrolls down the feed, wondering which particular posts prompted John’s message. Nothing there but reports of the assault on Dougie, several threads from concerned parents and the odd pupil posting about it being their school (smiley-face).
Frankie’s finger finally ceases its sliding and scrolling of the screen when she comes across the header:
Suspected paedophile stabbed in revenge attack at Cambuscraig High.
Clicking on the post, Frankie is led to the personal account of a man calling himself PaedoHunter. She clicks on the post, which reads like a stream of consciousness, full of suppositions, theories and assumptions. The post doesn’t even get Dougie’s name correct.
Shaking her head at the nonsense it contains, Frankie hits the back arrow to return to her search results. Ten minutes pass in this manner as she scrolls and clicks and discards dozens of posts from various people, all claiming some insidious reason for the attack on Dougie. None of them hold a shred of truth. They don’t even read like they could be true, but they’re there, right there on Facebook, their crass headlines for any to see and put together the words, teacher, Mr Black, child molester, revenge attack.
Frankie feels bilious heat rise in her chest and then throat, but a hard swallow pushes it back.
Switching to Twitter, Frankie scans the trending feeds, mercifully finding few mentions of Dougie. Great she thinks bitterly. Following a search of the school’s name, though, she does find many similar posts to those found on Facebook. For the first time, Frankie comprehends the term ‘Fake News’ and is cowed by the speed at which it can spread. One simple lie or misunderstanding acting as a seed growing roots and stem to become accepted as fact within hours… minutes even.
@nholten40: Hasn’t this poor man been through enough. Lying in hospital, stabbed and they’re accusing him of all sorts. Sick. #MrBlack #CambuscraigHigh
@Trendyweddell: He needs strung up by the balls. Total abuse of his position. #MrBlack
@GallusWeeKat: My daughter has had him as her teacher two years running. He’s a lovely man. No way has he done anything to any kid. #MrBlack
@sukieblue: Castration is too good for these predators. #CambuscraigHigh
Frankie blinks hard several times as though the simple act will erase the allegations attached to her friend’s name. Her phone buzzes once again in her hand.
Message from John…
Frankie slides the bar on the screen to open the message from her husband. Any shred of understanding she holds for why he’s been acting like such a dick today disappears the moment she reads his message.
You shouldn’t be there with him. Get home, now!
Frankie’s fingers work at the screen.
Fuck off, Joh…
Pausing, she deletes the reply, breathes a long deliberate breath from her body and starts again.
None of that is true. You should know better. I’ll call you later.
Frankie drops her phone onto the arm of her chair and rests her head back. Closing her eyes, she searches for a little calm amongst the anger that’s threating to take her reason from her. Anger at the crassness and cruelty of online morons. Anger at Harry Jardine, even anger at Dougie for just lying there when she needs him. Mostly, though, she’s monumentally pissed at her husband.
A rush of air through the opening door robs her of the few moments she needs to compose herself.
Nurse Fletcher is stood at the door, two men in her wake.
“Uh, sorry, Frankie, I have two detectives here asking if you feel well enough to speak to them now?”
Frankie’s heart sinks.
Her tone holds the bitterest humour. “Sure, why the fuck not?”
A tall, plainc
lothes, middle-aged detective and a younger man, also in a crumpled shirt and tie, enter the room.
The older man offers her a flat, supportive smile before speaking.
“Hello, Ms Malone. I’m Detective Inspector Billy Stephens. This is my colleague, DC Armstrong.”
Armstrong offers her the same expression as his boss: a policeman’s smile, one that offers sympathy with a side of scrutiny.
“Are you happy to speak to us just now?” Stephens asks. Frankie nods once.
Nurse Fletcher interjects, “Would you like me to stay, Frankie?” she asks.
Eyes fixed on DI Stephens, Frankie shakes her head. A moment later she hears Fletcher exit the room.
“Thank you, Ms Malone,” Stephens continues. “Would you describe for us the events that took place between Harry Jardine and Mr Black? Please just relay them as they come to you.”
Armstrong taking notes, Stephens guiding her narrative, Frankie, in auto-pilot and forcing a dispassionate monologue, leads them through the worst day of her life.
∞∞∞
“After that, I came here in the ambulance with Dougie. I’ve been here since.”
Stephens acknowledges her words with a nod; his subordinate, Armstrong, taps away at his phone screen documenting her words. His neutral presence and the incessant electronic tapping is beginning to annoy Frankie.
Leaning forward in his plastic chair, DI Stephens rests his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers, lightly touching his upper lip with two index fingers. It’s a gesture that’s become familiar to Frankie in the short time she’s spent being interviewed by the detective in the little staff room made available for them, but one she’s finding quite the irritant at present. In truth, everything about these two men is exasperating her, but particularly the lean and steeple. Teachers detest these little mannerisms, especially those designed to give the person utilising them an interval in which to compose a lie, a question, or simply to evade having to speak.