Three Hours : A Novel (2020)

by Lupton, Rosamund

  Rafi Bukhari didn’t turn up at all this morning and he hasn’t texted. She has a huge soft spot for Rafi, nearly all of them do; everything he’s been through, and that smile and quick intelligence. Those liquid dark eyes, like a gazelle. Extraordinary, kind, beautiful boy. But he’s survived a boat in a storm and people smugglers; he has survived Assad and Daesh and Russian bombers, for heaven’s sakes; of all these children, the adults too, he knows how to look after himself.

  But Tobias Fern. Anxiety for Tobias feels heavy and unwieldy, like a squirming toddler refusing to be put down, a feeling that is the opposite of Tobias himself: tall and slim, self-contained and private, a boy who only just tolerates being touched. Tobias sometimes loses track of where he’s meant to be and has been found wandering around the school campus with his noise-cancelling headphones. But he was looking pale yesterday, she commented on it to him, urging him to get a good night’s sleep, so she can allow herself to hope that his mother’s kept him home today and in all the chaos her message hasn’t got through.

  No WhatsApp message from Sally-Anne in the foyer.

  She goes backstage to check on the kids hiding behind her forest. Some are covered by evergreen spruces and are surprisingly well camouflaged, but others are sheltering behind deciduous leafless trees and their clothes and pale faces shine through.

  ‘Birnam Wood! You need to have make-up. Dirty faces, please.’

  The woodland parts. Saplings are laid on the floor.

  She hands out make-up cases. ‘Make each other’s faces grubby; browns and greens.’

  They hurriedly put make-up on each other’s faces, fingers clumsy. Joanna starts on her friend Caitlin, neatly using a brush. Daphne thinks about telling Joanna just to slap it on, this is not the Make-up Design module of a GCSE drama exam, but suspects this is how Joanna is coping so will leave her be.

  ‘You’re in a safe place here,’ she says to them all. ‘There’s no windows and the doors are extra strong. There’s no way they will get to us.’

  ‘But you haven’t locked the doors to the corridor, have you?’ Luisa asks. Her twin brother, Frank, is in the library in Old School.

  ‘No,’ Daphne says. ‘I haven’t locked them. Right, once your make-up’s done, put on your costumes.’

  Their costumes for Macbeth are brown hessian tunics, which are used pretty much for every production in some form or another. For Macbeth, they’re tied with rope round the waist as tunics. They’ll blend better behind the trees than colourful hoodies and T-shirts.

  ‘Are we going to rehearse?’ Joanna asks.

  Mother of Mary, is Joanna even on this planet?

  ‘Maybe later,’ she says to Joanna.

  ‘Are Anna and Young Fry safe?’ Josh asks. ‘Have you heard?’

  Seven-year-olds Anna and Davy, nicknamed Young Fry, are playing the Macduff children but weren’t due to be here till before their cue, in over an hour’s time.

  ‘They were doing art in New School this morning,’ she says. ‘So they’ll have been evacuated.’

  ‘You’re sure, Daphne?’ Josh asks her.

  ‘Yes, easy to evacuate New School.’

  They all call her Daphne, which started when they were much younger because her surname is long and complicated, so they called her ‘Miss Daphne’, and then as they got older they dropped the ‘Miss’, and for heaven’s sakes, what does it matter what they call her? But it does. It’s like they trust her not to be separate from them, to level with them.

  ‘What about everyone else in Junior School?’ Antonella asks.

  ‘There will be a contingency plan,’ Daphne says, making it up as she goes along, not levelling with them, because what possible contingency plan can there be for everyone in Junior School, a remote building at the end of the drive, a mile from the road and help? She’s tried ringing colleagues in Junior School but nobody has answered. Focus on these children right now, because they’re the only ones you can help.

  Boys and girls are changing in the same room, which wouldn’t normally happen. A few are clearly embarrassed and she’s heartened because they can’t be that afraid if they’re able to be self-conscious; though teenagers can probably be self-conscious in any situation.

  ‘Once you’re changed I want you behind the trees again. Become Birnam Wood! Method act a woodland!’

  A few smiles. Brave kids.

  She helps the last few camouflage their faces, the ones whose partner’s hands were shaking too much to do it.

  ‘Won’t be long now till the police are here,’ she says, because surely the police will help them soon. ‘This is just me being ultra-cautious; my OCD kicking in.’

  She hides them behind the rows of saplings, then goes to the props rooms. The first one is locked and Jamie Alton has the key but the second larger one is unlocked and filled with more saplings. She drags them backstage. The bark splinters into her hands and they’re heavy. Last year, when their house was flooded out, Philip had called her a trooper and now she’s acting out that part because she doesn’t know what other part she can play that will be of any use to the children.

  They are well hidden behind the trees, surprisingly so. There’s a good chance that if her plan goes wrong and the gunmen come in and just have a quick look, they won’t be seen. A really good chance.

  She goes from the auditorium to the foyer. This evening, two students were meant to stand by the auditorium doors, handing out Macbeth programmes to parents and staff.

  There’s a bar area in the foyer and security doors to the glass corridor that links to Old School. A hundred feet long, the corridor goes through the woods and was designed so that people could come and go from the theatre to Old School without getting wet, and she’d been snarky about it – has no one ever heard of an umbrella? – but now it means escape and safety.

  She’d hoped to see children and teachers running along the glass corridor through the woods to the sanctuary of the theatre. But the corridor is deserted, snow falling all around it. There are no lights shining at the other end from Old School; the door shut and the school in darkness.

  There’s just Sally-Anne standing watch at their open doors holding a nail gun. She doubts a gunman will allow Sally-Anne near enough for her to fire nails at him but admires her pluck. Good grief, she’s using her grandmother’s war words; there’s a whole vocabulary to go with this new character she’s playing, although she’s starting to feel that this is her most real self; that how she has been to this point was a just a read-through for who she is now.

  ‘Anything?’ she asks Sally-Anne.

  ‘No. How are our kids doing?’

  Daphne wonders if she imagined the stress Sally-Anne put on ‘our’, signalling where Daphne’s responsibilities should be; pointing out that the safest thing for their kids would be to lock the doors of the corridor their end and block off the means of escape for everyone in Old School. Sally-Anne could be holding the nail gun not because she’s plucky but because she’s protecting herself with the only available weapon. She’s worked with Sally-Anne for nearly four years, but you don’t know a person, she realizes, including yourself, not until the everyday is stripped away. Sweet young Sally-Anne could be anyone at all; colleagues who’ve worked together for years, friends, can be turned into strangers with one another.

  ‘Do you think the theatre is really that safe?’ Sally-Anne asks.

  Because if the theatre isn’t ‘really that safe’, then they cannot offer a haven to the other teachers and students and so can lock their doors without any guilt.

  ‘Yes I do,’ she replies.

  ‘Good,’ Sally-Anne says. ‘We’ll wait then, as long as we have to.’

  ‘Birnam Wood have make-up on,’ Daphne says. ‘I wanted them to splodge on some camouflage but Joanna made up Caitlin like a wood nymph.’

  Sally-Anne half laughs.

  ‘You think a nail gun will do any good?’ Daphne asks.

  ‘We can always hope. Might slow them down. I thought we should rig up the
brightest lights and if we see the gunmen shine the lights in their eyes. It’ll blind them for a bit; buy us a few more minutes.’

  Daphne likes the symbolism of blinding with light and feels ugly for doubting her.

  2.

  9.20 a.m.

  Beth Alton is driving her Prius like a bat out of hell, Mum, down the country road, skidding on ice, righting the car and foot flat down again. School in lockdown. Told by a PTA group text, not Jamie. Hasn’t heard anything from Jamie. One hand holds her mobile to her ear, other on the steering wheel. Jamie still not answering; pick up, pick up, pick up.

  You don’t let me drive like this, Mum, even on a farm track.

  You’re a learner.

  Dad’s going to be seriously unimpressed if you dent it.

  I know.

  Pretend it was someone in Waitrose’s car park again.

  It was.

  Jamie’s laughter.

  All in her head.

  His number goes through to message again: ‘Hey, it’s Jamie, leave me a message.’

  ‘Jamie, sweetheart, it’s Mum again. Are you okay? Please ring me.’

  Why isn’t he answering?

  Her mobile rings, a jolt of hope, but it’s her husband, Mike, that’s displayed.

  ‘Anything?’ Mike asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You know what he’s like with his mobile,’ Mike says.

  ‘But he’d phone, with this happening he’d phone us.’

  ‘I meant he forgets to charge it,’ Mike says. ‘Or leaves it somewhere. He was doing the dress rehearsal this morning, wasn’t he?’

  Why does that matter?

  ‘He’ll be in the theatre,’ Mike says. ‘Safest place in the school. No windows. Like a bunker.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes, that’s where he’ll be.’

  Thank God for Zac and even Victor, who she loathes but now forgives, because Victor and Zac are the reason that Jamie’s in the theatre, they’re the friends who persuaded him to join in the production of Macbeth, otherwise – she doesn’t want to think about otherwise. Safest place in the school.

  ‘I’m getting the train, should be at the station in an hour, but the snow’s making things slow.’

  He’s in Bath, meant to be at a conference.

  ‘Okay.’

  She ends the call. No missed call or message from Jamie. But he’s in the theatre, safe, Zac there too; all of them together.

  It’s just props, Mum, wasn’t like I had to audition or anything.

  Props are really important. And Zac’s doing the technical side too, isn’t he?

  Yeah, lights. Victor is Macbeth.

  Props are just as important.

  As the main part? Seriously, Mum?

  To me, yes.

  Heart soft as a baby bird.

  Is that from that TV series?

  And I try to give her a compliment.

  She looks up Zac’s number on her mobile contacts, swerving into the snow-covered verge as she takes her eyes off the road. She presses dial, two wheels on the verge, the car tipping at an angle. As Zac’s phone rings, she remembers Jamie’s first day, joining in Year 10 after being bullied at his mean, strict school for the previous three years – not sporty like his older brother, not resilient. The other pupils at Cliff Heights School had looked so relaxed in their scruffy clothes, so confident, arms casually flung round each other; Jamie a stiff wooden pin, as if still wearing a blazer and balancing a cap. Then he’d made two friends, Victor, older than Jamie but new like him, and Zac, the same age, who’d been at the school since Reception, a warm-hearted, easy-going boy who’d clap his arm round Jamie’s shoulders and say ‘Jamester!’ and Jamie would look startled but pleased. Zac’s text nickname for him was ‘J-Me’ and Jamie loved it, still uses it for his Twitter, Snapchat and Instagram. Jamie’s never become as outgoing and confident as Zac, the unchecked cruelty at the previous school leaving a legacy of vulnerability.

  Zac’s phone goes through to message.

  ‘Zac, it’s Beth, Jamie’s mum. Are you with Jamie? Is he okay? Can you ask him to ring me?’

  She hangs up and rights the car, jolting back on to the road. She didn’t think to ask Zac if he was okay.

  She hasn’t seen much of Zac recently, not for ages, because Jamie hasn’t seen him outside of school, at least not at their house. Yesterday she was actually worried about that.

  She’s nowhere near the school yet, but there are police cars blocking the road so you can’t even see the school or your child running down the driveway towards you – because that’s been the spooling film of fantasy all this time, that he will run to you and you will be there and that’s the end of it.

  Other parents’ cars are just stopped any old how along the verge. No one is wearing coats, one father still in pyjamas; everyone running to their cars to get to school. Beth hurries towards the police, surrounded by a group of parents. A man is shouting at them, ‘Why aren’t you in the school? Why aren’t you doing anything?’ Other voices as she tries to push her way through:

  ‘Armed police are coming.’

  ‘There’s been shots inside Old School.’

  ‘Are any children hurt?’

  ‘A few minutes ago.’

  ‘Has anyone been hurt?’

  ‘I thought he was in the woods, by the gatehouse.’

  ‘Must be more of them.’

  ‘He’s in the corridor.’

  Beth, a slender five foot two, not a pusher or shover, is at the front, elbows outwards, facing a police officer. ‘I have to get to the school. My son’s in there.’ A right of entry, because who can argue with that? The police officer looks at her like everyone else here has said the same thing.

  ‘We’re asking relatives to go to The Pines Leisure Centre, outside Minehead. Do you know how to get there?’

  But how can she possibly leave him?

  ‘A police officer at the leisure centre will update parents with information.’

  She’s torn between not wanting to leave the place where he is and wanting to be told he’s okay; that he’s safe. She walks back to her car, the icy ground slippery under her shoes, other parents also returning to their cars.

  She hadn’t noticed the snow falling, covering her hair and shoulders, but as she drives away, the snow melts, dripping down her neck inside her collar, off her sensibly cut hair and on to her hands, and she feels like she’s abandoning him.

  The trees and roads and hedges are being covered in snow, making the familiar landscape unrecognizable.

  A text buzzes from Zac.

  Hey Beth, J-me went 2 CDT room 2 get cauldron

  He’s not safe in the theatre with Zac and his friends. Not safe.

  * * *

  In the library, Frank is in the alcove furthest from the door, crouched under a Victorian table that’s bolted to the floor, one hand pressing his mobile against his left ear as he talks to his mum. He has his mobile and laptop with him, even though they’re not allowed in the library, jittery if he’s away from his technology. His other hand is over his right ear to try to block out the sound of the footsteps. They make him feel breathless, like they are hands squeezing his throat. His twin sister, Luisa, is in the theatre, safe.

  Feeling a coward, treacherous, he pretends to his mum that he’s almost out of charge and ends the call, because at some point it stopped being her comforting him and turned into him comforting her and he just couldn’t do that any more. He hands his phone to Esme, crouched next to him.

  There are thirteen of them in here and to start with it had been almost fun in a weird kind of way, it was all Code red!! Lockdown!! like they were starring in a Netflix series, but now Mr Marr’s been shot and footsteps are walking up and down and it’s something that makes you terrified and small and huddled into yourself.

  He looks up at the shuttered windows, too narrow for a person to get through and too high up. Even if they could fit, it wouldn’t do any good. There were gunshots earlier near the gatehouse – b
ack when it was all dramatic and exciting and not frightening, before it really began – so there’s another gunman out there, maybe more than one, and no cover on the lawn. Frank thinks of deer running and a sniper picking them off, and hunches down, as if he can make himself even smaller, as if that will help.

  Hannah is with Ed and David; they’re helping Mr Marr and talking to the ambulance people and piling up books against the door. He hates himself for not being brave like them. A nerd, he says to himself, a computer nerd, what do you expect? Furious with himself. Hannah is splattered in blood and just wearing a bra and he’s never seen anyone so impressive in his life before. He’s had a crush on her since Year 7, something delicate and gentle and secret. Other boys wouldn’t understand, they don’t think she’s pretty. Rafi does though; Rafi thinks she’s gorgeous. Lucky Rafi.

  Hannah checks Mr Marr’s head wound. It’s not bleeding as much but he’s getting paler.

  The footsteps have stopped for almost a minute, he’s just standing still in the corridor. What is he waiting for?

  On her phone David is saying ‘but how soon?’ and ‘he needs help right away’, like he doesn’t trust them to get an ambulance here as fast as they can.

  She hardly has any charge left and all the time David talks to the 999 people the percentage left for Dad and Rafi ticks down, which sounds a bit ‘last dance on the Titanic’ but on this ordinary school morning is true; she’d called goodbye up the stairs to Dad, didn’t kiss him, didn’t even see him.

  In the corridor, he’s started moving again, coming closer towards them: click-click click-click. Why couldn’t he have worn trainers and been stealthy? She’d choose stealthy over this, like some deadly kind of tinnitus. He must’ve bought boots with metal in the heels specially. Must’ve known it would make people feel like she does. Arsehole.

  David hands her back her phone. ‘Sorry,’ he says because there’s no charge left. ‘They didn’t say when the ambulance will get here.’

  There’s a mobile being handed round at the back of the library and maybe they should take it but surely the ambulance will get to them as quickly as possible, surely you don’t need to chase up an ambulance when your headmaster’s been shot; and people also really need to talk to their parents.