2007 - A tale etched in blood and hard black pencel

by Christopher Brookmyre

  “Noodsy and…Christ. Which one’s in the ambulance?”

  “Turbo.”

  “More Friends Reunited?” Alex asks.

  “Yeah. They were both in mine and Colin Temple’s class at school. But that’s the lesser of the connections here.”

  “What’s the biggie?”

  She nods to Spiers for him to break it to the pathologist.

  “Turbo is Johnny Turner’s youngest son.”

  ST ELIZABETH’S

  Primary One

  61 Ursae Majoris

  Tears and Other Spillages

  There is a smell of apples. Not fresh, not the smell when you have one in your hand, which disappears when you bite into it and the taste takes over inside your nose. It’s something more fusty and a wee bit yuck: apples that have been left too long somewhere dark, maybe one of the desks with the lids that open. The smell itself isn’t bad, but Martin is a wee bit uneasy when he smells it, so he thinks it’s the smell he doesn’t like, when in fact it’s how the smell makes him feel. It reminds him of Gran’s pantry, where she keeps her carrots and sometimes cooking apples, which are huge but don’t taste as good as normal apples. He took a bite of one once when he was in there looking for biscuits. You’re allowed as much fruit as you like because it’s good for you and doesn’t rot your teeth or make you fat, but you get a row if you start eating something you don’t finish. Gran says your eyes are bigger than your belly when you don’t finish something you asked for, and she laughs, but Mum gets angry ‘because it’s a waste and there’s black babies who are starvinafrica’. The cooking apple was sour and Martin knew he couldn’t eat another bite of it, but it was the biggest apple he’d ever seen, the size of Florence’s head on The Magic Roundabout, and he knew Mum would give him into huge trouble for not finishing it, so he put it back under some other apples and turned it so that the bite was facing the other way. You got worms in apples, so maybe when Gran found it she’d think that was what had taken the bite. But he’d worried about it because he knew it was naughty, and you got into even bigger trouble if you were caught later than at the time, because Mum said being sleekit was worse than the naughty nurse itself. So every time he was at Gran’s house after that, he went to the pantry hoping to find that the apple was gone, but it wasn’t, and that was when the pantry started to smell of it. Even once the bitten apple was finally away, the pantry still smelt of it, and it always made him feel funny inside.

  Today, however, is the last time the smell will remind him of anything else. From now on, though it will always make him feel the same, it will remind him only of this place.

  He squats on the floor, along the wall beneath the windows, facing the door on the other side of the room. The wooden desks are arranged in several rows, all facing the front, but nobody is sitting at any of them. The majority of the children are lined up alongside him, but some are still standing around the door, not letting go of their mummies. Most of these are crying, and those who are not soon begin to once their mummies unclasp their hands and wave bye-bye. Quite a few of the boys and girls along the wall are crying too, which makes Martin think that he ought to, like it is the correct response under the circumstances. He didn’t cry when his mummy went away, though strangely he thought for a moment that she might. She left him at the gates and wished him luck, then went back to her car and drove off before she was late for work. He didn’t cry because he didn’t feel sad and nothing was sore. He used to cry sometimes when Mummy left him at playgroup, but that was when he was really totey. Now, though, he’s starting to wonder if it’s expected of him, as his gran advised him yesterday to watch the other boys and girls and do as they do if you’re ever a bit confused.

  He is about to join in bubbling when the boy next to him begins speaking. He doesn’t know the boy; doesn’t know anyone in the class, in fact. All the children he knew at nursery are starting at Braeside Primary instead. He doesn’t know why he has been sent to a different school, but didn’t really think about it until today. The only boy he knows who is supposed to be starting at St Elizabeth’s is Dominic Reilly, whose mummy is friends with Martin’s mummy so they sometimes play at each other’s house. Martin prefers it when they play at Dominic’s, because he has a Matchbox Motorway and Dominic’s mum lets them have orange ice-lollies made in Tupperware from the freezer. But Dominic isn’t in this class, and he didn’t see him outside, so maybe Dominic’s mum changed her mind and sent him to Braeside Primary with the others.

  “Hullo,” says the boy. He looks friendly. “What’s your name?” he asks.

  “Martin,” Martin replies.

  “I’m Scot. I’m not greetin. My da says I hadnae tae greet. How are you no greetin? Did your da tell you no tae as well?”

  Martin thinks about this, can’t remember his dad giving any advice for school other than to work hard and not get the belt. Mummy told him off for saying this, but in a happy way, so Martin knew Daddy was making a joke.

  Martin likes the look of Scot. He is smiley and seems unperturbed by his new surroundings. Martin wants them to be friends and decides this would be helped along if they have something in common, so he fibs and says, “Yes.” Then he adds: “And not to get the belt.” Martin doesn’t actually know what this belt is that his daddy was talking about, but thinks it will make Scot like him if he sounds as though he already knows something about school.

  “Aye,” Scot agrees. “Tsh, tsh, aiyah,” he says, giggling and doing some sort of action with his hands that Martin doesn’t follow, though he grasps that pain is involved.

  A little later, the mummies have all finally gone and all the crying seems to have stopped. The teacher announces that her name is Mrs Murphy and gets them all to say, “Good morning, Mrs Murphy.” Then she reads out everyone’s name from a sheet of paper, to which they each have to say, “Present, miss,” and put up their hands. Martin understands that ‘present’ is another word for ‘here’, so knows the teacher won’t be giving them parcels. He is not sure all the other children know this, however, as some of them looked very happy when they heard the word.

  There is a girl nearby who is rocking from side to side as she sits cross-legged. Martin noticed her because she wasn’t one of the ones who was crying. He suspects that maybe she needs the toilet.

  The teacher reads out the name ‘Helen Dunn’ and the rocking girl shoots her hand up, saying, “Present, miss,” with gleeful enthusiasm. Martin notices that there is another girl further along the wall who also has her hand up. She seems like she wants to say something but is too shy. The teacher looks at her and she starts to appear very worried, probably about to cry.

  “What is it, dear?” the teacher asks in a soft voice. The girl’s eyes fill up and she starts to bubble. “Come on, you can tell me, pet. There’s nothing to worry about. We’re just all getting to know each other’s names. What’s yours?”

  The girl sniffs, trying to get her words out through the greeting, which Martin knows is hard, especially when you’re a bit feart. “Helen Dunn,” she says.

  The teacher turns to the other girl, who still has her hand up, still looks very happy, like she really did get a present.

  “And you’re called Helen Dunn, too?” Mrs Murphy asks, looking at her sheet of paper.

  The girl now looks a bit worried. “No,” she says. “I’m called Karen.”

  “Why did you put your hand up when I said Helen’s name, Karen?”

  The girl’s cheeks go red. “I couldn’t wait, miss,” she says.

  The teacher smiles and covers her mouth. Martin suspects she’s laughing. The ladies at playgroup sometimes did that. Mummy said this was because it was rude to laugh at people when they make mistakes. None of the children laugh. Martin doesn’t know if this is because they are being polite or because they don’t realise Karen has made a mistake. He hopes it’s the first one, because then he won’t have to worry that they’ll laugh at him if he does something daft, too.

  The teacher goes through all the names, then
starts over again, but this time when your name is called, you have to go and sit at the desk she tells you. Martin jumps to his feet when his turn comes, and climbs quickly on to the seat, which is connected to the desk by big metal pipes. He lifts the heavy wooden lid and looks inside. It is empty apart from a few wisps of pencil-shavings underneath a round hole at the very front. Martin looks at the desk next to him to make sure it is the same and that the hole is supposed to be there. He doesn’t want the teacher thinking he broke it, in case he gets the belt. Daddy was joking about this, which meant he didn’t think it was very likely, but that meant he’d be all the more angry if it actually happened.

  Martin watches the others take their places one by one, seeing the next row fill up. To his right is a girl called Alison, who was crying when her mummy left and still looks very feart. He had been hoping to end up next to Scot, but he is two rows away on the left, his name having been among the first ones called.

  Once they have all been given a desk, the teacher talks for a very long time, and Martin has to try hard to keep listening, like at Mass. Mummy says to listen because the priest is telling a story, but it never sounds like a story to Martin, just boring talk, talk, talk. The teacher’s voice is nicer than any of the priests’, though. They all talk in a kind of half-singing voice, which Martin thinks must be because they are talking to God, as nobody talks to normal people like that, not even on telly.

  When she is finished, she opens a cupboard and produces a pile of blue books which she calls ‘jotters’. Then she asks the girl in the front row, nearest the teacher’s table, to go round and give one to everybody. The girl is called Joanne. She is bigger than Martin and a bit plump, and wasn’t crying before, so Martin thinks she must be five already. He won’t be five until November. He watches her hand out the jotters, eagerly taking hold of his. There is writing on the back, blank white pages inside, and on the front a box with three rows of dotted lines.

  While Joanne is doing her rounds, there is a knock on the classroom door, and a man in blue overalls enters, carrying a big orange plastic crate.

  “Good morning, Mr Johnston,” says Mrs Murphy. “Children, this is Mr Johnston, our janitor, and he’s got something special for us. Say: “Good Morning, Mr Johnston.””

  They all say it, that Karen girl really shouting it out. Joanne stops where she is, like she’s forgotten what she’s doing, and has to be told by the teacher to return to her task. Everyone is trying to see what is in the crate. It looks like white triangles.

  “And what special thing do you have for us, Mr Johnston?” the teacher asks him.

  “School milk, Mrs Murphy,” he says. He smiles.

  Martin has never heard of a janitor before, but he knows there are sometimes two names for the same job: a normal one and a fancy one, like joiner and carpenter. He has now worked out that janitor is the fancy name for a milkman, and looks forward to telling his daddy this tonight when he gets home from work.

  Once the janitor has gone away again, the teacher sits at her table and once again begins calling out everybody’s name. This time it takes ages, because when it’s your turn you have to bring your new jotter to her and get your name written on it. Then you are allowed to pick up a carton of milk and a blue straw and take it back to your desk to drink it. Martin’s name is called, and as before he immediately follows a boy named Gary Hawkins. Gary passes him on his way back from the crate, clutching his triangular carton and already eagerly stabbing at it with his blue straw. Martin notices varying levels of success in extracting the milk as he progresses towards the front: some contentedly sipping away; others comparing with their neighbours for clues as to piercing the container; while a girl called Zoe is tugging at the edges as her straw lies in wait upon her desk.

  Mrs Murphy writes Martin’s name on one of the dotted lines, then points to the line below it and tells him that if he is a good boy and pays attention, he will soon be able to write his name underneath by himself.

  Martin gets scared and excited at the same time when she says this, because he can already write his name and he wants to tell her but is a bit feart that the teacher will be angry with him if he says he can do it then doesn’t get it right, which sometimes happens because the letter ‘M’ is tricky. He remembers his mum telling him he should never hold back from trying something or giving an answer just because he is afraid it might be wrong, but she also told him not to talk back to the teacher unless she asks a question first, so he doesn’t really know what to do.

  He has just about decided it will be safer all round simply to keep his mouth closed when Mrs Murphy points out to him that it is already hanging open. “Is there something you want to say, Martin?” she asks. “Don’t be afraid.”

  “I can write ‘Martin’,” he tells her. “But I sometimes make a mistake with the ‘M’ at the start.”

  “Well, that’s excellent, Martin. Why don’t you show me?” And she hands him a pencil.

  He feels a bit sick now and wishes he had said nothing so that he could already be away back to his desk with the carton of milk.

  Martin takes a deep breath and grips the pencil extra tight, concentrating hard and hoping the ‘M’ comes out right. It doesn’t. He looks at the one above, written by Mrs Murphy, and sees it doesn’t have as many wiggles. He stops and looks at her, feeling himself getting ready to greet.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I know how to draw a ‘M’. I just don’t know when to stop.” And then he does start crying. He just can’t help it.

  “Never mind, Martin. That’s almost there. Let’s see you do the rest, shall we?”

  Martin wonders if the ‘shall we?’ is an escape option, a chance to say ‘no’ and retreat from the chance of further disaster, but can tell from a feeling in his throat that it will make him cry all the more if he takes that route. He nods and sniffs back some tears and snorters, then applies pencil to paper once again.

  “Very good,” Mrs Murphy says. “Very good, Martin.”

  Martin is happy again, the choking, crying feeling instantly gone. He lifts his jotter and clutches it like a prize, so proud of it that he is already halfway back to his desk before Mrs Murphy reminds him that he has forgotten to take his milk.

  He climbs on to the bench again and examines the carton. Turning it over in his hands, he notices a small circular indentation with a thin film of plastic stretched across its base. He stabs it and a small jet of milk spurts from the top of the straw, which he instinctively covers with his mouth. He hears a giggle and turns to his left. There is a boy across the row and one seat back grinning.

  “That came oot goin’ the nineties,” he says approvingly.

  Martin smiles back and feels as pleased as he did when he was able to demonstrate to Scot his knowledge of the belt.

  Mrs Murphy calls out Helen Dunn next, and some of the children look to that girl Karen to see if she will come out at the same time. She doesn’t, but she looks like she really wants to.

  Martin hears a tut and looks forward, where a few desks in front Zoe is still struggling with her carton. The teacher looks up too, and says: “No, no, dear, you need to jag it through the wee hole. Dear, pet, don’t pull the sides or you’re going to…Pet, dear, hello…”

  But Zoe is concentrating too hard on her task to realise the teacher is talking to her, and Mrs Murphy can’t remember her name. The teacher looks at her list and calls out, “Zoe!” just as Helen Dunn is approaching Zoe’s desk. Helen stops in her tracks, maybe not sure now whether it’s still her turn after almost being usurped the last time. Zoe, meanwhile, gets a fright at the sound of her name and in her surprise flips the carton into the air. It spins the few short feet across the aisle to land on another girl’s desk, where it bursts open with a milky splat, some of which hits Helen. The girl goes to jump out of the way but bangs her knees on the underside of the desk, then slaps an elbow into the puddle.

  There are screams and shrieks from all around. Zoe, Helen and the splattered girl all start greeting
, and so do a few others around the room. Martin wants to laugh but thinks his mum would say it’s wrong, like when someone does a pump in church. He thinks the teacher will say it’s wrong too, as she doesn’t look very pleased. He hears the breathy, muted sniggering of someone who is trying to keep it in but just can’t help himself. Martin looks around and sees that it is the boy who giggled before, and once they have seen each other it becomes impossible to stop.

  The teacher says ‘shhh’ a lot and tells everybody to calm down. “There’s no use crying over spilt milk,” she says, and Martin notices her smile a wee bit as she does so. He now knows it’s all right to laugh, knowledge that strangely makes the giggles subside. The crying doesn’t stop, though. The three girls involved are all bubbling away, but not as much as that girl Karen, who is doubled over her desk, shuddering and taking big loud gasps of breath in between. It is only when she lifts her head and suddenly stops that Martin realises she wasn’t crying, she was laughing, but he doesn’t understand why—or indeed how—she has so instantly ceased.

  Then the girl behind her, Joanne who gave out the jotters, shoots her hand triumphantly into the air and makes everything clear.

  “Please miss, please miss, please miss, Karen’s peed herself.”

  Martin looks to Mrs Murphy to see whether it’s all right to laugh at this one, but he doesn’t think it will be, because he hears her saying a prayer, and prayers are never funny. She closes her eyes for a wee while, and when she opens them again she is staring upwards, like the priest sometimes does during Mass.

  “Jesus Christ Almighty, give me strength,” she says.

  Concept Execution

  There’s no more space in the clearing, so Karen leaves her car tucked in as far off the track as she can manage without pranging a tree and walks the short distance to the late Colin Temple’s woodland lodges. She doesn’t know whether it normally accommodates block bookings, but today it looks like the place is hosting a small-scale polis convention. Alex and the other men in white coats appear to be in charge of the asylum, their activities centred on one lodge, second from the far end of the shallow arc of buildings. Karen has to laugh at the sight of one particular Dibble earnestly engaged in applying police tape to the exterior. This is not the kind of place you’re likely to find a lot of curious passers-by. It’s about five miles from the nearest pavement. Karen grew up in Braeside and was only vaguely aware the fishing loch existed, far less where to find it. She kind of wishes she had; it would have been a great spot for a picnic, the ideal destination for a walk with her pals on one of those precious few summer days worth the description. On the other hand, had that been the case, it would now be about to get crossed off: another romantic location forever violated by other people’s horrors.