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He duly ordered a police constable's outfit including helmet and shoes to be sent to Dr D C Perelman at the Mount Vernon Institute of Higher Education. And, having given his not-real father's credit card number plus its three security digits, clicked on SEND, and grinned. Next, he cleaned Jez's remaining knife up and down between his thumb and forefinger. So the Martins must have holidayed in Walton-on-Sea, he mused. Maybe when the kids were younger. When their Dad had gone with them too and helped them build sandcastles like on TV holiday programmes. Happy families clustered on some golden beach. Yes, happy families...
17
Thursday 8th July.
With just one week to go before the summer holidays, Mr Wardle - aka Waddle - was ignoring Louis for some reason and worse, at the end of Year 8 morning assembly, omitted his name while doling out Credits and Distinctions for class work and behaviour. It looked deliberate, even though Miss Underwood - aka Miss Udder - had recently stuck a galaxy of gold stars in his biology book margin. And old Tosser the caretaker, had praised the condition of the two Dutch rabbits which Louis regularly cleaned out and fed between the afternoon’s last two lessons.
"You bastard, Waddle." He sidled towards the double doors, gripping his stomach with one hand, his satchel with the other. "In fact, you can all get stuffed."
No-one stopped him, so he made for the toilets where Luke Brierley's Mum was cleaning the floor tiles. Her mop slewed from side to side in wide, wet arcs. The smell of sick noticeable.
"Don't mind me," she began. "That Patel boy’s just thrown up in here. Been picked on again, ‘e said. An' this is s'posed to be a good school an' all."
Louis agreed, then chose a cubicle and sat down on the lavatory seat to consider his next move. He was hurting. Not physically, but in his head. Nothing he did was ever good enough, either at home or in this dump, and in front of the other Grubs, he'd been humiliated.
He unzipped his trousers.
"You alright in there?" Mrs Brierley called out.
"Fine. Just coming." And he was too, just thinking of Waddle's likely reaction to his planned revenge. It took less than a minute to feel again that exquisite relief just as the mop's head worked its dank, grey locks around the cubicle door, in out, in out, trying to touch his shoes it seemed.
When he emerged, he handed the woman a pound coin like The Maggot had done in the Gents at Coventry’s station.
"Who d'you think I bloody am, then? Some immigrant skiv?” she shouted as he almost collided with the portly figure of Clive Blanchard, Careers master, busy pinning a notice to the UCAS board. The man turned round. His well-fed face shining.
"Perelman. How goes it?"
"Good sir. Thank you sir."
"So why weren't you in assembly?"
"Not too pukka, sir."
Blanchard pinned up another sheet detailing the number ‘A’ level points required by the Russell Group universities.
"I see you've made an appointment with me for 1.20p.m. today. Miss Carey said you wanted to chat about joining the Police Force."
"That's right, sir."
"Very well. Room C3. Remember punctuality is the politeness of kings."
"I will sir. Thank you sir."
*
Louis focused on his Action Plan throughout Maths, Music then Drama, despite being reprimanded for lack of homework and Mrs Barber harping on about the end of term concert and his lack of commitment.
"A boy with your talent should at least be in the County Youth Orchestra," she’d nagged after an hour of Theory work. "One day you'll regret not taking your violin seriously."
"I'm playing it on Saturday," Louis had retorted. "At our musical soirée."
She’d sniffed, unimpressed.
"Finzi and Beethoven, actually." He’d added.
"I see. Well that improves matters somewhat."
"With my Dad."
"'Not your real one, though..." Someone piped up and another tittered. Louis spun round to see smallest but deadliest pupil in the class half-hidden behind his desk. Toby Gabriel Lake, twelve years and ten months, whose school place was subbed by the tax-payer, had just elected to die.
*
During Drama, involving various scenes from Julius Caesar, Louis was still smarting. The fact he'd been given the part of Brutus and Darshan Patel that of his obedient servant Strato, did little to lessen his second humiliation of the day.
Sunlight struck the hall floor, thick with dust motes, while in all its four corners some thirty boys were dressing up in various skirts and sheets donated by the Parent Teacher Association.
Louis and Patel stood aside from the imagined forum entrance as the tribunes and commoners milled around.
"Fancy earning twenty quid?" Louis asked him.
"What for?" The other's breath still sick-sour, his nervous eyes glancing around.
"A favour."
"I dunno."
"You go swimming Thursdays after school, yes?"
"So?"
"I'm seeing some skirt then," Louis lied, "but it's secret."
"What's her name?"
"Lisa. Lives in Darnwood Road near the Mall. Got tits out to here..." Louis cupped his hands well out from his chest. "And the rest. So if anyone asks, you say I went swimming with you. OK?" Louis fixed him with a threatening stare.
Patel shrugged. "Whatever."
"Cheers. You're a mate."
Louis unpeeled two tenners from his wallet and handed them over. This made him feel strong again; in control. Since being kneed in the balls by Nick Weaver before Assembly, Darshan Patel needed every buddy he could lay his brown hands on.
*
At lunchtime, the heat kept everyone indoors, except Louis who sneaked round to the biology lab's annexe where the school's Dutch rabbits were housed. On a wide shelf stood various feed bags, wilting lettuce leaves and two grooming brushes with Willy and Wonka painted along their handles. There was no sign of either Miss Udder or old Tosser.
He picked up a lettuce leaf and tore it into strips ready to poke through the hutch’s chicken wire door. This was earlier than usual, and the rabbits snatched at the greenery and sniffed for more. Louis felt their soft, twitching noses against his palm. He liked that. It did things to him that were for his pleasure only.
Their carer checked again he was on his own before opening the hutch door. He brought the furry creatures out one at a time and with a quick twist of his hands, ignoring their strangled squeals, despatched both to a sudden stillness.
Each limp body fitted snugly into his empty satchel before he pulled over its flap and secured the two buckles. Then, having scattered straw on the surrounding shelf and floor to make their absence look like an escape, he crept round to the staff car park, littered with Freelanders and the latest registration Mazdas and Kias. No CCTV here, making it his favoured way of sneaking in and out of school, while a black blind helpfully covered the annexe's one window.
*
Head of Year, Keith Wardle drove a ten year-old Volvo Estate with a Northampton dealership sticker in the rear window. Inside, assorted folders labelled DETENTIONS, SUMMER TERM TASKS, ROTAS and the like, lay strewn on the passenger seat. Not at all impressive. In fact, landfill came to mind, especially with half-empty sweet packets and several items of soccer kit clogging up the rear seat.
Louis then noticed a blue file on the
floor - 8JP EXAM RESULTS 2010. How dare the proof of all his recent effort in subjects which bored him shitless, lie there in that state. Waddle was a fine one to preach thoroughness. However it all made the next task easier, especially as the Volvo was unlocked.
Stupid git.
Louis pulled the dead rabbits out of his satchel then positioned the pair on Wardle's cloth seat as if one was mounting the other. Four blank eyes reflected the sky as he neatly kept something for himself, courtesy of the Design Technology department’s box-cutter. Lighter, quicker than the Walton-on-Sea knife.
He wrapped both trophies tight in the Tesco carrier bag he always brought for clearing up droppings, careful to keep the blood off his clothes and skin.
Done.
He smiled to himself as he made for the toilets to tip any incriminating rabbit hairs from his satchel down the pan. Then he pulled the chain.
"Hi."
Louis jumped. Toby Lake was saving him a job just by being there.
"Hi," he said brightly, washing his hands more thoroughly than he'd ever done in his life, keeping the enemy in view through the glass. As for himself, he looked a right mess. His hair as if something had been burrowing in it. His new uniform falling off him like skin off a bone. "Fancy some fishing?"
Lake cocked his head to one side like he did when thinking.
"Yeah. When?"
"Today? After school? Got a good spot up Wrecker's Brook."
That was no lie. The place drew quite a few weekend punters who braved the constant whiff from the nearby sewage treatment plant in the hope of a catch. Bream mostly with the odd carp, all come down from a Canal outflow. Jez Martin said his Dad used to trek there from Briar Bank.
His Dad…
"I'll have to collect my rod and tell them at Sunnyview," said Lake.
"Can't you do fucking anything on your own?"
The other boy shifted from one leg to the other. His neck reddening.
"Course I can."
"Four o'clock then. North Barton Woods picnic area."
"I'll nick some grub from the kitchen."
"Great."
They shook hands. Lake's fingers cold and moist. Louis sniffed the fear and grinned, then when he'd gone, phoned The Fawn and told her he'd be practising his crawl and butterfly with Darshan Patel and would be home at six.
*
"Now then young man, sit where I can see you properly."
Clive Blanchard sat with his back to the sun, his bulk silhouetted against the half-closed blinds. He opened one desk drawer after another and finally extracted a red folder. From his chair opposite, Louis could read the word POLICE upside down and felt a lurch of excitement down below. He kept his satchel firmly on his lap, glad the rabbit noses were safely encased in polythene.
The careers master rested his chin on his fingers and stared at him. "Why the police, Perelman? "
"Society's in a mess sir. I want to do my bit."
"What do you mean by ‘a mess?’"
Louis was aware of someone peering in through the door's glass panel. He recognised Nick Weaver and gave the customary salute. Blanchard frowned.
"We've got psychos freed from jail too soon, sir,” Louis continued. “Benefits cheats, Yardie gangs, immigrants setting up terrorist cells or beheading swans. Dirty money from Saudi making London too expensive for ordinary people, and there’s the Freemasonry… Shall I go on?"
"Thank you, no. I get the picture. You have a strong sense of duty to your country?"
"Yes sir."
"And your family?"
Louis gulped.
"Charity begins at home, Louis,” added Blanchard. “I'm curious."
"I've the best parents ever. My Dad works hard at his job and he's a brilliant pianist, and my Mum..." Here his voice ebbed away.
"Go on. Your Mum…"
"Well, she keeps everything clean, cooking and stuff. Plus her research..."
"Ah."
"With the Open University."
"So what does she and your Dad think of this idea of yours?"
Louis hesitated. Decided that honesty was the best policy.
"They don't know yet, sir. It's my little secret. My dream..."
"Well," the big man leaned forwards, his face the colour of a dark, red pepper. "It's no good me setting wheels in motion, Perelman, without parental consent. You are still under age."
"I don't care, sir. I just want to know which GCSE subjects to choose next term."
"Indeed, but in the meantime I suggest you try the..." Blanchard was about to say army cadets, but his voice was suddenly drowned by the school's loudspeaker system blaring the Head's voice into the room.
"Emergency assembly! Emergency assembly! All pupils to muster in form rooms then proceed immediately to the Main Hall..."
Blanchard slotted the folder back in its drawer.
"Better make a move. Some idiot's probably been blocking the loos with toilet rolls again." He ushered Louis to his door then strode off towards the stairs. Louis returned to the man's desk and flicked through the red file's content. The world he wanted was all there. Hendon and its happy recruits photographed in different locations - briefings, beat work, exciting looking assignments, and to cap it all, a Freephone number to ring. He promised himself to do just that, as he negotiated hordes of sweating bodies with rolled-up sleeves and flapping shirts.
"Wardle's done a right freaky." Someone said. "He's after blood."
"You should 'ave seen 'is car. Ugh. Yuk."
"Someone's got a fucking screw loose..."
This and more as Louis joined his form group who gathered in the main hall's airless heat. The blinds were down and the stage full of shadowy figures, for some reason not sitting down.
He felt surprisingly cool despite the chaos around him as that Freephone number re-played in his mind. He waited for the usual crap from the platform party. Just sounds, nothing more. And nothing to do with him. He slid his hand deep in his pocket and felt such power rising between his legs, his head so drained of blood, that the hanging lights above him swayed as if the world had suddenly tilted on is axis. Then all at once, everything went dark...
*
"Drink this now. It's nice sweet tea." The school nurse had switched off the kettle and opened a packet of sugar.
"My poor rabbits..." Louis sniffed, but his watery eyes roamed straightaway to the Sick Bay’s shelves stacked with aspirin, Anadin and tubes of cream for insect bites, sunburn and the like. The hot stuff had obviously been locked away. Damn her.
"I know, me duck," Sister Coles crowed at him, "but the culprit or culprits will be caught, make no mistake."
He nearly choked on the milky muck delivered in a chipped Royal Wedding mug. It was foul. So was the school nurse's face in close-up. Everyone knew she was a chainer, with her skin creased up like old wrapping paper. She tested his blood pressure again and smiled as she unwrapped the black snake thing from his arm.
"Nothing to worry about, but no running around for a while. You take things easy."
He looked out of the window at the deserted playground while she picked up a plastic wallet containing a sheet of paper, and ran her finger down the page, stopping every so often and frowning.
"This is the third time you've fainted this term, Louis. Maybe you should see your doctor sometime."
"Our doctor's a twat."
"That's not a very nice thing to say, now, is it?"
"He is, I'm telling you. All he goes on about is the latest county cricket score, or how his kids are doing..."
; "Could be a surfeit of hormones." Sister Coles murmured to herself, as she sat down to flick through what looked like a telephone address book and pick up the receiver. "Or we need to look at ventilation in the Hall."
"Who are you calling?" Louis demanded.
"Your mother. Why?"
He reached over, tried to snatch it from her hand. The filthy seven year-old backed away open-mouthed.
"Excuse me?" Sounding posher, more like someone else.
"I don't want her being worried, that's all. Sorry sister."
"She's your mother, Louis. That's what mothers are for."
"And us babies are born for sacrifice on the altar of Life."
"Pardon?" The nurse blinked, unsure as to how to respond. Instead, she chose the easier option - to dial and wait as the answerphone kicked in.
"Dave and Jacquie are unable to take your call at present, so please leave your message after the tone and we'll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you."
"It's Sister Coles here,” she began. “From North Barton Boys’ School. No need to worry, Mr and Mrs Perelman, it's just that Louis' had another fainting fit today. He's fine, but I thought you ought to know, that’s all." Her voice tailed away and when she'd replaced the receiver and looked up from her desk, the young patient had disappeared.
*
The shocking discovery in Keith Wardle's car filled the afternoon, causing hints and innuendoes to spread like a bush fire, with the Police word bandied about far too often. Everyone had a theory and everyone was wrong.
Having escaped from the school nurse’s over-attentive clutches, Louis watched his form teacher being bundled into a smaller car as Miss Udder of the cow breasts came into her biology lab bearing a ziggurat of marked exercise books. Once she'd dumped them on a nearby bench, she came over to Louis and laid her hand on his arm.
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