Acid Song

by Bernard Beckett

  ‘A little job. Short and sweet,’ he breathed. ‘Hasn’t Ollie told you? Ollie, not like you to be so modest. Our man here has a job on.’

  ‘Fuck up Ratchet.’

  ‘Bomber, the lady here wants to know where we’re going.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell her Ollie?’

  ‘Your muff got a phone with her?’ Gash leered. ‘She can take a photo for the album.’

  He laughed till his lungs were clear.

  Trouble always smelt this way, beery and stale. ‘Evolution isn’t progressive,’ Mr Krane liked to say. He wasn’t wrong. ‘Get them to stop the car,’ Sophie ordered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘Just one stop.’

  ‘You fucking lied to me.’

  ‘You going to take that shit from your bitch Ollie?’

  ‘Fuck up, Ratchet.’

  In a moment Sophie would cry. After all the times she could have cried in front of Ollie, should have cried, it would happen here. She looked at him, Ollie whose face she knew better than her own, the expression of uncertainty she had chosen so often to see as torment, but now in the passing street lights showed only weakness. Pretty weak.

  ‘Get them to stop the car.’ She hissed the words, not trusting her throat to open.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ He leaned to her, whispered the words in her ear.

  ‘What the fuck do you care?’

  He stared at her, weighing his vulnerabilities. Sophie could feel Ratchet’s warm breath on her neck.

  ‘Bomber, pull over for a moment will you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Changed my mind. Not tonight. We’ll walk from here.’

  He tried to make it sound casual, but his voice was breaking up. She’d never seen his fear before. For years she’d believed he had none.

  The big engine chopped down a gear. Sophie relaxed, took Ollie’s hand again.

  ‘Bomber, look!’

  Ratchet pushed forward between the seats, thrusting his phone’s screen beneath the big man’s nose.

  ‘Nice!’

  The car accelerated.

  ‘What are we doing?’

  ‘I don’t know. Bomber, I asked you to …’

  ‘Action on the Hutt Road.’

  ‘Ollie, tell him to stop the …’

  ‘Shut your bitch up, Ollie, I’m getting sick of it.’

  Ratchet leered. Sophie glared at him. His eyes slid down onto her breasts. He rearranged himself in his seat.

  ‘Show time.’

  At the lights a 200SX pulled up beside them. Both sets of occupants eyed one another. Bomber gave a little wave of recognition.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Remember Shad? It’s his cousin.’

  ‘No shit?’

  The lights turned green and the Nissan smoked away. Ratchet’s phone beeped.

  ‘They’re still there, man. By the station. Go. Go!’

  Gash whooped. The car burbled for a moment, then spat forward.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ Sophie demanded to Ollie’s ear.

  ‘Some bullshit,’ he shrugged.

  ‘Tell them to stop.’

  ‘They won’t listen. You saw.’

  Sophie leaned forward and gripped Bomber’s shoulder, dragging herself closer and shouting in his ear.

  ‘We asked to stop the car you fat fuck. You’re going in the wrong direction now. So stop the fucking car.’

  ‘Love it when your girl talks dirty, Ollie,’ was all she got. He glanced into the rear view mirror to check on his effect, jowls wobbling.

  ‘There it is! There it is! Look, they’re running away. They’re fucking running away.’ Ratchet was beside himself, bouncing up and down on the seats. Suddenly the cabin filled with shouting.

  ‘Where’s Latch?’

  ‘Fucken dunno.’

  ‘Text him.’

  ‘Left man. They’re crossing the …’

  ‘Stay on him Gash!’

  ‘The bridle path.’

  ‘… off man.’

  ‘Watch the truck!’

  ‘Nip alert.’

  ‘Little one …’

  ‘The fucking truck …’

  The car slewed and a truck roared by, horn blasting. Ratchet was the one whooping now. Bomber powered on, grabbed at the hand brake and smoked sideways. As the world slid around, Sophie caught her first glimpse of the prey. A lime green Honda, Prelude she thought, had run up over the curb, its three occupants trying to get clear; one making for the steep, bush-clad hill bordering the road, another crouched behind the bonnet, a third desperately trying to wave down a passing car. Terrified. Asians.

  Ten metres down the road a red Skyline, front twisted against a lamppost. Someone standing beside it, too far off to make them out.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on Ollie?’

  He didn’t answer, couldn’t answer.

  The blaring of horns. Rain slowed in streetlights, the sound of sirens. They were still moving, cutting across traffic. She saw the Asian boy’s face: seventeen, eighteen, it was hard to tell. Still waving, realising too late. Ratchet had his door open. The boy turned, ran back towards his car. Bomber twisted the wheel. A thud. The boy went down. Screaming. Sophie screaming.

  His mate came running from behind the Prelude. Swearing at them. The boy was standing again, hobbling, his cheek grazed and bleeding. The car stopped. Gash first out. A punch, a second, the Asian went down. Horns blaring. The sirens growing louder.

  Sophie had hold of Ollie’s arm, trying to keep him in the car. He wrenched it away. Sophie followed, felt the cold blast of night. Tried to pull him back.

  Ollie lined the Asian up like a goal kicker would a ball. The boy was on the ground again, trying to cover his face with his arms. The boot got through, crunched into his cheek, ripping the head back. Sophie jumped onto Ollie, screaming his name as loud as she could, trying to pull him away. He shrugged her off. She wasn’t there.

  Bomber with another one, pushing him against the car. She saw the terror in the victim’s eyes, the pleading. He looked to her, like she could stop this. A head butt, small and vicious. Blood trickled down from the broken nose.

  She was crying. Running. Out of here. Forever. For fucking ever.

  LUKE WIGGLED HIS key in the lock searching for the precise movement that would free the door, broken for three terms now, item number twenty-six in an infinite series of non-urgent maintenance requests. The door swung back sharply and Luke started.

  ‘Oh, sorry, wasn’t expecting anybody to …’

  ‘I know, Saturday night, get a life.’

  Maggie grinned apologetically, her small features contorting about uncommonly large eyes; her red hair framing her like a halo.

  ‘So watcha doin?’ She didn’t so much speak as bubble over. Her accent – English, southern he thought, but had never asked – completed what was for the students an exotic picture. The more canny pulled deals, forged notes and swapped options to end up in her class.

  ‘Ah, just left some work here I was going to get through tomorrow, and you know, election was getting depressing.’

  ‘I know,’ Maggie enthused, bluffing of course. Politics was the domain of the stalled, those whose life was contingent upon a push start. Maggie was too young for such things. She had her own momentum.

  ‘How about you?’

  ‘The fossil tour.’

  Maggie stepped back to allow Luke into the crowded workroom, revealing Amanda, her partner in crime, sitting at the table, a map before her.

  ‘Oh right, leaves Monday doesn’t it? Hi, Amanda.’

  ‘Thought we should know where we’re going.’

  The two of them had organised a trip for Year 13 biology students to the Hawke’s Bay, tramping into the hills to visit the site of the discovery that convinced the world dinosaurs were once the taniwha whenua.

  Luke moved to his workstation, itself an excellent candidate for an archaeological dig. Layers of books, student handouts, s
taff handbooks, curriculum statements and administrative missives threatened a landslide. Slow leakage from the fifty hour week. Luke swivelled in his chair, kicking his feet free of the Year 10 lab books he had taken in two weeks ago for marking. His laptop screen flashed blank and blue, refusing to be hurried. He tapped his fingers on the one small square of clear bench top, faking impatience, wishing he was alone. Behind him the preparations continued in whispers. He could picture them, heads together, fingers tracing contour lines, like teenagers planning a New Year’s road trip.

  He had been like them once. He remembered a trip to the central plateau. He still had the photos somewhere.

  Habit clicked open his emails: seven new messages since he left on Friday afternoon.

  All staff: Duty

  Just a quick reminder that the double duty system is to remain in place until THE END OF TERM. The daily audit will continue. Please ensure you are out on time, particularly those on the front gate. We all need to do our bit to make this work.

  Thanks.

  Linda

  luke.krane: TT5 notes

  Hi Luke

  Just been checking the file for Courtney Willis, can’t find your notes on TT5 from the incident on Friday. Can you get these in ASAP?

  Thanks

  Nick

  Form teachers: MP3 players

  A reminder MP3 players are now banned in all classes. Students are constantly reminding us that ‘some teachers let us listen’. This isn’t fair on the rest. Class checks will begin on Monday.

  All staff: Reports

  A friendly reminder that the deadline for comments on junior reports has been moved to this Wednesday, to give the Deans more time for proofreading. No personal comments please, make sure all reports are printed out and checked by a colleague before submitting them. If you are late with these, it puts undue stress on the rest of the staff.

  Thanks

  Peter

  luke.krane: Apology

  Hi Luke. Cassandra May has written out a full apology and I’ve told her you’ll be administering the detention. Can you put a note on TT5 once the mother has been phoned please? She can be hard to get hold of. I’ve found late in the evening, after 9.30, works best.

  Jen

  Year 11 form teachers: ABSENCES!!!

  There are over three hundred and twenty unexplained absences outstanding from last term. The codes are up on the wall outside the staffroom and can be found in the notices drive under absences. Remember, M is now medical, and E has switched from explained to explained but with unacceptable reason. All Es should now be followed up with detentions. Non-medical justified absences are now J. School activities will normally be overwritten automatically but Nigel tells me this isn’t always happening. Please go back and check from your own records. Amnesty on this until Wednesday, then I’m going to be getting cranky.

  Julian

  luke.krane: BIGGER HARDER LONGER!!

  Unhappy with your penis?

  Luke hit delete and exited Outlook. By Monday the tasks would have become less urgent, pushed back down the list by the necessity of newer worries, to be outlined by the principal at Monday morning’s briefing. Luke stared at the desktop, a network vagrant, loitering without intent.

  My Documents

  Other

  Resignation Letter

  Dear Board

  It is with a mixture of sadness and excitement that I tender my resignation from the position of biology teacher in your school, effective from the start of Term One next year.

  Sadness because I have of course enjoyed enormously my time at this school, and have appreciated the support I have been shown and the many opportunities offered to me to develop my skills in what is still a hugely satisfying career.

  And excitement for the beginning of a new chapter in my life. I have decided to return to university to complete my Masters. I have been thinking about this for some time and the circumstances are right for me to pursue this.

  Thank you once again for the opportunity to work in your school.

  Yours sincerely

  Luke Krane.

  Luke blinked at the treacherous screen. He felt his throat constrict with the memory of Friday afternoon, of the rush of joy that had accompanied the completion of the document. Tears stung his eyes. He could not leave now – Maggie and Amanda would notice, and even if they had the good manners not to mention it (he doubted this) they would discuss them when he was gone.

  New Document

  Save As

  Letter 2

  He typed quickly, a childish attempt at self-rescue.

  Dear Board

  It is with a pleasure bordering upon delirium that I announce my imminent departure from This Fucking Job.

  The cliché I know is to say the job has finally ‘become too much for me’ but the truth is the job became too much for me years ago, and since then I have been floating just beneath the surface, breaking the air four times a year for the desperate bouts of hyperventilation we in the profession refer to as our holidays.

  There is much I will not miss about this job, and so you will forgive me if I focus only on the most outstanding of my present joys.

  I will not miss the minutiae that each day strangles even the most diligent of teachers. The absence notes, the uniform checks, the money collections, the recording of incidents, the preparation of moderation documents, of management documents, assessment documents, planning documents, documents outlining the preparation of aforementioned documents; the meetings that start late and end later, the emails that will not cease, the thousand little things that each day remind me that no matter how hard I might try, I will never be ‘doing my job’.

  I will not miss the obsession with the school’s image in the community, the unchallengeable belief that doing well is less important than being seen to do well, that well-documented mediocrity is a goal worthy of pursuit. The need to ring, to report, to meet, to publish, in short to spin, so that we are caught in a frenzy of ‘do you love me’ paranoia that so sadly mimics the lives of those we seek to educate.

  I will not miss the parents. I am sorry, but making them feel better about their failed attempts to rear a child does not move me. I do not believe that involving the parents is always the key to educational success: indeed saving the child from the parents is often, sadly, my first priority.

  I will not miss the educational experts who, each week, find new ways to describe my failure. I will not miss reading the studies that tell me of those inspirational teachers who have, by following the magic formula, made the difference I myself will never witness.

  I will not miss the failure: the bloodied concrete wall of resistance that every day I meet in the classroom, of the student whose will to learn what I have to teach is too small for measurement, and whose disdain for me who would teach it knows no bounds. I will not miss the cohort of pupils who each year leave a little duller, a little less sure of themselves, a little more convinced of their own inadequacies, than they were when they first met us five years before. I will not miss a career where the minimisation of damage done remains our noblest aim.

  And most of all, I will not miss the hard knots of anger around which our young tribes form. Anger that explodes into violence, short and sharp, that we may mutter our surprise and concern. Anger that pulls back when it feels us staring, offers apologies and promises. Then simmers. Always simmers.

  There are other things I will not miss. I will not miss being sworn at, talked over, spat at, jostled, laughed at and most crushingly, simply ignored. I will not miss irrelevance.

  I am not coping in this job. I’m not sure I ever did cope. I know most of my colleagues are struggling, too; I feel them climbing over me, straining for air.

  So I’m out of here. So long and thanks for the memories.

  Ecstatically yours

  Luke hit Close.

  Do you want to save the changes to the document Letter 2?

  No.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes. The
silent tears had not stopped. So close he had come to escape. A single sperm, single-minded and selfish, was all that had thwarted him. He believed he could even remember the sex: guilty sex, for it had been a while, and he had been straining to tell her that they were all right. That he was all right. He wasn’t.

  It wasn’t depression. To hell with Kirwan. He hated the word. It was just he couldn’t do this. Another year would crush him. And now he couldn’t tell her. He could not possibly have that conversation. Okay, maybe depression. Fuck.

  Luke closed his computer, turned abruptly, head down.

  ‘See you later,’ as he rushed for the door. His voice was broken in two, echoing on itself.

  ‘Bye.’

  They had noticed.

  Outside in the car park he took out his phone.

  Hi Darling. I’m feeling weird. I need to sleep this off. Don’t worry. I’ll see you in the morning.

  He turned off his phone, before she could respond.

  FISH ’N’ CHIPS. A network of memories reaching out, holding hands. Finger-sized holes ripped in newspaper. Greasy mitts dipping in. ‘Give us a chip. Give us a chip.’ The monstrous packages his father carried home, ceremoniously unwrapped at the table, the corners of the paper weighted down with bottles, his mother slapping any small hand that dared move in before the adults. Sauce from a can, the windows steaming up; Simon eyeing the second piece of fish, racing his brothers for it. The too-warm throatfuls, gulping down the Coke his father said helped cut through the fat. He was right. It let you stay hungry, helped you keep up when you were the littlest. Fish ’n’ chips was a meal to be shared.

  Simon flicked between channels; same election, same results rising like damp up the country’s walls. He stirred at the chips with his finger, pulled out a piece of fish that was already going soggy. He peeled off an end of batter that still had some crunch to it. One Nation, ten per cent they were saying. The rain detonated against the window and a cold finger of air felt its way beneath the door. They were out of firewood. His fault. There was a list on the fridge of the jobs he had not yet got around to. Just a joke, he knew that, Amanda didn’t mind. She said she didn’t mind. Then again, she said she’d be here tonight. There was a note on the table when he got in. ‘Congratulations Darling, I’m so proud of you.’ Written hurriedly on the back of a supermarket receipt, as she rushed out the door.