by Nigel Bird
Should have known better that to think I was capable of achieving such a thing.
“If you don’t mind Mr Campion,” he says. I size him up wondering how I should start to tear him apart. “Some of us have work to do.” He’s bigger than me. Taller, broader, heavier. No matter, I’d have him in seconds. Put in the nut, I reckon, or go for the flab. As long as I took out some teeth and broke his nose it’d be worth whatever book they threw at me.
He flounces off, sucking in his face like he’d rather be in drag.
Mildred picks up her handbag and walks out too, leaving her cigarette burning in the ash-tray.
Phil Carpenter heads upstairs, Mildred out through the door towards the playground.
Me, I sit and roll a cigarette and wonder if what’s going on in their lives is any worse than what’s going on in mine.
the music lesson
My class are sitting in the hall, legs crossed and struggling with the words.
Daphne Duke’s kids are in the row behind and standing and singing out. She’s sitting on a chair, her back straight as a Roman road. In her white blouse and plain below the knee skirt, she looks like she slept through the Sixties.
Carpenter’s face is red. He’s hitting the piano keys harder than usual. “For God’s sake,” he shouts and slams the piano lid down to get everyone’s attention.
I look over at Daphne and she’s blushing. Probably wondering about what Jesus might do in this situation.
Zulfi is oblivious to it all. He’s grabbing on to the wall-bars we’ll use for gym after break. Carpenter stamps across and brushes his hair behind his ears. Can’t even give a bollocking without preening himself first.
“You boy. What’s your name?”
Zulfi stops what he’s doing at last. Looks up and there’s a finger pointing into his face. He doesn’t say anything, just sits straighter and folds his arms.
“Zulfikar,” I say.
Carpenter’s lips twist into the expression of one who’s just stepped in shit. “Who?”
“Zulfi.”
“Well Zulfi,” he says, “Can’t you read?” Course he can’t. He’s 5 and the words are written in a spider’s handwriting on a laminate sheet. All my work with Zulfikar is undone in that moment.
It’s my job to step in. To go over and sort Carpenter out. But I’m a coward. I imagine muttering some defence and having it trashed in front of two classes. Instead of doing anything, I cling on to the radiators and let it pass.
“Well Zulfi, let’s see some action here. Open your lips.” He mimes his lesson to the children. I’m surprised nobody pukes.
Carpenter goes back to the piano and counts them in – one, two, three.
Of course Zulfi goes for the wall-bars as soon as they’re past the first verse. I step over to go and sort it out.
The piano stops and the floor shakes under the stomps.
I turn my head and see him rage, looking like a bullfrog with a sun-tan.
There’s nothing he can do to Zulfi, though. I’m right in his path. I reckon that just raises his temperature by another couple of degrees.
Zlatan’s legs stretch out on the floor. Because he’s the only one talking it sounds like he’s raising his voice.
Carpenter turns to deal with him, the mole on his face moving with the twitch of his cheek.
He stumbles over Zlatan’s shoes. There’s a burst of laughter from all of the other children.
The laughter should diffuse the tension, but it doesn’t.
Zlatan opens his mouth and looks over to me.
I want to move. Get over and make him safe.
Carpenter raises his arm. Brings it down in an arc and sends his hand in Zlatan’s direction.
I hear a sharp, crisp clap.
Zlatan falls back and puts his arms down to stop himself falling all the way. Soon as he can he rights himself. Crosses his legs and folds his arms like he knows the good kids do. Doesn’t even touch his face, the poor kid. Just lets the tears well up in his eyes and spill onto the floor.
It’s like Carpenter’s performed some magic. Everything’s silent. All’s still. The piano starts and there’s the counting in, the one, two, three and the classes sing as if they’re performing in a cathedral.
When the song’s over, the next class arrives for their lesson.
We stand, line up and leave the hall.
The weather outside is fine.
The line follows me like it’s not done since the first day, in perfect formation.
Aurora has my hand. She looks up at me and her always pale skin seems bleached of colour. “That man hit Zlatan.” It’s the longest sentence I’ve heard from her. I should be excited. Instead I want to put it back.
“You carry on Aurora,” I tell her, letting go of her hand and pointing the way I want her to go.
I peel away from my children and walk over to Daphne.
Her eyes are down and she’s pretending to look for something in her hand-bag, her equivalent of burying her head in the sand.
No way that’s going to work.
“Did you see it?” I ask her.
She squints at me like she doesn’t understand the question, but I see the panic in her eyes.
“Did you see what happened?”
She just looks more worried.
There’s a battle inside her head, I know. It’s her good Christian self struggling against her unwillingness to rock this or any boat.
“He just hit one of my children.” I didn’t want to put the words there in case it’s me that was seeing things, but it’s out and there’s no going back. “Did you see it?”
She cups her hands over her mouth as if keeping it quiet will make it go away. “Yes,” she says and that’s the moment that I know what I have to do.
the office
In his office, Alistair just sits listening. It would be easy to confuse him with a wise man until the point he opens his mouth. “Mmm.” He rubs his chin like some kind of sage. All he needs is a beard.
I look at him, despising the green jumper he wears every day. Wonder if he’s got spares at home or whether it’s just the one.
“So what are you going to do?”
“It’s serious. Leave it with me and I’ll give it some thought.”
Not good enough. No way I’m leaving the room without him taking action.
“We need to tell the parents.” Course we do. All it would take is one parent to pass on the news and all hell would descend on Hampstead. That’s what I tell him.
“Leave it with me,” he says again. This time the furrows of his brow wrinkle up like someone’s ploughed his head. They’re the furrows that tell me he means what he says. “You need to get back to your class.”
I look at my watch. Ten minutes I’ve been here. Ten wasted minutes of my life. “Mildred’s watching them,” I say.
“Mildred has her own class to look after. I told you I’ll think about it.”
“You need to inform the parents.”
Alistair stands and opens the door.
“And you need to look after your class.”
I’m not sure what he’s telling me with the stare he gives.
“The letter?”
“I’ll need time to write it. By the way. People in glass houses,” he tells me and I leave the room and descend the steps as if to meet my doom.
safe as milk
The kids are fine when I get back, sucking on their milk straws and sharing books together on the carpet.
I know that Mildred will have been watching them closely, dying to make her mark on the little ones. Start to whip them into shape for when she gets them next year.
The hoods of her eyes mean she rarely gives much away, but I can see enough red in there to remind me of her tears before school.
“All well?” I ask.
“No problem,” she says then walks back through the door that joins our rooms.
The heels of her shoes clack on the floorboards until she gets to her desk. She survey
s the scene and when she’s content, she sits.
I take a look at everyone on the mat.
They look so vulnerable sometimes, like they’ll never manage to get through life.
Zlatan’s on the ladybird cushion flicking over the pages in a book about motorbikes.
Unable to face them, I retreat to behind the corner wall and sit on a table.
Part of my brain thinks about how I’d like to strangle Carpenter. Wait till he begged for mercy then ask him to annunciate. The other part’s wondering what the hell Alistair meant by glass houses. Surely he couldn’t know about Emma. Or is there something else I don’t even know I’d done.
The main door opens in the cloakroom.
In walks Carpenter. There’s something different about him. I guess it’s something to do with me having the upper hand.
I note the loose-fit of his polo-neck and the flap of skin between his throat and jaw.
There’s a smarmy twist to his lips.
I could move. Stand up and make him do this eye-to-eye, but I don’t. I sit and look up and wait.
He doesn’t speak until he’s close enough to be heard if he whispers.
“About before,” he says. He’s using his phone voice. “We’re not going to say anything about it, are we?”
It takes a moment to work it out. He’s expecting me to keep my mouth shut.
Christ.
“I’ve already seen Alistair,” I tell him. “Mildred watched the class.”
“That’s a shame.” He puts his hands into his pockets and looks at me for a moment. I think I’m supposed to break into a sweat.
I don’t.
The bastard smiles. I’d slap him if things were different. Hell I’d remove what’s left of his spine.
As he turns and walks away, the bell goes and my class sort themselves out for break without me having to say a word.
letter
Sue brings the letter in five minutes before home-time.
The urge to open it is enormous.
I go over to the carpet to get some cover. Look down at the envelope and see there’s no easy way to get in.
I’m just about to rip it open when Sue comes over.
“He said I have to make sure you hand it over.”
Straight as a die this one. No way I can get away with anything now she’s there.
“Zlatan.” I call him over and give him the letter, then call everyone over for a story to close out the day.
back in the basement
It’s a warm greeting I get as I return home. The heating’s on full blast and the smells of sweat and cigarette smoke are trapped inside like prisoners. Like a camping holiday without the tent or the countryside.
I need to get into the lounge to get out my box of stationery only its door’s closed.
Pushing it open slowly, the source of the stink is revealed.
It’s dark in there, the only light coming from the crack in the shutters where they don’t close properly.
On the floor in the middle of the room is a large black shape from which come the grunting sounds of sleep. It’s like an elephant seal has been stranded in the middle of my flat.
Soon as I step in, the grunts change pitch. I weigh up the situation to figure out what is worse: waking Wolf or doing without the paper. Waking up the Wolf wins hands down.
angel of mercy
Mike explains it all to me.
Unless I put things down in writing, nobody needs to respond. Without the paper copy, it’s just a load of verbal.
He got my message and called round on the off-chance he can help.
He’s slumped in the chair with his legs stretched into the hallway, so laid back he’s almost literally horizontal. The coloured braid around his cap sparkles in the light and if I didn’t know better, I’d think it was a halo he was wearing.
Wolf’s still asleep.
Six o’clock and the bugger’s been tucked up all day while the rest of the world’s already put in a shift.
“His body clock’s set for working nights,” Mike says, always able to find the positive. “Reckon we should wake him. Get him to call in sick.”
We go in together. I turn on the light, Mike opens the shutters.
“Wakey, wakey. Rise and shine,” he says then whistles a happy tune.
Wolf pulls the sleeping bag over his head.
“Cup of tea,” I tell him and put it down next to the ashtray and the butts that have over-flown onto the floor.
Mike sparks up a joint. The sweet smell of cannabis fills the air and replaces the stink of farts.
When Wolf pokes out his head he looks like he’s crossed onto the other side. Suitcase-sized bags sag under his eyes and not even his stubble can hide the lumps of hard muscle at the sides of his jaws.
“Evening, Squire,” Mike says full of grin, passing Wolf the smoke.
He rubs his eyes, squints into the light, takes the joint and sucks up like a vacuum cleaner.
“How you feeling?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer till he’s exhaled all of the smoke. “It’s not real,” he moans, “It can’t be happening.”
I nod over to Mike. Mike picks up Wolf’s clothes from the pile on the chair and pulls it over to him. He gives me the signal and I gather up my stationery box and leave the room.
“Dear Alistair,” I begin.
“It gives me no pleasure to inform you...”
Nobody’s going to give a damn about what I feel. I tear it out and put it to one side.
“Dear Alistair,
At approximately 9:53 on the morning of 16th September, 1999...” Now it sounds like a police statement.
“Dear Alistair,
I believe it is my professional duty...” and now the tone seems right.
hell’s bells
The ringing phone wakes me from sleep.
In my dream, I was just about to get swallowed by a whale. I suppose I should be grateful.
“Hello.”
“Hi, it’s me.” Her voice is full of bubbles. “I miss you so much.”
I realise that it’s the first time in weeks that she hasn’t been on my mind for every waking moment. “Me too,” I say, thinking it might be what she’d like to hear.
“Listen,” she says, and because it’s a phone I don’t have much choice. “Meet me at the ponds in ten minutes.”
“I’m on my way,” I tell her and slip out of bed to see that it’s two o’clock in the morning.
Wolf passes me as I walk into the bathroom.
He opens his arms for a hug.
There are rings of sweat at his arm-pits, his boxer-shorts are a bit too tight for my liking and his hair’s falling over is face in long, greasy strands.
Nothing I can do to avoid the hug though.
I look into the sitting room. Mike’s sitting in the chair in his horizontal pose. He looks me up and down and tilts his head to one side.
“Just need some fresh air,” I say. “I’ll tell you all about it sometime soon.”
He nods and I peel myself away from Wolf to go and take a slash.
the girl in the jeans with the holes in the knees
Cities aren’t supposed to go to sleep, but this one does.
I park up at the ponds until I see her bobbing in my direction wearing a short, white tee-shirt and jeans with holes at the knees. When she waves, she veers to one side and I wonder how much wine she drank before she decided to leave the house.
She opens the door, leans in and kisses me. “Hi babe,” she says and I like the word she’s picked. “Come on.” She takes my arm and tries to pull me over the passenger seat.
I manage to free myself and get out of my door in the usual way.
Kite Hill
The number of times I’ve sat at the top of Kite Hill watching over London wishing there was a girl there to share it with me, I couldn’t say. I love the way it spreads out like an enormous concrete blanket.
Now we’re here, it’s not all I imagined.
; Emma’s the one doing all the talking. Suits me. No way I can say the wrong thing that way.
Thing is, I’m freezing. Can’t wait to get inside.
Sex, I think, might be a solution to the problem.
“Come and sit on me,” I tell her. It would warm me up and stop her drunken ramblings at the same time.
“Is that all you want me for?”
It’s a question I have to consider carefully. I don’t know if I want her at all. It’s more of a question of need. Can’t tell her that, though. There’s no way I’ll get laid that way. “It’s part of what I want.”
It’s like I’ve said the magic words, the abracadabra that’ll get me into her trousers. She kisses me like we’re shooting a movie scene. Her tongue’s in my mouth and her hands pull at her belt.
I’m about to have the first outdoor sex of my life. Another box ticked. Another moment to look back on when death arrives.
postman
Walking up Alistair’s steps I feel like all the blood’s been drained from my body.
The splinter in my arse gets a press every time I raise my left leg.
He’s there at his desk same as every morning, working through his in tray and his mug of coffee, still ten minutes before he goes down for his half-past-eight cigarette.
I knock on the door as always, but don’t bother to wait for him to ask me in.
“Everything all right, Joe?” It’s a stupid question in the circumstances.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, pull the envelope from behind my back and put it on top of the pile of papers on his desk. “I put it in writing to make sure there’s a record.”
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t even take it.
“Thanks,” is what he says, like it’s just some minor thing.
“Just so you know,” I tell him, “I’ve got copies for the chair of governors and the vice-chair.”
This time he moves. Takes off his glasses and looks up at me. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
There’s something about the implication of the question that worries me. Like he might ignore the whole thing if I don’t send it.
“I posted them on the way to work,” I tell him.