In Loco Parentis

by Nigel Bird

  “We’ll have to wait and see,” I say and wonder if by then my sins will be forgiven.

  lunch

  Soon as the lunch bell rings, I’m off. Down the path, under the willow and past the smoking room.

  Through the window and the cigarette smog I see Alistair’s leaning on the photocopier. Looks older than he did the day before. Might be something to do with the police turning up here again.

  Moira Scott’s talking to him. When Alistair looks at me, her eyes track his and we’re connected. It’s only a moment, but there’s something she’s letting me know. That she wants to see me, perhaps, or that she’s coming. Like she knows.

  I don’t look away. Only lose eye-contact when I pass the last of the windows.

  Soon as I’m clear, I run, feet splashing on the ground, water seeping into my shoes.

  A Town Called Malice

  The Jam are blasting through the speakers at the Mason’s when I walk in.

  Another rainy day, another empty pub, another wave of nausea.

  Saw The Jam when I was a kid. Black suits, thin ties and lots of sweat, the bass vibrating through my clothes and bones. A night to remember.

  The barman, putting money into the jukebox. Sees me enter and nods to the back.

  What I see is her teeth, shining at me like runway lights as they point in my direction.

  Call it instinct or sixth sense, my insides do cartwheels and let me know that it’s now or never. Finish it quick to be kind.

  I’m tempted to ask for whisky. Maybe with a drop of water or some ice. Let my eyes flick across the optics to see what they’ve got. I wouldn’t even be able to pronounce the names of them.

  “Orange juice,” I say. “Pint.”

  “She’s been here half an hour,” the barman says. He’s a good looking lad. The way his shirt’s pressed and gleaming, I reckon he lives with his mum. “Told me there’s big news.”

  While he fills the glass, I imagine her flirting with this guy, keeping him interested in that way she does. “Any idea what it is?”

  “Nah mate.” He keeps his voice low as the music’s stopped. Holds his hands out in front of his stomach when he puts the drink on the beer-mat in front of me. It’s either his impression of a sagging pair of breasts or a pregnant woman.

  Him standing there like that makes me want to run. Leave the pub and head north. Out of London and along the motorway till I’m home and safe, falling into Jenny’s arms.

  It’s like I’m finally awake. Like I finally know how wrong it is to be shagging Emma. I don’t even want to go over, but my feet turn on the automatic pilot and step towards her and keep going until they arrive at her table.

  “Hi,” she says and stands up to give me a hug.

  I want to stop my arms and lips from moving.

  Helpless, I feel them gather her in, kiss her lips and sit.

  “You’re gorgeous, you know.” I wish she wouldn’t be nice. Not today. Not the way it has to be.

  “It’s in the eye of the beholder,” I tell her, then pull my arms from sodden sleeves. I have the smell of rodents about me and the feeling I’m about to watch my life flush down the toilet.

  She takes my hands. They become numb at her touch.

  “Busy day?”

  “Christmas stuff, you know.”

  “I heard the police were back.”

  “There’s been bad news.” It’s not often I really have her attention when we’re dressed, but she leans in and makes an ‘mmm’ sound. “It can wait. Barman over there reckons you’ve got something to tell me.”

  “Uhu.”

  “So?”

  She smiles and wipes water from my face.

  One in six is what I’m thinking. The chance of a woman conceiving during sex at the right time. One in six. Like the roll of a die.

  “I went to Seven Oaks to see my parents,” she opens. One in six. Probability’s on my side. “Dad and I had a chat. I told him, Joe. All about us.”

  It seems, all of a sudden, that having a baby might be less of a disaster. At least such things can be undone. Telling her dad, now that steps it all up another gear.

  “You did what?” It’s supposed to be rhetorical, but I guess it doesn’t come out right.

  “Told my dad.” I don’t have a word to use for a moment. “Everything.”

  “You oughtn’t to have done that.” There’s an American drawl to the words I don’t expect. In my head Audie Murphy’s taken over, striding to the Japs and shooting like the hates the whole human race. “He didn’t need to know.”

  Now I have her attention again. Second time in one day.

  Under her eyes there are dark shadows. I’m seeing them for the first time. There’s water in her eyes too. Disbelieving tears making them shine.

  It’s her turn to talk. Nothing happens.

  I steel myself. Speak quickly. “I can’t go through with it.” There, it’s out. “Not like you want. Things changed.”

  Liquid drips onto her cheeks. Reckon if I touched them I’d scald my fingers.

  Her skin reddens like signals.

  The pause grows, forms a barrier between us. It’s not much of a barrier, mind, the way her hand penetrates it. She slaps hard.

  “Bastard.” Maybe she loves me. “Bloody bastard.” She really does. It was a living breathing hope she held.

  My cheek stings. Feels good.

  “I’m sorry.” My apology’s sincere. Should make things better. Like a plaster. Only this wound needs a tourniquet and an operating theatre.

  Legs still working without my brain, they stand me up. Prepare to go.

  Emma’s up before I can move any further. Digs a hand into a pocket and it flashes towards me. My face is peppered by tiny bites like those Japs are firing back.

  “Bloody bastard.”

  In one impressive movement, she grabs coat and bag and leaves.

  “They were for you. For when you got home. All I’ve done for you. How...”

  The sentence doesn’t end. Fills the air with pathos like the spirit of the unknown soldier.

  A chair falls to the floor as she passes, the door swings open and shut.

  The barman shrugs his shoulders. Does the pregnant mime again.

  Around my feet, on my chair, covering the table, silver hearts cover me like Christmas decorations.

  Assembly

  Must have been in a daze or something. By the time I get back I’m five minutes late. I run to the classroom hoping that I’ll be able to sneak in. Should have been an indoor play the way it’s pissing it down.

  It’s all a bit too quiet.

  There’s nobody to be seen.

  They must be playing their trick again.

  I tiptoe over to the home-corner and jump out, expecting them to shout ‘surprise’ and come to give me hugs, but the only thing on the mat is an empty carton of milk.

  It’s all wrong.

  My feet take me next door. No kids there either.

  The office. No one.

  The smoking room, not a soul.

  It’s the Marie Celeste over again.

  It just doesn’t happen. The pressure in my head builds. Can’t say my lungs are doing that well either.

  The junior block’s empty too, apart from the smell of wet clothes.

  Last place to try is the hall.

  Half way over, the air is filled with song. Rhythm Of bloody Life.

  My jog turns into a sprint.

  I hit the double doors with both hands and enter.

  Everybody in the whole school, everybody who’s still alive that is, turns to look at me.

  Only person I have eyes for is Alistair.

  He’s staring at me like he wants to put my nuts in a vice.

  The singing continues and the children turn back.

  Pinned up at the windows, pictures of the Carpenters.

  Gradually the world comes back to focus and I see something new.

  Instead of the beaming smiles I’m used to for this song, everyone has r
ed rings round their eyes.

  I head to the front. Find my guys.

  Max and Aurora run straight over. Throw their arms round my hips and grab. Their shoulders bob up and down as they sob.

  I look up at the photographs.

  Wonder how things ever got to this.

  lights, camera, action

  Last thing I need is a camera pointing at me.

  The bright lights behind it are blinding.

  “Act normal,” Kaye Jones tells me. I recognise her from local news reports on the TV. She’s the type who’s after an anchor slot. Kind of flirts with the audience.

  “How do you feel about the devastating news?” It’s not something I’ve prepared for.

  Any other time I’d probably find Kaye attractive, her brown eyes dark as sugar, lashes painted like Cleopatra’s.

  “Yeah, it’s kind of, eh...” The next word doesn’t come. I have to try again. They can always sort it in the edits. “We’re all down, you know. But we’ll try and keep up the Christmas spirit if we can.” Maybe I sound too cool. Need to embellish. I lower my head and pinch my nose. Give out a choking sound like I’m trying not to cry. “No more. Not now. Sorry.” If it looks as good as it feels, I deserve awards.

  Kaye stops. “Now the children. Is that OK?”

  I’ve got no choice. It’s all part of the package, get the sweetest kids to do the ‘so upset’ thing and bring out the poignancy. Makes me want to puke.

  She goes over to the table where a group of five are decorating their Santa Clauses by sticking on cotton wool beards. Crouches to their level and points the microphone in their faces.

  “So what did you like about your music lessons?”

  I do know how to whistle

  The card is shaking in my hand. I press the last of the numbers in and wait for the dialling tone.

  It’s been on my mind since yesterday, seeing Moira Scott at school, the way she looked at me.

  Could have been getting the daggers for not calling or it might be because they’ve marked my card. Only way I can think of find the answer is to invite her out.

  She says yes, I’m screwed. She says no, I’m screwed, too.

  Seven rings and in clicks the answering machine. The tension lifts from my shoulders and I feel myself straighten on the bed.

  “Hi, this is Moira.” Then there’s the sound of bubbles, like she’s blowing into a milkshake with a straw. “I’m under the water just now.” Wacky. “If you want to leave a number, I’ll get back to you as soon as I surface.”

  The beep’s loud. I take the phone from my ears. Start to read the message I prepared. “Hi. It’s Joe. Joe Campion,” then there’s a confused fumble as she picks up.

  The message keeps on and she bursts into laughter. Bet if I listen hard I’ll hear her wetting her pants.

  “Look at you,” she says, coated in sarcasm and slurring a Scottish accent. “Was that Joe Campion or Jack the bloody Lad?”

  Pissed as a fart.

  There’s no point dragging this out. I dive in. “You fancy a drink?”

  “Aye, right. That stick insect you’re dating might not be too happy you asking.”

  “I’m moving on. Want a little something to hold on to.” It’s the kind of thing that might flatter a girl her size.

  “You saying I’m fat?”

  It’s a trick question. No answer will suffice and I can’t afford to blow the chance to see if I’m in the clear or not. “Tomorrow night. 8 o’clock, the Richard Steele.”

  She laughs again. This time she sprays out whatever’s in her mouth.

  “Cocky bastard.”

  “See you there.”

  I put the phone down.

  It’s a tangled web I weave. I feel it sticking to my soul as I dial Jenny’s number.

  nightcap?

  My conscience is almost clear.

  When she asked me to come in for a nightcap, I said no. Went in for a peck on the cheek and an ‘it’s been lovely, thanks,’ and she grabbed me in a copper’s grip and started sucking at my face.

  Her tongue’s dancing on mine, the taste of gin and lemon coating my taste-buds and all the while her hands are all over me like this is a body search.

  I get to cop a feel, her firm breasts giving way in my hands like the stress ball Dr India told me to use.

  It’s going further than I’d planned. Maybe it’s the exhilaration of knowing I’m in the clear, nobody bothering to find the killer of a piece of scum like Don’s dad and the fire brigade convinced they’d stumbled into some swinger’s event that went horribly wrong.

  How she manages to get the door open, I’ve no idea, but we fall into the hallway like the couple of drunks we are. She kicks the door closed with her black stiletto and leans in, pinning me to the wall.

  The woman’s like an excited puppy, flitting from one part of my body to the next like she’s not touched a man in years. Can’t say I mind either.

  “They’re right about the quiet ones,” she says, taking a break from performing her impression of a plunger at my neck. “You pour the drinks and I’ll go and slip into something more comfortable.”

  I can’t believe she said it. Like she’s stuck in some corny movie.

  A quick snog and she kicks off her shoes and heads up the stairs.

  She fills the pencil skirt to perfection, the material tight and clinging in all the right places and all the others besides.

  Off I go hunting for booze.

  Place feels like a show-home, nothing out of place, no dust, no character.

  The kitchen has the whiff of take-away curry. There’s nothing on the table but salt and pepper shakers in the shape of lighthouses and a bunch of fake flowers.

  Going through the cupboards, I find the tins neatly ordered in groups of size and colour then dried food and then a load of slimming meals.

  The fridge is the treasure chest, bottle of gold-vodka in the freezer compartment, mixers where the milk should go, fresh lemons in among the salad and a pile of chilling chocolate bars.

  I pour big ones. Watch the flakes of gold spread and settle like the glitter in a lamp Mum used to have.

  As I put in the ice, I hear her coming back, almost surprised I’ve got company. She knocks on the door. “You ready?” she asks.

  Ready? What the hell for? “As I’ll ever be.”

  In she walks like a stripper, tight corset pushing her breasts out of the top of her uniform jacket, fishnets and suspenders and a peaked police cap. She’s carrying some kind of whip in her left hand, the thongs like a horse’s tail swatting flies.

  She leans over the table and I take a long look at her cleavage. When she clears the salt and pepper pots like Jessica Lange, I decide to give my best impression of Jack Nicholson.

  reindeer

  What the hell is a conscience anyway?

  It’s not a bone. It’s not a muscle or an organ. It’s not even cartilage. So why the hell does it stab like steel?

  Jenny phoned Saturday night. I wasn’t in.

  She tried all Sunday morning and afternoon and I still wasn’t there.

  When I rang back, all I could get was her answer machine.

  There’s a new message, her sounding flat and weary like she’d recorded it especially.

  Can’t get it out of my head, yet every time I think of it, there’s that stabbing.

  In the classroom we’re making reindeer faces with hand-prints for the horns. It was Lorraine’s idea, which is why I’m letting her do most of the work.

  I sit in the corner helping them take the sticky backing from the eyes with the wobbly pupils so they can stick them on when they’ve done.

  Every time I lean forward, I feel the stings smarting along the lines on my back. Might not have been such a good idea to put vinegar on them – last time I’m taking Wolf’s advice on anything.

  Zlatan and Zulfi come over holding hands, the pair of them covered in brown paint.

  “Why did the cow cross over the road?” Zlatan asks. He’s got
a winning smile. Almost makes me feel better.

  “Dunno. Why did the cow cross the road?”

  He looks up at the ceiling like the answer’s there, then over to Zulfi. “Because it was 3 o’clock.”

  Zulfi cracks up like he’s at the circus and Zlatan slaps him on the back.

  I feel tears on my cheeks rolling down to where the laughter should be escaping.

  The Postman Always Rings...

  Wednesday. Last thing I want is Emma waiting for me.

  Her car’s parked opposite my flat. Too tired for anything else, I get ready to face the music.

  Her shades point in my direction. I guess that means she’s seen me.

  The engine starts. The car pulls out with a screech of the wheels and fills the air with the smoke of burning rubber and dirty exhaust.

  If I didn’t know her better, I’d be relieved. She’s probably booby trapped the flat.

  My insides vibrate. I can see the shake in my fingers, but I go in through the gate as casually as I can manage.

  At the door waiting is a box full of paper. The letters and cards I’ve sent over the months telling of love and need and joy.

  On the top, instead of the turd I’m expecting, there’s a note.

  ‘BURN THIS SHIT’ it says. No kisses this time.

  It’s like I have permission.

  Instead of going inside, I walk straight through to the end of the corridor and open the door to the back garden.

  Putting the box in the middle of the lawn, I fumble for my lighter and click myself a flame as quickly as I can manage.

  Soon as I touch it to the paper it takes, the orange light flickering and spreading from one letter to another.

  A curtain twitches in the upstairs window and a face appears. I stare, daring them to come down and say something, knowing they won’t.

  I warm my hands on the fire. Wonder if this is what they mean by closure.

  ...Twice

  The post’s on the sill, piled like an avalanche ready to go. There’s some junk about a new restaurant and a package from Preston.

  I don’t wait to get in to open it. Expect to see an early Christmas gift. I tear at the bubble-wrap and find a black, velvet box. A ring?