Teacher's Dead

by Benjamin Zephaniah

  Chapter 12

  The Weather Report

  It took me a long time to recover from that storm. For days afterwards I could smell the insides of Miss Ferrier everywhere I went. My mother could smell it too. I didn’t tell her about it but I could see that she had checked my sheets to see if I had been wetting my bed, and I knew for sure she suspected something when just before saying goodnight to me she asked, ‘How’s your health, son?

  ‘Just fine’, I replied. ‘No changes.’

  ‘No boy problems?’

  ‘No, Mum, no boy problems,’ I said defensively.

  ‘Well, son, you know you can speak to me if you have any problems. I mean that, you know. Any problems at all, you can speak to me.’

  ‘Yes, Mum, goodnight, Mum.’

  But it was pretty bad. I could smell that stuff as I slept, I could smell it as I washed, every time I took a drink I was reminded of that wet evening. I had urine on my mind and to make things worse I felt that my schoolwork was beginning to suffer. I wasn’t doing too bad, but I knew I wasn’t concentrating as much as I should have been and I felt that if I wasn’t going to draw attention to myself from my teachers and my mother, I had to make sure that my schoolwork wasn’t affected. I took a few days off from my investigations to get back to normality and recover from my humiliation. I washed a lot, and studied hard, but although I wasn’t actively making enquires I couldn’t stop my mind from asking questions.

  I gave it a week, and then I put myself back on the case. First I wanted to see Mrs Joseph. I called her and we decided to meet at the same place, at the same time. I declined the offer to go swimming.

  When I got to the sports centre there she was, reading a newspaper and eating.

  ‘Hello, Jackson. Good to see you. Sit down. Can I get you a drink?’

  I thought about it. I didn’t fancy that bright orange stuff I had before, and when I looked towards the drinks counter the gold-coloured drinks on display reminded too much of my last encounter with liquid of that colour.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m fine.’

  I sat down, and she put the newspaper down and did that elbows-on-the-table, leaning-forward thing.

  ‘Guess what,’ she said, taking a glance around like a secret agent in a movie. ‘I found out some really interesting stuff. I didn’t go looking for it, it came to me via a neighbour.’

  ‘Yeah. What?’

  ‘Last year this woman turned up out of the blue asking loads of questions and really upsetting Ramzi and his foster parents.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, at first she just turned up at the house, and hung around outside his school, generally making a nuisance of herself.’

  ‘Why, what was she up to?’ I asked.

  ‘She was claiming to be Ramzi’s mother. Ramzi didn’t want to know. After a big row outside his house she was arrested and kept in a cell to cool off for a couple of hours.’

  This was really interesting for my investigation. Mrs Joseph was visibly excited.

  ‘When they let her out of the station did she just disappear?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Joseph. ‘She came back the next day demanding that Ramzi go and live with her. Ramzi wasn’t having it, he said that there’s no way that she could be his mother and he wasn’t going anywhere with her. She went away and came back another day a little bit drunk, but this time Ramzi’s foster mother called the police and social services. A policewoman and a social worker turned up and told her to leave them alone. They threatened to put an injunction on her.’

  ‘What’s an injunction?’ I asked. It was important that I understood every word of this.

  ‘It’s basically a ban on someone; usually they say you can’t go within a certain amount of miles radius of this or that place or person. So they warned her and then told her that if she really wanted to take it further she should speak to the social services. The social worker even gave her a card with telephone numbers on it.’

  ‘And?’ I couldn’t wait to hear how it ended.

  ‘And nothing, she was never seen again.’

  An anti-climax, I thought. ‘She just said forget it?’

  ‘Well, no one knows if she was serious or just a bit mad. The point is she never came back. Are you sure you don’t want a drink?’

  Her story may have had no real ending, but what did I have to report? Very little. As I declined the drink I was trying to think of a way into the very little that I had to say. Mrs Joseph prompted me. ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ I replied, still thinking.

  ‘I can’t imagine you doing nothing much.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to catch up on my schoolwork.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Can’t forget your schoolwork.’

  ‘After we spoke the last time I did go round to see Lionel’s mum.’

  She sounded surprised. ‘You did?’

  ‘Yeah, I did.’

  ‘Well, tell me what happened. What did she say?’

  I nervously began folding and unfolding the corners of her newspaper.

  ‘She told me to go away, and she threw some water over me.’

  She sounded even more surprised. ‘She threw water over you? Oh my God. What kind of water?

  ‘Water,’ I said. ‘You know, water.’

  ‘Yes, but what kind of water?’

  ‘Used water,’ I said. ‘Used water.’ I really didn’t know what to say to her, this was the best I could do without lying.

  ‘You mean she was washing the dishes and she threw the dishwater over you?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘She drank the water, it passed through her, and then she threw it over me. It was urine. Piss.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, smiling.

  Now I was surprised. ‘Hey, you knew all the time. How did you know?

  ‘People are talking. What happened is some kid from Fentham Road told some kid on my street and that kid told me. They didn’t know your name, they just said someone had this encounter with this woman on this night, and I knew it was you. Apparently she’s famous for doing it, she does a kind of weather warning, or weather forecast, and if she doesn’t get things her way she gives you a soaking. Apparently the police came round once to talk to her about it and she gave them a soaking too.’

  That hour with Mrs Joseph wasn’t so pleasant. Telling her about my warm shower was embarrassing enough, but it was more embarrassing finding out that she already knew. Once again she stayed on to do her Bums, Tums and Thighs class and I went home, to cry – internally of course, I don’t do crying aloud.

  Chapter 13

  Stranger Danger

  When I went home that afternoon my mum handed me a letter. It was addressed to her, but it was about me. The letter informed her that the case against Lionel and Ramzi was to be heard in court during the summer holiday in just over a week and I was being called as a witness. I was given two options, I could stand up in court and give evidence, or because of my age and what they called the sensitive nature of the case, I could simply submit the written statement that I had already made to the police. I wasn’t sure what to do. I stood there thinking aloud, saying, ‘Should I go, or shouldn’t I?’

  My mother said that she didn’t doubt my ability to stand up in court and say my piece, but she also thought that if the statement I had already given was sufficient and I had nothing to add then it wasn’t necessary for me to stand in front of people and repeat it. Still, in her wisdom, she left it up to me, telling me she trusted my judgement. I thought about it for a couple of hours and when it began to give me a headache I rang Mrs Joseph. She had also arrived home to find a letter notifying her of the date of the hearing, but in effect she was just a spectator. I told her that I wanted to see as much of the trial as possible and then she made an interesting suggestion. The defendants and most of the witnesses were going to be juveniles, which meant it would be a closed court. She reckoned that if I appeared as a witness I would only be able to enter the courtroom at
the time I gave my evidence, but if I submitted a written statement I could be her companion and that would allow me to sit in the courtroom throughout the trial. A brilliant idea, I thought. I would have thought of it myself if I had given myself a bit more time, but there was a problem. My mother didn’t like the idea.

  ‘Going to court to give evidence is one thing,’ she said, ‘but going everyday with a strange woman is another. I’m not saying she’s bad or anything, but you hardly know her. And what will she think of me letting my son out with a stranger?’

  ‘Mum, we’re going to court, not on a date,’ I said, sounding as if I’d been on many a date. ‘What’s wrong with that?

  ‘It doesn’t look good.’

  ‘It’s not about looks, Mum, it’s about justice,’ I said, sounding like an expert on justice.

  She looked towards the ceiling for a while as if looking for an idea, then she found one.

  ‘OK. You can go if you let me speak to her first.’

  ‘Mum,’ I shouted. ‘I’m not a child.’

  ‘You are,’ she replied. ‘You’re my child.’

  I couldn’t argue with that. I went and wrote down Mrs Joseph’s phone number for her and then I went for a walk. For some reason I didn’t want to be in the house while they were talking about me on the phone. When I came back my mother started playing mind games with me.

  ‘I need to tell you something,’ she said, pointing to a seat.

  I sat down.

  ‘You are still my child.’

  ‘I know that,’ I said.

  ‘So what I have to say is final.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘You can go,’ she said, smiling. ‘I had a talk with Mrs Joseph and she seems like a really nice woman. I was very impressed with her. Dignified, that’s what I’d call her, dignified.

  The next day I had another talk with Warren Stanmore. He was becoming very useful. He told me about other strange deeds committed by Lionel and Ramzi. Some of them were just the usual pranks like putting glue into door locks, and scaring people at night in the local graveyard, whilst others were more bizarre, like risking their lives walking on the ledges of high buildings, or catching birds and keeping them prisoner for days as they watched them starve to death. He had story after story, and I had no reason to doubt the authenticity of them. He had no axe to grind. He also knew about my meeting with Lionel’s mum, and he told me that Norma knew. From then on I assumed that everyone knew.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, and I began to walk away.

  ‘Hey, are you going, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Going where?’

  ‘Going to court,’ he said.

  ‘So you know about that too? I’m going all right, it was a bit iffy but I’m going. It’s difficult to explain now but –’

  I was in full flow when I felt an almighty slap across the back of my head. I turned and there were these two boys with who I presumed were their girlfriends hanging on their arms. I recognised one of them; it was Terry Stock, the new school bully. All of them stood there grinning at me.

  ‘What’s your problem? What did you do that for?’ I said, high-pitched and surprised.

  Terry started. ‘You think you’re a private investigator or something, hey. What’s your game? Who do you think you are, poking your nose around?’

  ‘I know who I am. What’s your game? What you do that for? I replied.

  ‘You should mind your own business,’ said the other boy.

  ‘Yeah,’ said one girl.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said the other.

  ‘I was minding my own business,’ I said. ‘We were just talking and you came here and hit me, one of you did. We were just –’ I looked back to Warren but he wasn’t there.

  ‘We who?’ said one the girls.

  I gave in. ‘Ah, forget it. I don’t get you lot.’

  ‘But we got you,’ said Terry. ‘And we’ll get you again.’

  I left them standing there and that was that. I didn’t know if this was Terry and his gang just being boys showing off or if it was the start of a reign of terror, they’d demanded no goods or favours from me. All I knew was that I wasn’t going to stand for it. And where was Warren when I needed him? He was a good informant, but he was a bit of a chicken.

  Chapter 14

  We All Got Court

  There were more stories in the newspapers and more stories in the playground, but then the summer holidays began and not much happened until the court case started. The night before the first day of the trial was so hot that I hardly slept. I wanted to journey back to the winter. I saw the morning weather forecast on TV and it was all about the heat, but then there was my mum who insisted that I wear a suit to court. I didn’t want to, but I did. I needed to keep her sweet. I only had one suit, and I’d only ever worn that once, to my grandfather’s funeral. It was getting smaller and I was getting bigger, but I managed to squeeze into it. I felt I had to. My mother was so adamant that I wore a suit that she said if it didn’t fit me she would go and buy me a new one. I didn’t want her to waste her money, and more importantly, I didn’t want to own another suit.

  Mrs Joseph passed by to pick me up in a taxi as we had arranged and we headed for the court. When we arrived the taxi was immediately surrounded by press reporters. I’d expected some press but not that many, and I could see that Mrs Joseph was surprised too. After she paid the fare we sat in the taxi, not sure what to do. The taxi driver was reminding us that he had a job to do and that he didn’t have time to sit around all day looking at us when the taxi door was opened by two men. One of them opened his arms to create some space for us.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We’re court staff.’

  Like a well-rehearsed double act the other one said, ‘We’ve been asked to help you in. Don’t worry about that lot. Just say nothing, and come with us.’

  We did as we were told. As we walked from the taxi to the court they shielded us from the reporters who shouted questions at Mrs Joseph. I wasn’t sure how they expected her to answer questions like, ‘How are you coping after the death of your husband?’ or, ‘What kind of verdict are you looking for, Mrs Joseph?’

  We put our heads down and walked in. I don’t know about Mrs Joseph but the flashing lights made me feel more like a celebrity at a film premiere than a citizen heading for the public gallery of a murder trial.

  We were taken to the courtroom. It was a modern extension to the old courthouse, and by the time we arrived there it was already quite full. We found two empty seats next to each other and sat down. There was a tap on my shoulder. I looked around, it was Mrs Martel.

  ‘I knew you’d be here,’ she said, smiling down on me like a guardian headmistress.

  And I replied, ‘I knew you’d be here,’ believing that being outside of school allowed me to be a bit more imaginative with my responses to her.

  ‘Now now,’ she said. She turned to Mrs Joseph. ‘Hello, Mary. I see he brought you along.’

  Mrs Joseph replied politely and then the chatter that had filled the courtroom stopped. Someone shouted ‘all stand’, and we all stood. Three judges entered, one woman, with a man either side of her. They took a second to look ahead, then they sat. We took a second to watch them sit, then we sat. It was all a bit robotic. The clerk made an announcement informing us that this was a case of the state against two juveniles, and then the female judge spoke.

  ‘Those of you in this room are here because you have some connection to the case. We have allowed in a limited number of members of the press, and I would firstly like to remind them that we are the judges here. You must make your reports, but you must report responsibly. Furthermore I want to remind all of you that the defendants in this case are juveniles, and so unless we grant permission to reveal their names you must protect their identities to the best of your abilities. It is important that everyone in this room understands this. Please bring the defendants in.’

  There was absolute silence as Lionel and Ramzi were
brought in by four uniformed police officers. They stood in front of seats behind small desks for a short while with an officer to the side and behind each of them. They were both dressed in their school uniforms, both looking pale and thin. They were ordered to sit. I looked to my right and saw a woman looking at me. She looked familiar, but I just couldn’t place her. I looked away for a moment then I looked back. She was still looking at me. I looked a third time. Now she was looking straight ahead. There was something about her, but I couldn’t work out what it was.

  The female judge read out the charges.

  ‘Lionel Ferrier, could you please stand. Lionel Ferrier, it is alleged that at three fifty-five, on April the twenty-fourth, of two thousand and seven, that you murdered Mr Edgar Arnold Joseph, in the grounds of Marston Hall school. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?’

  Lionel looked straight at the judge. ‘Guilty.’

  For thirty seconds no one spoke. All that could be heard was the woman who records every word typing away at her machine, the sound of pen upon paper as people took notes, and the sound of people breathing.

  ‘Be seated,’ said the judge. ‘Ramzi Sanchin, could you please stand. Ramzi Sanchin, it is alleged that you conspired with Lionel Ferrier to commit an act of murder, that murder, of Mr Edgar Arnold Joseph, having been committed at three fifty-five, on April the twenty-fourth, of two thousand and seven, in the grounds of Marston Hall school. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?’

  Ramzi looked straight at the judge. ‘Guilty.’

  There was a repeat of the silent writing, and then Ramzi was told to sit down. The judges began to whisper amongst themselves when the silence was broken by a disturbance outside the courtroom. A woman was screaming and shouting at the top of her voice.

  ‘Leave me alone! Why don’t you believe me? I have a right to be in there, he’s my son. He’s my son. If my son’s in court I have the right to be there. Now leave me alone.’

  Lionel continued to stare straight ahead, but Ramzi looked disturbed. He began to look towards the direction of the shouting. Suddenly the door flew open and the two men who had brought me and Mrs Joseph in were chasing after a woman who was determined to sit in the court. She pointed to Ramzi.