Hmm, thought Daley, monitoring the crowd’s response. They’ll think he’s a hero if I’m not careful.
***
As soon as the fire brigade declared the building to be safe for re-entry, the Head of Hangham High dismissed the rows of pupils. They were too rowdy for his liking and the sooner they were back indoors, knuckling down to some serious learning, the better.
He was left with O’Toole the caretaker and a quivering wreck of a boy with bright red legs.
“He’s the one, to be sure,” said O’Toole, holding Kenny by the collar of his blazer. “I caught him in the act, so I did. He was after burning the whole feckin’ place down, so he was.”
“Thank you, O’Toole,” the Head smiled thinly. “What happened to your school trousers, boy? Or did you set fire to them as well?”
“No!” Kenny protested. “I never! They’m in the wash.”
“Well, do you have a note?”
“Er - no, my mom forgot, Sir.”
“Sir,” O’Toole interrupted, “I think you may be drifting off the point a little. The lad just tried to burn the fecking school down.”
“Thank you, O’Toole; I’ll deal with this. I imagine the fire-fighters left you quite a mess to attend to.” He looked pointedly at the main building. O’Toole released the young hooligan and sloped off, muttering.
“Alone with the would-be arsonist,” the Head’s face darkened. “Right, you little shit. Go and wait outside my office. We’ll get your mother in and probably the police as well.”
“Oh, but, Sir!”
“In!” the Head roared stale coffee breath in Kenny’s face. Shoulders slouching, Kenny shuffled back indoors. The Head watched him go.
Little shit. Try to burn down my school, would you? A taste of the slipper would make the Head feel better at least. He followed the boy indoors but when he reached his office, of the little shit there was no sign.
14.
Kenny slunk around the corridors, hunching low when he went past those classrooms with windows. He was in big trouble and panicking. Part of him suggested it might be in his best interests to go along to the Head’s office and explain. Another part told the first part not to be so fucking stupid: the Head would probably not believe a word of it and when Daley and his mates found out that Kenny had tried to grass them up, well, there was no telling what they might do.
He found his way to the Art room and peered through the panes of glass in the door. The room was in darkness; Miss Rose must have a free period. Her bag was on the desk. She wasn’t back from the fire drill, was Kenny’s guess. Perhaps she’d gone to get a cup of tea...
He pushed the door. It was unlocked. He went in.
Now what?
He found himself standing at the desk, looking at the teacher’s bag. What now, Kenny? Are you going to steal Miss Rose’s purse? Is that what you’re going to do? Aren’t you in enough trouble?
No. Not the purse. The keys.
He delved his hand into Miss Rose’s bag. His fingers closed around the bunch of keys and snatched them out. He sorted through them until he found the one he wanted, the one with the little fob that said SUPPLIES. He hurried to the storeroom. On his first attempt, he dropped the keys and when he stooped to pick them up, kicked them a few feet across the floor. With a gasp of panic, he grabbed them and hastened to unlock the door. Miss Rose could come back at any second.
He sprang into the walk-in cupboard and pulled the door to behind him. Total darkness engulfed him. He patted the wall near the door frame to find the light switch. After a couple of flickers, the cupboard was flooded with harsh fluorescent light, revealing row upon row of tubs of paint in a rainbow of colours, jars of pencils and paintbrushes, boxes of pastels, canvases used and unused leaning against each other.... Kenny’s eyes darted from shelf to shelf; he knew exactly what he was looking for. When he found it, he turned it over in his hands, enjoying the weight of it and the feeling of empowerment it bestowed.
Voices in the Art room yanked him from his enjoyment. He slapped the light switch and crouched behind the door - if Miss Rose looked in, there was a chance she might not spot him.
“No, I don’t know where he is, Barry,” Miss Rose’s voice was familiar but who the fuck was Barry?
“The boy likes you, Fran,” replied this Barry and Kenny was both amused and alarmed to recognise the Head’s voice. He stifled a nervous giggle: the Head’s name is Barry! Biting his fist, Kenny strained to hear the conversation.
“The boy always struck me as... well, the artistic sort, so I thought he might have come here.”
“Artistic? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know...” Barry the Head laughed, “Temperamental. Fragile.”
“You don’t mean artistic, Headmaster; you mean queer.”
“Do I? Is the boy here or not?”
“You can see for yourself he’s not.”
“Well, I’ve called the mother in. He’ll have to go, of course.”
“I suppose.”
“No suppose about it. I can’t have volatile types trying to burn down my school.”
“I’m sure Kenny didn’t mean -”
“Well, he’s not here to give his side, is he? That reeks of guilt to me.”
“He’s probably running scared.” Francesca Rose tried to speak in Kenny’s defence, Kenny was heartened to hear.
“And so he fucking well should be,” the Head retorted with impatience. “Don’t give me your soft soap, Fran. That boy’s a wrong un and he’s got to go.”
Kenny heard the Head stride from the room. He listened to the sounds of Miss Rose moving around. He thought about leaving the storeroom and enlisting the Art teacher as the ally she undoubtedly was. Perhaps he could tell her what had happened and she could intercede with Barry on his behalf...
The key turned in the lock. Kenny froze. But Miss Rose wasn’t opening the door. She was locking it.
I’m stuck! Kenny realised. Locked in!
Don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic
He was hyperventilating. It’ll only be until next lesson. Keep calm, for fuck’s sake. She’ll come back, she’ll open the cupboard to get what she needs for the class and I can explain. Or sneak out. Or whatever. It’s not a problem.
No. What’s the problem is what’s waiting for me when I come out of this closet - Kenny laughed bitterly. How could he face the Head when the man already suspected the truth that Kenny barely acknowledged in himself?
Perhaps it’s better if I stay in here forever....
He lapsed into a kind of reverie, filled with equal measures of self-pity and self-loathing.
The lunchtime bell rang but Kenny didn’t hear it. Nor did he hear it when it rang again fifty minutes later, signalling the start of afternoon school. He sat curled in a ball on the storeroom floor, despairing for his future, immediate and longer term.
Eventually, commotion in the Art room roused him: the general hubbub of a class filing in. He heard Miss Rose ask them to settle down and listen. The room went quiet, save for the gentle drone of the Art teacher giving instructions for the lesson.
A sudden thought galvanised Kenny. They would need supplies. He was bound to be discovered.
The cold sweat of panic coated his entire body. He scrambled to his feet, desperate to find a hiding place. Then he heard a voice - the voice he dreaded the most - right at the door.
“It’s all right, Miss,” said Daley. “I’ll get them.”
A shudder of hatred coursed through Kenny. Just listen to him! Creeping up to the teacher. Making out like he’s all helpful. The massive shit.
The meaning of Daley’s words hit home.
I’ll get them.
Daley was about to open the door.
Daley was coming in here.
; Kenny whimpered. He heard Miss Rose hand Daley her keys and telling him which one he needed. He heard the slimy ‘Thanks, Miss’ and could picture the ingratiating smirk on Daley’s face. He heard the key turn and the door handle twist. A crack of light defined the edge of the door as it opened. Daley’s hand reached in for the switch. The fluorescent tube blinked on and off and on again, humming like a trapped bee. After being in the dark for so long, Kenny found the light hurt his eyes. There was no time to move and nowhere to hide.
Daley saw him right away - how could he not? - but didn’t say a word. He grinned and gave Kenny a conspiratorial wink. Then he grabbed a box of pastel crayons and withdrew, switching off the light.
And locking the door.
Kenny was momentarily baffled. Why hadn’t Daley said anything? Why hadn’t he alerted Miss Rose?
Because you don’t grass, Kenny thought. Although he doubted Daley would observe this code of honour when it came to getting Kenny into trouble.
Because he’s got something worse in mind than telling tales...
Pacing the few feet of floor space he had available, Kenny sweated out the rest of the lesson. He heard Miss Rose call above the general din that it was time to tidy up and they could take the pastels home with them to finish their drawings.
Kenny gasped. If they were taking their pastels home, they wouldn’t be putting them back in the storeroom.
The bell rang. It was the end of the lesson and the end of the day.
Shit me. I’m going to be stuck in here until Monday.
He heard the class leave. He wanted to be sure Daley had gone before he pounded on the door with all his might and pleaded with Miss Rose to let him out.
But Miss Rose, like most people on a Friday afternoon, didn’t hang about. She was already in the car park before Kenny’s first knock.
After half an hour, Kenny gave up. His knuckles were skinned and bleeding and his throat was sore. He sank to the floor and leant against the door.
Trapped!
And then he perked up. The sound of a floor polisher made him hold his breath. It was a cleaner! Or old man O’Toole - or whoever it was, it didn’t matter. There was no response to Kenny’s cries and knocking. The sound of the machine dwindled to silence.
They didn’t hear me! The noise of the machine - and they probably had earphones in too; I know I would...
The stark realisation struck him like an icicle down his spine.
I am locked in the store cupboard for the weekend.
What would Mom say? She must have heard from ‘Barry’ by now about the fire.
Huh. She’ll probably be glad when I don’t show up at home.
Oh Christ, oh shit, oh fuck. I really am stuck in here for days.
He pulled out a stack of reams of paper and sat on it.
Oh Christ, oh shit, oh fuck.
15.
“Did you think of me at all? Did you know I’d be in there the whole weekend? Did I cross your mind over those three nights? And if I did, how did you feel? Did it amuse you to think of me trapped in that stockroom? I had no food, no water, no toilet - Much like you are now, sitting there with your trousers full of shit. I had to go in jars. Can you imagine the horrors that preyed on my mind? I lost track of time. I didn’t know what day it was. I convinced myself it was half term and school would be closed for a week. I was convinced I was going to die in that cupboard.
“I was delirious with hunger and thirst and fear. I just about stopped myself from eating paint - not to keep me alive but to bring an end to that miserable existence. You made my life a living hell - do you know that?
“The time passed. They found me dehydrated and catatonic. An ambulance was summoned. I never set foot in that school again. I think Miss Rose - poor, sweet Miss Rose - got into trouble about the keys. Another victim of your puerile pranks.
“I was going to cut my wrists and let the blood drain out of me and make one of those abstract pictures Miss Rose was always raving about. I think they’re Pollocks. But again, I stopped myself. Why?
“One word: I wanted revenge!
“And that’s what you’m here for, Keith, my old mate, my old tormentor. But lest you think I’m picking on you, I’ve a couple of old friends I want to reunite you with. Just you wait there, sitting pretty. Or should that be ‘sitting shitty’? Or even ‘shitting pretty’? Ha! You can take your pick. I’ll be back in a tick.”
***
Dickon breezed from Keith’s cellar, feeling extra light in his loafers. A great weight had been lifted just telling Daley all of that. And there was more to come. But before he fetched the visual aids he needed for the next episode of the story, he popped into another compartment to have a natter with that nice detective Davey Brough.
“Coo-ee! I’m ever so sorry, David,” Dickon’s lower lip curled inwards. “I didn’t know it was you.”
“Untie me at once!” said Brough, although his words were muffled by the gag between his teeth.
“Sorry, pet?” Dickon loosened the strap. Brough panted, gulping in the musty air.
“Where am I?”
“You’m in the cellar, chicken.”
“In the pub? I thought it’d be bigger.”
“I’ve been making some improvements.” Dickon’s eyes flickered. Brough noticed a trowel and mortarboard in a corner.
“You’re a bricklayer?”
“It’s a hobby.”
“Great... Are you going to untie me now?”
“Um...well...”
“You hit me!”
“It’s all a bit embarrassing; I thought you were somebody else.”
“A burglar?”
Dickon looked pained. “Um, not exactly. I’m on a website, you see. He4Me - do you know it?”
“I can’t say I do, no.”
“Well, it caters to a rather specialist market, you see. I was expecting a visitor. For a bit of role play. And a touch of light bondage. Oh, don’t worry - that ball gag you’re wearing is brand new.”
Brough felt sick. In fact, he almost gagged.
“Well, as you can see, I’m not your gentleman caller, so you can let me go now.”
“Oops! Yes, of course. And again, I’m ever so sorry, chick.”
“Mistaken identity,” said Brough. “We’ll say no more about it. I’d tap the side of my nose if I had a hand free.”
“You’m a gentleman. Your Jason’s very lucky.”
“Hmm,” said Brough. “Now, if you could untie me...”
“Of course.” Dickon was about to put his trusty craft knife to work on the cable ties keeping the copper’s hands fastened behind his back when a thought occurred to him.
“Hang about,” he directed the blade towards Brough’s cheek. “You haven’t told me what the bloody blue fuck you was doing breaking into my pub.”
***
“I’ve run you a nice bath, love,” Jerry declared as he entered the living room. The duvet Miller had been dozing under was on the floor. The sofa was devoid of detectives. “Mel?”
Jerry was puzzled. Perhaps she’d gone to the bog? No, I’ve just been in the bathroom; I think I would have noticed. Then where the hell...
He caught her in the hallway, fully dressed and about to leave. He pushed the door shut and stood in front of it.
“Where’d you think you’m going?” he barked.
“Out!” said Miller. “Get out of my way. Please, Jerry!”
“Oh no, you don’t,” Jerry took hold of the sleeve of her raincoat.
“Get off! You’re obstructing police business.”
“Official police business, is it?”
“Get off me!”
“You’re not well, Mel. You’ve never been iller, Miller.”
“You’re not funny.
Don’t make me knee you in the bollocks.”
“Police brutality!”
“Jerry, please!” She beat her fists against his chest but only weakly. Seconds later, she was sobbing against his collarbone and he was holding her tight.
“It’s the middle of the night, Mel.” He planted a kiss on the crown of her head.
“It’s that pub, I’m sure of it,” she wiped her nose on his shirt.
“It’ll be shut now,” he pointed out, making an effort to ignore the snot.
“Crime doesn’t stick to opening hours,” Miller countered.
“And now you’m talking like a bad film. C’m’on. Into the bath. Perhaps you’ll be up to it in the morning.”
He steered her towards the bathroom. She put up no resistance.
“Tell you what,” he kissed her neck. “While you’m having a good soak, why don’t I pop down there? If it looks like there’s anything dodgy going on, you can phone your workmates, can’t you?”
“To the pub? You’re going to the pub?”
“It’s shut, remember. I’ll just take a stroll.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to. I’m not going to get any peace, am I, until your mind is at rest?”
“Ah, selfish reasons!”
He pushed her through the bathroom door. “You’ll have that water cold. I won’t be long.”
He pulled the door shut and reached for his overcoat.
I love you, Melanie Miller, he thought. But didn’t say.
***
Keith yelped like a trodden-on puppy when the door opened wide.
“Hello,” said Dickon. He grunted and strained to bring in a bulky object, and then another. He sang Roll Out The Barrel and chuckled. “Ta-dah!” he presented two large kegs like a magician’s assistant.
“I’m not thirsty,” Keith lied.
Dickon clapped. “A sense of humour even in adversity. Perhaps you’m not the craven coward I always thought you were. But these,” he patted the tops of the barrels, “aren’t for drinking, Keithy-baby. Don’t you want to know what’s in them? Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
Coffin Dodgers Page 13