My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay

by Ben Trebilcook

  One day, boxes of green bandanas were deposited outside the homes of young black youths. This was their instant recruitment drive and it worked, whether through fear or a thirst for excitement.

  Michael turned into the car park of a former primary school which, although it housed school pupils on a daily basis, they were not your average students.

  The building was in the middle of a triangle. At one point of the triangle was the Blok Gang. At another were The Woolwich Boys and at the third point, The Cherry Boys. All housed in Greenwich. The London Borough of Greenwich, where Michael worked.

  Michael's job was a mixed bag. His title was Seclusion Manager, but he often worked as a Media Tutor, showing films to and then discussing them with a variety of pupils who would not normally choose to see them. His main role within the school was that of a Learning Mentor: a qualified counsellor to children aged between eleven and sixteen.

  The students were predominantly permanently-excluded children from mainstream school. There were also EAL (English as a second language) students. Asylum seekers. Refugees. Looked After Children (LAC/fostered). Abused and on the Child Protection Register. Those who had moved into the UK from other EU countries or elsewhere in the world, or even elsewhere in the UK, and required a new school. They lived in homes in Plumstead, Eltham, Charlton, Greenwich, Kidbrooke, Woolwich, Abbeywood and Thamesmead.

  They were residents of the Royal London Borough of Greenwich.

  3. A KIDIFIED UNITED NATIONS

  Michael, with five folded copies of the free Metro newspaper under his arm, swiped his entrance card into the reader, which enabled him to open the front door to the school and step inside the cold, dimly-lit, brown-painted concrete stairwell. His beige canvas workbag over one shoulder as he ascended the stairs, passing a piece of paper tacked to the wall that read "ONLY 78 STEPS TO GO!" Also on the paper was a yellow smiley face. Michael smiled and in lengthy strides he climbed the stairs two at a time, gaining momentum, picking up pace and breathing heavily, in and out, in and out. He ate healthily enough, but he wasn't particularly fit. Michael drove everywhere. He disliked sport and the only exercise he got was probably the stairs he climbed each day.

  Along the walls, up the stairwell, were beautiful pieces of artwork. Acrylic paintings of the O2 in Greenwich, formerly known as The Millennium Dome. Line drawings featuring Canary Wharf and watercolours of the Thames Barrier. All pupils' artwork mounted and tacked to the wall.

  Michael reached a set of wooden double doors and opened one half. He paused to look at a felt pen picture of a gasmask, peeling from the wall. He pushed his thumb on the corner, which was coming away, and re-attached it. He eyed the picture, frowning at its dark, gloomy portrayal of the army equipment, before going beyond the doors.

  Within a brightly fluorescent-lit corridor, Michael entered a staffroom, where a half-sized filing cabinet rested in one corner. Upon it was a list of various names. Michael retrieved a pen from the top of the cabinet and wrote in the time of 8:45am beside his name. He looked at the clock mounted on the wall nearby and saw it was actually nearing 9:00am.

  He sighed and entered another room. Michael unlocked a full-sized filing cabinet and opened the second drawer down. He placed his beige canvas bag inside, then closed and locked the cabinet. He removed his grey fleck, Dandy-style overcoat and placed it on the chair in the incredibly small box-room, more like an oversized cupboard, with a desk, an office chair and two soft chairs. A host of junk in an assortment of boxes. Varied laminated pictures lined the wall consisting of a butterfly knife, a .38 revolver, an Uzi and some drug paraphernalia. On another wall was a drawing of a Bow Street Runner. Michael adored history and storytelling. If a student gazed around the room, they would fix their eyes on something to spark a question and encourage conversation. The place was like room-bait. British Board of Film Classification symbols - U, PG, 12, 12A, 15 and 18 certificates - and the abbreviation BBFC also laminated. Everything was laminated in fact. Michael remembered the day he first met Rebecca and gave her a laminated picture of a bunch of flowers. On another wall, various gang names, their colours, races, places and crimes. Michael knew his stuff and his room was a comfortable place to be in.

  The large kitchen housed four classroom desks. They were pushed together to make one larger table, with ten blue plastic chairs set around it.

  Michael placed his copies of Metro down. He looked up and smiled.

  Paul Jones was a sixty-year-old white Liverpudlian man. He was a gentleman no end and brought cheer and experience wherever he stepped. Every year, near the Christmas holidays, he invited the core members of the team to his house for a meal. He always said that it was a 'thank you' to Helen, their boss, for choosing him to join such a happy, trusting, enjoyable work environment. Paul was a maths teacher and had been made redundant from a previous school as well as having retired twice. He was onto a winner and he knew it, but he was worth every penny. He was an outdoors type, often teaching the students games and taking them for walks. "I'm a mountain man and I like mountain women," he would joke. He wore dark blue corduroy trousers with a blue shirt under a mint green sweater. His hair was practically white and his kind face beamed a smile.

  "I was wondering where the paperboy had got to. Cheers, sir," Paul said to Michael, as he sat down to read the front page of the paper. He often called his work colleagues "miss" or "sir". It saved remembering names. It saved getting names wrong. He even called the pupils "sir" or "miss". It was much simpler.

  "Tea, vicar?" Michael patted Paul on the shoulder and stepped to a sink. He plucked a mug from a cupboard.

  "Please, matron," replied Paul.

  Michael started to prepare several cups of tea. The hot water came from a fitted urn upon the wall, so there was no hanging around for a kettle to be boiled.

  "Eh, I might get an iPhone, you know. Whadya reckon, Mikey?" Paul called out.

  "I was thinking of upgrading, Paul. Could do with someone actually giving me one," Michael said.

  "I bet you could!" Paul joked. "Wor hey! I could do with someone giving me one. Especially someone like that new Countdown lass!" Paul continued. He buried his head and innuendos into the newspaper.

  Michael smiled and poured some milk into the tea. He stirred it and stepped over to Paul, placing the mug beside his paper.

  "They'll soon be in," Michael said, returning to the urn.

  "Oh, dammit. Really? I thought I come 'ere to just hang out with you and drink tea all day," joked a smiley Paul once more.

  Helen Martin was an attractive fifty-five year old woman. She was a Deputy Head, white and originally from Liverpool too. On that day, she wore black leggings and a colourful purple dress, with maroon velvet boots. She had been Michael's boss, Line Manager and first point of call since she interviewed him and took him on as part of her team five years prior. Kind, well-travelled, firm but fair, adventurous with education, outgoing and fun, she would back you up and support you no end. She first met Michael after he applied and successfully gained an interview for a Learning Mentor position at another provision of the Pupil Referral Unit.

  Michael had turned up for his interview in dirty blue jeans, a t-shirt and scuffed trainers as well as having a rather sweaty appearance. He apologised for his attire as he had just been playing football with some Special Needs Children in a nearby park. It was his job at the time, not a peculiar hobby.

  Helen liked him instantly and was impressed with his potential and so he got the job, although the Head Teacher wasn't convinced at all.

  A few years passed and Deputy Head Helen was asked to take on the many responsibilities of a secondary site. Helen's first loyal team mate to join her on the new and exciting mission into the unknown was none other than Michael.

  Helen, like Paul, lit up the room as she entered.

  "Morning Mike. Hi Paul," she said, as Michael handed her a cup of tea. "Thanks, Michael. Boy, 'ave we got some starting today. They're ready to come up," she continued.

  Paul shrugged a
nd tilted his cup of tea. "Nature of the beast. Always ready. You know that, Helen."

  Michael sipped his own cup of tea and sighed.

  Helen looked at him and walked over. "How was your journey in today? OK?" she asked.

  "Surprisingly yes. You're just whacked out before you even start. The journey's a killer," Michael replied.

  "Three new EAL starting today. One Romanian, one Somali boy and a Russian girl, with two more I think starting tomorrow. Both Afghani. It's tipping the balance," replied Helen, regretfully.

  "Are we meant to be taking in this many kids from overseas?" asked Paul.

  Helen sighed. "Not really. Year nine should go straight to school."

  "And what about the ones who look twenty-nine?" chirped Michael, smirking.

  Paul cackled a laugh. He turned around on his chair to look at him. He winked and raised his thumb.

  Helen raised her eyebrows. She tilted her head at him. This was her 'I know what you're saying' look. "Well, I'm on the case, so don't think I'm not doing anything about moving them on. I am. We'll just have to..."

  "Cope?" Paul completed her fading sentence.

  Helen nodded as she clutched her warm cup.

  Patricia Banerjee was a plain-looking forty-six-year-old mixed raced Bengali woman. Not unattractive, just slightly below average. Although married, she retained her maiden name of Banerjee. She was a woman with a fuller figure and fairly tall to go with it. Patricia, on this day, wore a brown trouser suit and a cream blouse. Her designer glasses partly obscured her pained face. Her crow's feet ran deep. They were like cracks upon a dried-up riverbed caused by - perhaps - a lot of laughter and certainly a great deal of pain. Twice married, it was not too long ago that her second husband, David, had committed suicide.

  He had been a store manager of a multi-chain supermarket, somewhere in another borough. He didn't leave a suicide note. He had met Michael's parents on several occasions. David would greet them at the doors of the supermarket when they did their weekly shop. He was well liked by his colleagues and members of the community. All that was known to Michael and some of his colleagues, as well as his parents, was that David was extremely unhappy and no longer wanted to work at the store.

  David had driven his car and parked up near Waterloo from where he walked to Gabriel's Wharf along the South Bank. He had pulled a length of rope from a supermarket carrier bag and securely tied it to the rail. In one swift motion, he suddenly placed the other end of the rope, tied like a traditional hangman's noose, over his head and clambered over the rail. David took in the view for just a couple of seconds and simply stepped off the pier. His neck snapped instantly and his body dangled above the still waters. He remained there, unnoticed, for twenty minutes, dead.

  A colleague informed Michael the next day. She looked extremely upset when Michael set foot into the corridor. She wrapped her arms around him and blurted out, tearfully, that Patricia's husband had committed suicide.

  Michael held his colleague tight and wondered what could have possibly happened, as well as about what kind of day it would be for him and the rest of the team. He contacted his father and told him the sad news.

  His father said that he had shaken hands with David the day before he took his life. As kind and caring as they always were, Michael's parents offered support to a stranger, who in this case was Patricia. They helped her with the many forms, interviews and what to expect from the police and coroner, not to mention managing to overturn the decision to rule a straight suicide verdict to a death by misadventure verdict.

  Patricia was thus enabled to receive a significant payout. It entitled her to David's pension and a weekly sum for a child of hers until she reached a certain age.

  Michael's parents and Helen invested a great deal of time and effort into Patricia's well-being and general mental health, despite not actually being friends with her. They would invite her round for an Indian take-out and even on an occasional day trip somewhere in the country.

  Helen would visit Patricia at her home and never fail to call her each Sunday morning. Patricia had been helped a great deal professionally and emotionally by many, enabling her to be in the position she was today.

  In her grasp was a red clipboard. Patricia looked at Michael with a smile.

  He handed her a cup of tea.

  "Ooh, thank you. How was your journey? Bad?"

  Michael nodded as he sipped his newly-made cup of ginger and lemon tea. He looked past Patricia to see there were three Afghan boys, in jeans and hooded tops, sitting themselves down against a far wall. They were older than their so-called official documented age of fourteen. They were probably nearing twenty.

  Some, in the past, had certainly been in their mid-twenties.

  Michael smiled and stuck his thumb up to them. The boys nodded and held up their hands to wave.

  He gestured a drinking motion. "Tea?" he called out.

  The Afghan boys shook their heads.

  "Well, that was easy," Michael said to Patricia.

  "What a night of TV last night. I was in telly heaven," she said to Michael.

  "Don't tell me," he replied, "Master Chef and-"

  "ER double bill. Box-set, of course. Also caught up on Dancing on Ice," completed Patricia, smiling. Her conversations usually revolved around ER or Master Chef. It depended, of course, on the season. Sometimes she would throw in the odd question about 24 with Kiefer Sutherland.

  Two more children entered the room. They, too, sat at the table.

  A fifteen-year-old Nigerian girl in a heavy Puffa jacket. Next, a tall Eastern European girl around seventeen in black, with dark, heavy make-up around her eyes and dark lipstick. More than a little Gothic. She was a vamp, with a beehive hairstyle. She sat down next to the Nigerian girl and exposed a bright, sparkling red thong. Her name was Olga and she looked and sounded a lot older than her age too. Her English was outstanding. She was more of a mature student, however one couldn't say she was out of place here. She fitted in well. Another fellow misfit.

  Michael raised his left eyebrow and exchanged a look with Patricia. "A little too much pant-showing today," he said, looking in the direction of the Eastern European girl.

  Patricia gulped her tea. "Mm, saw her knickers showing this morning. Did have a word, obviously didn't do much good."

  "Olga, would you like a cup of tea?" Michael asked her.

  She turned and knocked her silvery purse to the floor. As she smiled with slight embarrassment, she bent down to pick it up, showing yet more of her underwear.

  "Whoa! Olga! Say no to crack!" bellowed Paul. He shielded his eyes with the back of his hand and beamed a smile as he looked to his adult audience for a reaction.

  Patricia and Michael smiled and Helen smirked, shaking her head.

  Olga grinned and looked up, holding her purse, eyeing each member of staff curiously.

  "What? What have I done?" she laughed, bemused and then frowned, with her face still smiling. "I don't understand."

  The Nigerian girl, known as Juliet, whispered into Olga's ear.

  Olga widened her eyes with shock. "No! Am I doing it now?" Olga quickly pulled her jeans up and, even quicker, pulled her jumper down, subsequently showing off her cleavage.

  Patricia sighed and closed her eyes briefly. She re-opened and smiled. "Olga, it's best if you just leave your clothes alone and perhaps turn up tomorrow in something more suitable."

  "You don't like my clothes? They're fashionable. They're not dirty," replied Olga, somewhat hurt by Patricia's words.

  "No, I know they're not unclean and yes, you are fashionable, but maybe a little too fashionable for school," said Patricia, quickly.

  "Tea please, Michael," said Olga.

  Michael tended to the tea request as a tall, skinny Somali boy of around sixteen entered the room. His head was lowered and his feet shuffled as he walked. He had an unhappy demeanour. Guled Omar-Ali had been in the United Kingdom for three months. Found wandering around Terminal 5 of Heathrow Airport with hi
s name in black felt pen written on a piece of cardboard and tied with string around his neck.

  Also attached to the string was a clear plastic bag containing a passport-sized photograph of himself, his airline ticket stub and seventy US dollars. They were crumpled, torn and some had bloodstains on them. He'd been wearing men's shoes, four sizes too big for him, dark blue socks, Hawaiian style swimming shorts and a large, blue, pin-striped shirt, completed by a pink tie. Obviously an incredibly unusual sight, but whoever had dressed him had tried their utmost to make him the smartest kid on the planet and make his tailor the proudest person, too. With no idea of his true age, the Home Office dentist assessed him to be sixteen and a half. That type of assessment, at the time, was deemed ninety-eight percent accurate.

  Michael and his fellow work colleagues questioned this method all the time.

  Guled's birthday was on the first of the first, a common date in that line of work when it came to dealing with children from overseas. Whenever a refugee, asylum seeker or anyone entered the United Kingdom without the correct paperwork, documentation or passport that stated their age, it was often the case that the person in question would be given a birth-date of January the first.

  Today was Guled Omar-Ali's first day in Michael's care.

  Michael stepped to where Guled sat and crouched down to his level. He placed a friendly hand upon Guled's shoulder and smiled at him. "Good morning, I'm Michael. Michael," he said, pointing at himself.

  Guled nodded and extended his hand.

  Michael shook his hand.

  "Would you like a drink?" Michael asked.

  Guled frowned at him.

  "Tea? Would you like a cup of tea?" repeated Michael.

  "Thank you. Thank you," said Guled. He formed a pained smile.