Shaheen scowled, catching sight of her looking at him. He pointed at his own chest.
"No problem here. I have no problem. Are you making problem at me?" Shaheen called out. He suddenly kicked out from his chair and marched out the room.
Everyone was affected by this, most notably the Afghan trio, who were tight against the back wall.
Michael saw Abdul looking at him.
Abdul managed a smile but appeared highly concerned.
"Oh, what did I say? Something I said? Think somebody might have missed his breakfast this morning or at least woken up on the wrong side of the bed," mocked Riverdale, turning to look at Michael. "Cup of tea then, Michael."
Michael knew full well she meant for him to make her one.
She could never have brought herself to say 'please' or 'thank you', nor did she ever once make anyone a drink at all. Since her arrival at the centre ten months ago, Michael had always been treated as the lowest of the low in terms of staff hierarchy. It didn't fuss anyone else.
From Helen to Paul, Patricia and Michael, and despite their different levels of pay, they were a team. Each knew their job and there had never once been an issue of a power struggle. However, with Catherine Riverdale, there was.
Michael turned and took a step ahead, to pass her.
"Sure, go for it, Catherine. The urn's on."
He made his way past Helen, who quickly exited the room after him, leaving without Catherine noticing her due to her tea-making duty.
In the corridor outside the kitchen, Michael stood with Helen Martin. Together they watched Shaheen pace up and down, heavy footed and flustered, clenching his fists.
He caught sight of Michael and stopped to lean his back against a wall, lifting one leg to press the sole of his shoe upon the cold wall tiles.
Helen looked at Michael, whose mind raced. "What do you think, Mike? Shall we leave him?"
"Not really a good sign for a first day," he replied.
"No. It's not, is it? This one's going to be trouble. Don't you reckon?"
"I'm unsure what to think, really," Michael said.
Shaheen tightened one of his fists and thumped it against the wall behind him.
"I'll ask what's wrong, shall I?"
"Would you rather deal with him or deal with Catherine Riverdale for another month?" Helen asked, smiling.
"I'd rather deal with a dozen of these situations than one more day of...."
Michael stopped to see Shaheen suddenly launching himself towards a set of wooden double doors. He kicked them violently open, causing one to crack back on itself and shudder one of the glass panels. He then disappeared down a short series of concrete steps, rounding a corner.
"Do you think he's gone?" Helen asked.
There wasn't a need for Michael to reply as a series of repetitions of "No, fuck you," were heard from a lower level.
Michael and Helen entered a reception area where the front door of the building was sited. The door had just slammed to a close.
Michael stepped down to the door and opened it to look out over to the street beyond. Helen joined him and together they saw Shaheen on the pavement, striding up the road.
Michael stopped and turned to see another boy nearing Shaheen.
He was a white boy. A stereotypical kind for this area. A chav, who wore the usual uniform of such a teenage male: dark blue tracksuit bottoms made of the thinnest, cheapest material, a pair of white Reebok classics, also known as 'the Pub Shoe', a dirty, fake England football shirt and, of course, the hair, shorn with zigzag shapes and lines at the back and side. He was Lee Mace, a fourteen year old who had recently been excluded from his school for persistent disruptive behaviour during class, continuous abuse towards staff, bullying pupils, selling illegal drugs on and around the school grounds, damage to school property, pushing a teacher down the stairs, punching a different teacher in the face, and lastly revealing a knife to yet another teacher and implying he would "use it" on him.
The teacher whom Lee had punched in the face just happened to be the Head Teacher and the teacher he'd pushed down the stairs, minutes before, was the Head's wife.
She was four months pregnant. Fortunately, neither teacher-wife nor the baby inside her were injured, but the violent act did, as it should, warrant a permanent exclusion for Lee from that particular school.
Lee's single-parent, alcoholic, former-heroin-addict mother tried and failed in her quest to make a successful case for appeal. With a file literally eight inches thick, that consisted purely of negative reports on her son, the outcome was pretty much a dead cert. Lee's twenty-nine-year-old mother, however, left the appeal hearing content by rendering the Board of Governors speechless after calling them all "a bunch of smelly-breath, fucking dick-bag teachers."
Lee picked up a broken house brick from the roadside gutter. Michael widened his eyes and raced down the steps to the front gate of the school. Helen froze for a moment and watched closely from the front steps, which overlooked the street.
The view was blocked every so often by tree branches, swaying in the breeze, beside the fence. Beyond the fence, Michael saw Shaheen.
A few feet ahead of him was Lee, complete with the angriest and most aggressive expression one could ever imagine. Not the look a fourteen year old should ever express, but Lee wasn't the usual run-of-the-mill, happy-go-lucky teenager. He was a violent, 'act first and don't care to think later' type. Lee advanced, brick in hand, with the most intense scowl and a never-blink, mad-eye stare. It could burn a hole into someone's soul.
"I'll smash this on your 'ed, man," Lee called out.
Michael held the palms of his hands upwards to face Lee, who simply stared beyond him at Shaheen. "Lee? Lee, can you hear me?" Michael asked, calmly. "Lee, look at me. Lee. Put the brick down and look at me." Michael's voice was firm and calm. He looked into Lee's eyes, trying to break his stare. "Lee, give me the brick," Michael extended his hand towards the house brick.
"I'm gonna fucking kill the prick. What's he staring at? WHAT ARE YOU FUCKING STARING AT!" shouted Lee, who pushed forward into Michael.
Michael glanced around behind him and saw Shaheen nearing, with a similar wide-eyed stare, but his eyes were more glassy and close to tears.
Paul stepped out onto the pavement just as Shaheen set foot to launch himself into a hop, skip and a jump toward Lee. Paul wrapped his arm around Shaheen's arms and chest.
"Hold on, hold on. It's okay, Shaheen, mate," Paul said calmly.
Shaheen panted heavily. He breathed in a deep, growling manner, as if he was going in for a kill.
Lee suddenly lunged forth. He pushed up against Michael, who, without physically touching him, was actually restraining him.
Michael stopped him from going forward, simply by using his body as a shield. Shaheen zipped past Paul and grabbed the house brick right out of Lee's grasp and gripped it tight.
Lee was surprised and shocked by the sudden weapon take-over and his body language changed. He hid behind Michael, lowered his shoulders and lost the scowl. However, he retained his foul mouth. "Come on, fucking Afghan prick. Hit me. Knock me out, ya prick."
Michael sidestepped every split second to block Lee's view of Shaheen. It was as if Michael was invisible to him. His body had become an ever-sliding wall: back and forth, this way and that. It was a difficult task to predict what tactics would work on a particular student.
Lee spat a mouthful of gob, but missed his intended target completely and hit Michael on the shoulder.
The act, fortunately, caused Lee to break his maddening stare for a moment and fix upon the mucus spittle that was bubbled upon Michael's clothes. His eyes met with Michael's.
"It's okay. Let's go inside," said Michael.
"He's a fucking terrorist, Mike."
"You call me terrorist? I not terrorist!" shouted Shaheen.
"Sshh. Choose different language, Lee. Don't be abusive and lower yourself. You've done well this week. I don't want to make a bad phone call home."
"Don't call my dad! Please don't call my dad," Lee said, flustered.
Michael glanced round to see Paul tending to Shaheen in a similar manner.
Shaheen gripped the brick tight. He stared wildly and brought the brick down on his own head. "Is this what terrorist do? You think I terrorist now?" He pressed the corner of the brick against the skin of his forehead and dragged it across one side to the other, leaving a trail of grit and blood.
Paul tightened his mouth and gently took the brick from Shaheen's grasp. He saw blood trickle down his forehead and the side of his nose.
Michael looked past Lee, who glanced around and then looked back to Michael.
"Who you looking at?" Lee asked.
Michael responded quickly. "I thought I saw that friend of yours."
"Who?"
"I can't remember his name. Who were you with yesterday?" Michael asked, as Lee scrunched his face up, thinking, confused.
"I dunno. What, yesterday night or at school?" Lee turned around and started to walk down the street, with Michael alongside him, leading him away from Shaheen.
Michael stuck his thumb out and raised it behind his back for Paul to see.
"Did he go in the other gate, sir?" asked Lee.
"I think so. I'm sure it was your friend."
"The playground entrance, sir? Maybe we can have a kick-about or somefin' or table tennis? Yes mate. Table tennis!" said Lee, as they neared another gate that led into a playground.
Of course, Michael had made it all up. He hadn't seen anyone at all, but the bizarre distraction tactic appeared to have worked and together they disappeared from sight.
Paul and Shaheen stood further up the street. Shaheen was still flustered and was pacing up and down. Paul watched him closely.
"He call me terrorist, sir. Fuck you Shaheen. Always fuck you.
Everyday. I tired, sir. I no done wrong. Why he say this fuck you, Afghani. I'm not Afghani. I don't like Afghani. He don't like Afghani. We should be friends. I don't understand. He make problem with me. In my country, he would have..." Shaheen mimed a cutting of his throat with his fingers.
"Well, we don't do that here. Not in England. It's all right. He's just very angry."
"Yes, sir. He's angry. Why he angry with me?"
"He's angry with everyone. It's okay," said Paul.
"Angry with everybody? Angry with you, sir?"
"Even me. Yes," chuckled Paul, smiling as the sides of Shaheen's mouth started to curl into a half smile, feeling the comfort of Paul's gentle patting on his shoulder.
"Is everything okay with you? Are you feeling angry today?"
"Yes, but no problem, sir. No problem. I make no problem for you, sir. It is all right, sir," said Shaheen.
"We need to know if you're all right, Shaheen. Your head is bleeding and you walked out at breakfast."
"I have no breakfast, sir. I am fine, sir. No problem," Shaheen said as Paul tightened his face, sympathetically.
"We need to know."
"Peoples. They stare at me. They talk about me."
"What people?" Paul asked.
"Teachers. They look at me. They are police. I'm sure of it. I tell you, sir. I know."
"There are no police here. Just teachers. We're all here to help."
"I make no problem, sir. I want my own house. I live on my own, sir. You help me do this."
"Shaheen, you live with your foster family," Paul stated.
"Yes, foster family no good, sir. I want to live on my own. In my own house. Semi-independent living, sir. In hostel. I can do. I have Iranian friends. They tell me I can."
"Well, if they tell you that you can, then it is best if you ask them how. Come on, let's go inside. Sort that head out, so to speak." Paul stepped to one side and gestured for Shaheen to enter.
He frowned at Paul.
"I go home, sir. I have headache."
"I'm not surprised! We'll call the family and tell them. Come on."
Paul and Shaheen walked up the steps and met Helen. Shaheen passed her as he entered the building. Paul made a face at her.
"What's he say, Paul?"
"He wants to live on his own. Semi-independent living."
"Knows his stuff, then," Helen replied, as she sidestepped to let Paul enter. "He can go home. I'm not having him here acting like that. Too unpredictable. If he wants to live on his own, we'll feed that back to the social worker. He's nearing sixteen. We can't have that violent, unprovoked behaviour," she said, closing the door.
"There's always bigger and tougher," chuckled Paul.
"Yeah, and we'll be getting one tomorrow," replied Helen.
"That's life," shrugged Paul.
"That's apt," Helen quipped. "Our new lad is called Sinatra."
"Ain't that a kick in the head!" sang Paul.
4. SONG BIRD
Rebecca Samson was a pretty twenty-five year old. Her rosy red cheeks were extra prominent upon her pale, creamy skin. She crossed into a calm and fairly quiet Beak Street in the crisp afternoon sunshine. The wind blew against her fresh, young, kind face and into her large blue eyes, causing them to glaze over and release tears from each of them. Rebecca wiped the rolling tears with the back of her left hand and headed into the much busier Carnaby Street. Held tight in her right hand was a bunch of beautifully cheerful sunflowers, with each petal dancing gently in the breeze. The edges of the paper wrapped around them flapped back and forth. The wind picked up and Rebecca's cream woollen cardigan blew against her slight frame and tiny waist, covered by a white shirt. Her pale legs took her quicker in the cream skirt and her tan high-heeled shoes hurried her towards Regent Street. Rebecca's honey brown, shoulder length hair was in a ponytail. It darted this way and that behind her shirt collar.
She took herself into Fouberts Place and slowed her pace as she became shielded from the wind within the narrow side street. Then across Kingly Street. The traffic on Regent Street was in clear view, along with the dozens upon dozens of diverse groups of people, who spanned the pavements of the popular tourist destination.
The Jaeger Store on the corner of the street caught Rebecca's attention as a poppy print silk dress hanging in the window signaled her.
She stared at it, with an 'I want one of those' smiles.
In the reception area of an advertising agency off Regent Street, Rebecca stood, clutching her flowers. She turned to see a young, suited woman in her thirties striding towards her, with a confused expression upon her face.
"Rebecca! So good to see you instead of only talking on the phone all the time! Unfortunate about today," the ad company exec woman said.
"Oh, I'm so, so sorry about the girl we placed with you. I've got you some flowers," said Rebecca, apologetically.
"Bex, don't. It's ok. Really, you shouldn't have. It's just how things work out - or people." She took the flowers from Rebecca, breathing in their scent.
"I was told she had a sudden mental breakdown in front of you and walked out," Rebecca said.
"Well, to say the very least she did go a little psycho and it was at the start of the day."
"But then we replaced her with somebody who simply didn't turn up. I'm sorry," apologised Rebecca.
"Ssh, nonsense. It's perfectly fine and what was said over the phone to you was probably exaggerated to the max, so please don't feel bad at all," said the exec. She sniffed in the flowery scent again and then sneezed. "Oh dear. Had it coming."
"Bless you," Rebecca replied.
The exec smiled.
Rebecca worked in Media Recruitment and despised it. There was a time when she once enjoyed the work, but it was probably more to do with the team than the actual role itself. It didn't help that she helped complete strangers get a much better occupation than her own.
The company had five other women, which included her boss. She was a complete 'mad as a hatter' cokehead, who desperately fought against aging and the fact that the eighties were long gone. Estranged from her husband, due to an affair with an advertising ex
ecutive, and balanced it with a relationship with Botox.
Rebecca endured daily, erratic rants from her unstable, paranoid boss. It caused her to come home exhausted and often in floods of tears, but always to the comfort of her boyfriend. She had met him on an internet dating site. Rebecca wasn't really all that fussed about signing up, but did so for her friend, whom she'd worked with at another recruitment agency, prior to the one with the cokehead boss.
Her friend was on the hunt for a new man. With that particular dating website you needed a close friend to write about you in order to be propelled forth to the thousands who scanned through your significant details. The said close friend was also required to join.
Rebecca was game for a laugh and signed up alongside her colleague, who wrote about her too. In an odd twist of fate, after several dates, Rebecca found true love. It was incredibly unexpected and caused slight bitterness, along with a touch of jealousy, for those who had intended to land a decent date for them. Rebecca had been in the relationship for four years and was just as starry-eyed with the man she fell for as the day she met him. You would have thought that friends, especially good friends, would be happy and joyous for another's happiness and success at finding love and, more to the point, true love.
Within the Jaeger Store, Rebecca stood at the counter, ready to pay, as a sales assistant folded the poppy print dress, placing it into a bag. Another assistant scanned the barcode. Both were young girls, early twenties, and were in mid conversation.
Rebecca twiddled her debit card between her fingers and watched them, tuning into their chat.
"I did ask him, cos I was worried. Well, not so much worried, but wondering why we hadn't. I mean, everybody has one, don't they?" replied the sales girl packing the dress into a bag.
"I dunno, do they? Does everybody have one though? I don't think I do," responded the other girl.
Rebecca formed a look of total curiosity, transfixed by the girls and their conversation. What on earth were they discussing?
"Well, you have to be with someone. I mean, when you were with Blake, did you have a favourite song then? You were with each other for a few years. What was your song?" asked the sales girl.
My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay Page 4