My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay

by Ben Trebilcook

  The girl at the cash register took Rebecca's card and slotted it into the chip and pin machine.

  "Enter your pin please. I dunno if we actually did have a song. I always thought it was just people at weddings," said the girl.

  Rebecca entered her four-digit pin number and looked up, with a smile. She then received a smile from both girls simultaneously.

  "Well, couples getting married and dancing to their song had to have a song in the first place. They had to have a song originally, d'you know what I mean? You don't just get married and the vicar or whatever gives you a list of songs to choose from."

  "That'd be cool, though," the girls giggled.

  One tore the receipt off the chip and pin machine and, along with the debit card, handed it to Rebecca, accompanied with another automated, robotic, yet pleasant smile. Her teeth were brilliant white. Like the doors of a fridge. Obviously over-bleached.

  Rebecca tilted her head as she fixed her gaze on the girl's teeth.

  As well as the ultra-whiteness, they were perfectly straight and not one glimpse of an irregular gum line. The modelesque mouth reminded Rebecca of the time when she and her boyfriend were due to visit Los Angeles. It would be her first time, though for him, it would have been his third. Rebecca was informed that everyone in LA had amazing teeth that sparkled and glistened. She was also told that everyone roller-bladed here, there and everywhere, wearing bikinis and exposed their flat, sculpted stomachs. That gave her the frustrating urge, along with her teeth, to do something about it. With that, Rebecca ordered some teeth whitening kits over the internet for her and her boyfriend, who already had a plastic mould of his own teeth, and set about gaining herself a fresher look. Whitening her teeth would involve Rebecca having to dip a short plastic strip into a cup of boiling water and then cool it before inserting it into her mouth, biting down, first with her top set, then secondly with her lower set of teeth. Fortunately for Rebecca, there was a couple of short plastic strips available to her as the first and second were boiled so much they twisted into a melted lump. She still tried to bite into it, making an impression not too dissimilar to when you bite into the rim of a polystyrene cup. As well as what became a waste of time with the teeth whitening exercise, came exactly that: exercise, in the vein of an ab-roller. Consisting of a rubber-coated metal frame and an extremely thin piece of foam, intended for the user to lie on, Rebecca attempted to flatten her stomach.

  "It doesn't help rolling on the floor in front of Master Chef," Rebecca stated.

  "Nor drinking red wine," replied her boyfriend, who spoke through a plastic gumshield filled with a whitening bleach gel and was unscrewing the cap off a bottle of Rioja.

  Rebecca winced as she pulled herself up from the floor and smiled a loving smile at her boyfriend. The boyfriend she utterly adored.

  "Thank you. Have a good day," replied the sales girl who then placed the item in the bag.

  "Thank you. Bye," replied Rebecca, turning with her new gift to herself. She then made out of the store.

  Outside, in Fouberts Place, leading back to Carnaby and Beak Street, Rebecca retrieved her Samsung mobile phone and pressed a few digits. She then placed the phone to her ear.

  "Hi Mikey, just quickly. Do we have a song?"

  Michael was in the school kitchen filling up the dishwasher with tea-stained cups, whilst holding his iPhone to one ear.

  He frowned. "A song? What, on the top of my head, like... is this a new office game?" he replied to Rebecca.

  "No, I was just thinking on whether we had a song. You know, a shared song? Is there one that reminds us of one another?" Rebecca asked, as she walked down Carnaby Street.

  Michael was, of course, Rebecca's boyfriend. He was the man she had met on the dating website nearly four years prior. He, like Rebecca, had signed up to the dating website for a friend. He was on his way out to the pub when a particular friend telephoned him and asked if he'd log in to the site, as well as register, write a short and wonderful blurb about him, saying how talented a musician he was, mention he was in a rock band and women should date him because of it.

  "But I'm off out," Michael told his friend.

  He felt guilty not long after reading his friend's description of him, stating how kind and generous he was and how he worked with vulnerable and disaffected children as well as having a loving family. It was such a good blurb that Michael, to his astonishment, never felt the urge to contact any women himself as they got in touch with him. "Mate, this is brilliant! I've had eight beautiful women message me. How many have you had?"

  "None, ya bastard," replied Michael's down-in-the-dumps friend.

  Michael, in the school kitchen, pondered Rebecca's question. "I'd like to say it was Duran Duran's 'A View to a Kill' and we had just watched it at the cinema, but I didn't know you then and as you were born in the year it was released, it'd be a bit weird for a ten-year-old me taking a newborn-baby you to a Bond film on a date," Michael said, curling his lip as he wiped his hand on a tea towel, freeing himself from a cup that dripped the remnants of tea or coffee or hot chocolate on his fingers.

  "Yes, that would be a little weird. I don't even think I've seen a James Bond film at the cinema. I've only ever seen one in my entire life, but anyway, listen, was there a particular song playing when we first met, or when we did anything, or even when we've been away?" Rebecca dodged the thousands of people milling about in Carnaby Street.

  Michael scrunched his face up, thinking, as he crouched down to a cupboard and retrieved a dishwasher tablet from a box. With one hand and his teeth, he tore the tiny wrapper off the tablet, spitting out a piece that had come off in his mouth.

  "Ugh. Pptthh," he sounded out.

  "What are you doing? Are you eating?" Rebecca asked him, as she crossed into the darker, narrower, less busy Beak Street.

  "No, I'm just filling up the dishwasher. I had to open one of the tablets with my teeth."

  "Why don't you use your hands?"

  "Because I can only use one hand. I have the phone in one hand."

  "Did you put the dishwasher tablet in your mouth?"

  "Not intentionally, well... I guess... but not to deliberately feast upon it. Anyway, a song. I suppose it wasn't exactly playing, but do you remember when you first telephoned me before our first date?" Michael asked.

  "You were at the school and it was lunch time."

  "Yeah, well, in the background was a noise and you asked me what it was."

  "It was Paul from your work singing or doing some guitar noise or something. I remember that because it nearly put me off from meeting up with you," Rebecca commented, as she entered Upper James Street and went into Soho's Golden Square.

  "You nearly didn't go out with me because somebody at my work was singing in the background?" Michael was a little concerned.

  "Well, not - I don't know. Maybe. You also called me 'buddy' and 'mate', which was another negative point, and more so when you said them together.

  "I called you 'buddy mate'?"

  "Yes, don't you remember?" Rebecca asked.

  "I may have blanked it from my memory."

  "I wish I could blank it from mine. So what was Paul singing in the background?"

  "He was singing 'Born to be Wild' by Steppenwolf," Michael said, quite proudly.

  Rebecca stopped on the street outside the Absolute Radio building. She frowned. "Is that one of those rock anthems?"

  "It's definitely an anthem of some sort. It's like when Huey helicopters swooped over the paddy fields during the Vietnam War. Speakers were fitted inside them and blasted out the song. The guitar kicked in; Dahh dum dahh dum der dum dum, dahh dum dahh dum der dum dum." Michael was excited, as he tried to mimic the classic 'Born to be Wild' guitar rift.

  "I don't really understand, and your guitar voice doesn't work too well over the phone. Maybe you could form a band with that bloke from Britain's Got Talent," Rebecca said.

  "What, the one who did a saxophone voice, but really just sounded like an annoyin
g, squealing cartoon baby?"

  "That's the one," said Rebecca.

  "Hmm, could be good. Think I'll look him up. So yeah, that's what you heard in the background when you first spoke to me."

  "So, what you're saying is that our song, whether we like it or not, is some Liverpudlian maths teacher who hummed a seventies rock anthem in the background when we first heard one another's voice? That's our song? The song that will forever remind us of one another?" Rebecca raised her eyebrows and walked into Shaftesbury Avenue.

  "A song that defines our relationship. It's a classic. When played, it will fill our hearts with so much love, words will be non-existent. The only way to communicate and express ourselves to one another would be to perform the most passionate kiss ever," Michael said with a smile. He slotted the tablet into the drawer, closed the dishwasher door and pressed the start button.

  "Oh. I hadn't expected that. So our song, if anybody asks, is 'Born to be Wild' by Wolf Man?" Rebecca accepted the disappointing fact.

  "Steppenwolf. It's Steppenwolf. 'Born to be Wild'," Michael corrected.

  "Right. OK. I've got another call. I'll see you later. I have a candidate to interview at half six, so hope to be back home by half seven or eight. Have we got potatoes?"

  "I've got stuff already. I may pop to my folks for a bit, then. See you later on. Love you."

  "Love you too. Byeeee."

  5. BRIEF

  The staffroom had worn, square, black sponge chairs. The walls were off-white, with cracks zigzagging across them. The upper half was a completely different colour: a mouldy green, pea soup shade with sections of plaster missing. Twenty-year-old John Lewis coffee tables placed next to each other were in the middle of the room, with a kitchen area in one corner.

  Michael slouched against the back wall, next to Helen. A cup of tea in his grasp. He had spent the past two hours constructing a file which didn't previously exist as it consisted of the school experience of a former pupil: a boy from Nepal.

  The boy had only ever received schooling from a goat herder, information that the IT course at the college he was applying for wouldn't particularly find useful or helpful.

  Helen placed her cup of tea upon the table in front of her.

  Paul sat himself on a chair opposite. He wore a cheap pair of off-the-shelf glasses and started to read a newspaper clipping. Patricia plumped herself near Helen, with a green card file on her lap.

  Catherine Riverdale waddled into the room. She eyed everybody. Her chin jutted out and she nodded at Helen. Riverdale formed a most peculiar smile, yet it was delivered with a slight touch of suspiciousness.

  "There's a cup of tea here, Catherine," Michael informed her.

  She turned her back and eyed up the work-surface. She scanned the top like a forest creature crossed with The Terminator and a hob-goblin. A bizarre mix, though an extremely uncanny and accurate description. "Hmm? Oh, I'm getting coffee, thanks. Thanks anyway, Michael." Catherine fumbled inside a cupboard and rattled a jar of Nescafé coffee. "Oh actually, I think I will have a cup of tea. Why not? Live dangerously. Break a habit, as they say."

  She turned around and eyeballed the seating arrangements. The only free seat was opposite Patricia. Catherine shuffled herself right next to her.

  Patricia couldn't stand her. It showed in her face and body language. She became instantly uncomfortable and crossed her left leg over her right, with her left arm across her lap, upon her card files. Patricia exchanged a quick look with Michael, who raised an eyebrow.

  Catherine caught his look. "What's on the agenda then?" She fixed her gaze on Patricia's lengthy finger on the top of her file.

  Patricia managed a smile. It was more of a one-hundred-mile-an-hour mouth twitch.

  The telephone rang and Michael rose to walk to the work-surface, where the telephone was.

  "Hello?" he said, in a deep, peculiarly mysterious sounding voice. "Yep, we're all here. Just a mo."

  Michael turned to see the team looking at him. He gritted his teeth at Helen. "That woman is on the phone."

  Helen clambered up off her seat and made toward Michael, who handed her the telephone receiver.

  "Can you put it through to my office? Okay, thank you." Helen replaced the receiver and an immediate ringing sounded from another room nearby. "I've got to get this. She's been trying to call me all day. She probably wanted me to be at the other site for the rest of the week. Start without me." Helen winced as she passed Michael.

  "Are you okay?" he asked.

  "Just my knee again. Bite your tongue and let me know how it goes," she whispered, as she left the room.

  It was only four minutes into the staff meeting and Catherine had formed the reddest, angriest expression upon her face. Her jaw was jutting forth so much Michael was becoming transfixed by it.

  "I don't really feel it's necessary for you to be here at these meetings, Patricia. It's like you're a spy for senior management. No. I dislike it. I should be the only one making telephone calls to the parents and children and foster parents and social workers," Catherine said, abruptly.

  Michael instantly defended Patricia. "I can understand what you're saying, Catherine. You are the Manager and do need to know, however, to be fair to Pat, she is the first face the children and parents see and the first voice they hear, and, oddly enough, Patricia has liaison in her title."

  "Oh, so we're throwing titles out now are we? Well, as your Line Manager, Michael..."

  "But you're not my Line Manager, Catherine. You're the Manager of this Department, not my Line Manager," Michael blurted.

  That infuriated Catherine further. Her face reddened and it spread down her neck as she bellowed out, "I AM YOUR LINE MANAGER!"

  Everybody jolted.

  Patricia edged away. Any further and she would be part of the wall.

  She exchanged a look with Paul.

  Michael raised his eyebrows and smiled, with shock. "Catherine, you're not my Line Manager. Don't worry about it. We're straying away from the initial subject."

  "I am your Line Manager. Who do you think controls you?" Catherine asked.

  "Nobody controls me. How do you mean, Catherine?" Michael frowned.

  Riverdale searched the eyes of Patricia and Paul who each sat awkwardly, waiting anxiously for the conversation or even the day to be over. "I control you. I control you."

  "No, you don't. Quit the power trip, Catherine, and let's move on."

  "Who do you go to if you have a problem in work? Me. You go to me, Michael."

  "Er, no, because most of the problems I have at work are you, Catherine, so I am hardly going to discuss my concerns with you and vent because you're not a neutral party. To lay down a fact, I'm managed by Helen. She's my boss. She took me on and we set it up together. Patricia then came on board, followed by Paul. You were next, and, being on a temporary eleven-month contract, you are not my Line Manager. Whoever your successor is, once the contract ends, you or someone else, they won't be my Line Manager either."

  It was an arrogant move and he knew damn well Catherine could be his line manager with the click of a finger if the bosses said so. He had never warmed to her and the feeling was mutual.

  Catherine stared at Michael. "I think you have an issue with authority," she said.

  "Absolutely not," Michael said, calmly.

  "Then maybe it's a female thing," Catherine nodded her head.

  "Because I have an issue with Patricia or Helen or any other female colleague?" he said, sarcastically.

  "Like our client group, I think this briefing has gone wayward," Paul chirped. He got to his feet and made for the door. He raised his hand, attempting a wave. "See you tomorrow," he said, leaving the room.

  "See you, mate," Michael stood up and headed to his room.

  "See you tomorrow, Mikey," Patricia called out.

  "Safe journey home, Pats," Michael replied.

  Catherine sipped her cup of tea and tilted her head. She gazed around the empty room.

  Michael en
tered Patricia's office in a lower part of the school.

  She smiled at him as he sat on a spare chair next to her desk, exhaling a weary sigh.

  "That woman drives me nuts," he said.

  "Oh Michael, she's impossible," Patricia replied. She slid some paperwork into a file.

  "Are you okay?"

  "Me? Yes. You kind of get used to her bluntness after-"

  "-After the hundred and eleventh time?" interrupted Michael.

  Patricia laughed and opened a file on her desk. "This one's interesting. Thought it'd be up your street. It's just come through, unfortunately."

  "Unfortunately how, Pats?" he asked.

  "Unfortunately for Catherine so that she can't ruin the whole ethos of this nurturing, child-centred environment," responded Patricia, coldly.

  Michael turned and caught sight of somebody in the office doorway.

  Patricia turned and instantly turned red with embarrassment, as did the uniformed man who was standing in the office.

  His name was Norman Clarke and he was the 'Safer Schools' Police Officer. Norman was a typical wally of a policeman, whose main job was to look after a school. His voice was a camp monotone. Although he wasn't an unpleasant character, nor unattractive, he was somewhat of a plank and seemed to want to prove himself capable of being a super-cop.

  Michael had him checked out months ago by his father, who said he already knew of him from his own days as a police officer in the City.

  Norman, once a Special Policeman. A hobby bobby given the usual jobs. He guarded concrete roadblocks, looked for illegally parked vehicles. Mostly jobs that kept him in one place and never got in the way. He once worked in a bank and tried out for the police force. He couldn't get into the City of London Police Force, so tried for the British Transport Police. They, too, turned him down. The ever faithful "we will take anybody" Metropolitan Police Service eventually accepted Norman and subsequently positioned him in a school. Usually a junkyard to rid the old and useless.

  As Michael's father once put it: "They don't send Sherlock Holmes in to look after a school, they send Inspector Clouseau." It was perhaps a little unfair, but would you really and honestly put your best man in to serve and protect in a place of education?