He lowered his headphones and turned to Michael. "Michael Jackson?" questioned Nasif.
"Michael Jackson! Michael Jackson!" shouted out Rabee, with a smirk, staring straight ahead at his screen, depicting some scantily clad Indian dancer on a hilltop. Rabee reclined on his seat.
Paul gently pushed the back of Rabee's chair with his foot, putting him upright. Rabee turned his head to give Paul a large grin and then returned to his viewing.
Michael entered the YouTube URL into the browser and typed "Michael Jackson Thriller" into the YouTube search box. He clicked on the first link which enabled Nasif to watch the full Thriller video on full screen.
"That's thirteen minutes out the way."
He glanced over to Sinatra Umbundo who was viewing some poor quality video of the Peckham Grime rapper known as Giggs. Giggs sometimes went by the name Hollowman. His real name was Nathan and he was an ex-offender, imprisoned for gun charges in 2003 and affiliated with various Peckham gangs. For some reason, his very distinctive, cheaply-produced music videos were extremely popular amongst the various students Michael encountered daily. More often than not, however, the majority of the students discreetly disclosed to him that they didn't like Giggs' music at all, nor rap in general, but just wanted to fit in with everybody.
Next to Sinatra was Guled, who watched a gang video. He slyly glanced round and clicked onto the Miniclip games website, pausing a motorcycle dirt bike game and returning to the mobile-phone-filmed gang music video.
Michael sat himself back on the table.
"It's weird, isn't it? Afghani, Angolan, Iranian and Somali in one class, individually watching their own personally selected YouTube videos," he observed.
"What have we got here then? Giggs." Paul adopted a street style accent. "Giggs. It's about Giggs init?" he then chuckled to himself. "What else? Michael Jackson. Of course! Belly dancers," he glanced over Abdul's shoulder to see him looking at a Mr Bean video.
Abdul turned round to Michael and Paul, smiled and lowered his headphones. "It is Mr Bean. In Afghanistan he is known as Baba Gee. He is funny."
Abdul replaced his headphones and returned to his Baba Gee viewing.
"Baba Gee. Ha! What about him, look? Thinks we can't see him looking at gang vids," said Paul, gesturing with a nod towards the sly and suspiciously-behaving Guled.
"I saw it a minute ago. He keeps switching between that dodgy motorbike game and the Ferrier video," replied Michael.
"Clearly a gang kid."
"I know!" said Michael. "Patricia always asks about gangs when she interviews. They always tell her they're not in one, despite their weird haircuts and coloured scarfs."
"Maybe they're Morris Dancers," Paul mocked. "Which one of 'em is tagged?"
"The one with the tag on," Michael smiled.
Paul laughed and looked to see Michael discreetly pointing his forefinger down at Sinatra Umbundo's feet, tucked under his chair. A glimpse of an electronic tag fitted to one ankle was clearly visible.
Michael eyed the clock on the wall. Two o'clock. "Well, that day went quick."
Paul looked up and then to the window to see the dark skies and heavy rain beyond. He slid himself off the table and gently placed a hand upon Rabee's shoulder.
Rabee removed his headphones. "Finished?"
"Finished," Paul mocked his accent.
Rabee slid his chair out, stood and patted Abdul on the head.
Abdul looked up at him and then at the clock, twisting further to Michael, who raised his thumb.
"Can we go, teacher?" he asked, politely.
Michael nodded.
Abdul removed his headphones and gently touched Nasif on the arm.
"Nasif! Nasif! Go! Hurry yes!" called out Rabee, impatiently. He made his way to the door, turning with every step, smiling at Michael, cheekily. He opened the door and waited for Nasif to get up from his chair with Abdul and exited the class.
Nasif and Abdul shook Paul's and Michael's hands as they left.
"Cheerio," said Paul, taking hold of the door and keeping it open as Guled and Sinatra passed them.
Guled pulled up his hood, slyly glancing at Michael as he left the room.
"See you, guys," Michael called out.
Paul released the door to a close and exhaled. He seated himself on a desk.
"He's trouble that one, eh?" he said.
It was only a few minutes later when the various members of staff were each sitting on the chairs in the staffroom.
Michael sipped a Twining's fruit tea: raspberry and cranberry flavour.
Paul sat next to him, with his back against a radiator, eyeballing Michael's drink and gripping his own cup of tea.
"D'you really like that?" Paul asked.
Michael tilted his head. "Not really."
"All right, Patsy, who you got for us now?"
Patricia sighed as she opened a bulky green card file. "Well, nobody new really, just some extra information, or rather just information as we weren't sent any when he arrived. Right. Lee Mace." Patricia looked around at her fellow staff members.
Michael whistled a cuckoo sound and rolled his eyes.
"Exactly," Paul agreed, understanding Michael's whistling response.
"As you know when Lee started with us we didn't have a file. All we knew was that he came from a school in Bexley. Now, as you can see, we have a file." She patted the large bulky mass of paperwork, accompanied with a cynical smile and a raise of her eyebrows. The file was four inches thick. "An out-of-borough child who was excluded for persistent disruptive behaviour, verbally abusive to staff, assaulted one male member of staff with a chair, but refuses to accept he did so. He's a regular cannabis user and a diagnosed schizophrenic. Lee continuously raps in class, ignores instruction and when told to do something by teaching staff, he immediately becomes aggressive, very threatening and starts swearing and usually walks out."
"Then we let him walk," replied Helen, who stood up and exited due to a telephone ringing in another room off the corridor.
"It's pretty evident that we've seen all this from him already." continued Patricia. "He was living with his mother and is now living in care in Woolwich."
"He told me that he was living with his dad," Michael stated.
"I don't think so. Maybe he doesn't want people to know his mother can't handle him anymore and thus sent him into the care of the authorities."
Catherine Riverdale stroked her large, witch-like chin, nodding and weighing up something that had obviously circled in her mind for a considerable amount of time.
Michael caught sight of this. He never missed a trick and knew that whatever escaped Catherine's mouth was sure to hit a nerve.
"I quite like the boy and believe he has great potential," commented Catherine to the staff members, looking around at each of them individually, nodding like one of those plastic dogs again.
Michael's mind raced. What was the point of those nodding dogs anyway? Exactly. They were pointless. Rather like the yellow 'Child On Board' signs that had become a bizarre phenomenon of the past two decades or so. What was their main purpose? Were the three words a shorter replacement for 'Do Not Crash Into Me Please'? If so, then it should have been law for everyone in the world to have one because, surely, nobody in their right mind really and truly wanted to crash into someone on purpose. "Oh, a child is in that car, I'd best not crash into them," or "Ah, look dear, a yellow child on board notification, I think we should drive a little slower and with more caution." Shouldn't every single driver in the world do that anyway? After all, that was what you took your test for. Child on board. So what? What were they trying to say? Was a child more important than anyone else? That child could grow up to be a violent gang member... Michael's imagination continued to whirl.
Catherine's pointless nodding and comments were intended to frustrate and did exactly that. Just like those pointless nodding dogs. "I do. I think he has great potential," Catherine repeated.
"Great potential to be a schizophreni
c murdering young man maybe," responded a judgmental Michael. It was like a game of 'How To Annoy The Other Person More' as Michael batted his words across like a tennis ball over the coffee table towards Catherine.
"I disagree. He's been quite a gentleman and is a brilliant rapper." Whoosh. Catherine replied, slinging her peculiar response back over the table to Michael.
"The 'Gentleman Rapper'. Sorry, Simon Cowell, but I don't see it. It's a no from me, Simon." Before his words made their full impact, he continued, looking at Paul and Patricia. "Randy Jackson, Jennifer Lopez, yes or no?"
Smash! Michael sent it hurling back at Catherine, perhaps immaturely, with the combined full force of cynical sarcasm and a total dislike for her.
Her lips quivered and mouth moved, her head tilted to one side. Speechless. A moment of silence was upon them.
Paul uncrossed his legs and sat up. "It's a no from me, Simon," he said, as he arched his back and slowly stood up. "I'm falling asleep here and I think it's time to go." He walked out of the room, raising his hand in farewell.
Patricia closed the file. "I know I'm not in the classrooms with him-"
"No, you're not in the classrooms, Patricia," snapped Catherine.
"But I did interview him and I have been on a review with him and his parents and many of his social workers, current and previous, so I think I am qualified to pass comment," Patricia answered.
"Personally and professionally, Patricia, I don't think you are qualified to pass any comment or judgment on these young people and I don't really believe you should be in on any of our meetings in future. I find it to be quite a hurdle actually."
"A hurdle?" Patricia was lost for words, and a little hurt. She stood quickly and walked out of the room, with her head lowered.
Michael and Catherine were now alone in the staffroom.
"Maybe the police could use you to disperse crowds or late night parties. You certainly know how to clear a room, Catherine." Michael stood up, taking his empty mug to the sink.
"Sit down, Michael. I'd like a chat," Catherine instructed.
She didn't know how to separate adults from children and definitely had a St Trinianesque teaching manner about her. She was a very old-fashioned lady, with a peculiar world view. She stood as Michael neared the door. "Did you not hear me? I said, sit down," Catherine repeated assertively and bordering on the downright rude.
Michael turned and frowned. "Catherine, I'm not a child."
"I'm old enough to be your mother, Michael. If I was your mother, I'd have you punished and sent to your room without any dinner."
Michael raised one eyebrow as he looked at her with gritted teeth.
"I'm really not into that, Catherine. Thanks for the offer though."
She didn't get his humour at all and just nodded again as he formed a pleasant, but very fake, smile and turned away.
"Have a good evening. See you tomorrow," he said as he exited the room and walked down the corridor.
Catherine nodded her head, despite nobody being present. She formed a frown and marched up the corridor after Michael, but it was empty and quiet. She stopped in the middle of the corridor and turned around.
In the car park, Michael approached his vehicle, slowing as he looked up to see Catherine standing by the driver's side.
Her head wobbled at him.
Michael wondered whether if it was actually a medical condition or a habit that had formed into a nervous twitch. Whatever it was, it bloody annoyed the hell out of him and he wasn't the type of person who got annoyed at anything.
Something a child whom Michael dealt with would say, "She gets my goat," summed her up quite nicely.
Catherine placed her hands on her hips like a gunslinger.
Michael rolled his tongue around inside his mouth, filling out his cheeks and gums. He slowly pulled his car keys from his back pocket as he stopped a couple of feet away from her, ready to draw.
"You're a rebel," she said to him, with a slight smirk.
"With a cause," he quipped.
Her smirk disappeared fast.
"Tomorrow I'm going to give you some mentees," she said.
"But I'm not ill."
"I don't understand your humour, Michael, and this isn't the place for laughs anyway," Catherine replied.
"Oh, I think it is, and should carry on to be, Catherine. Humour works very well in this place. It's an important ingredient of why we're so successful."
"I disagree."
"You would, Catherine. You see, these children arrive angry and leave happy or at least happier than when they walked through the door. They have the crappiest of lives. For the majority, there has never been a laugh or a smile in any of their lives from the moment they were born," Michael said, passionately.
"You don't know that," interrupted Catherine.
"Well, it's pretty evident from their files, their behaviour, their attitude and their ever-present scornful faces, so please, grant me those pretty important facts."
"As your Line Manager, I'm-"
"We've been through this, you're not my Line Manager," he cut in.
"As your Line Manager, I'm going to-"
"You're not my Line Manager, Catherine."
"I am your Line Manager!" She raised her voice.
"No, you're not."
"I am!" she practically yelled and became more and more flushed. Her neck instantly reddened.
"Catherine, I dislike this phrase, but with all due respect, you are not my Line Manager. You are not in charge of me."
"I control you!" she said, huffing, like a child having a tantrum and not getting its own way.
"No, don't be silly, you don't control me and you're not my Line Manager."
"Who controls you? Who? Who is it?" she demanded.
"Nobody controls me. My Line Manager is Helen. My role is pretty much a self-defined one," Michael said calmly.
"No. I strongly disagree. As the Centre Manager, I control you. You're under my command. You're the mentor and I send you a list of mentees," Catherine stated, almost out of breath and nodding simultaneously.
"Catherine, it's no big deal, really, but please understand: Helen is my line manager. I can have students recommended to me from you, Patricia or other teachers, or the students can choose to come to me for themselves. I can enter classrooms and observe certain pupils and I can assist the teachers."
"So you have free will to do as you please?"
"Like I said, my role is self-defined. If Helen had a problem with me and the work I do here, she'd say so. She hasn't so far in the five years that I've worked with her, so I must be doing OK in her eyes."
"Go on. Go on."
"Go on what, Catherine?"
"Go on and tell me what else you do. You breeze in and out of classrooms at will, play the occasional game of basketball and then go home."
"If that's what you think I do, then fine, but I'd suggest you look a little closer, without making it so obvious to everyone that you're trying your damnedest to inspect me."
"You just want to be their friend," she said to him.
"I'm a friendly face, but I'm by no means their friend. There's always a boundary, Catherine. I take what a child says and does very seriously and professionally and I always note it down. I'm a reliable member of the team and that's what Helen, above all else, can trust. It's about that, Catherine. Trust." Michael gripped his car key and inserted it into the lock.
She looked at the car door and sidestepped. At least she got that right.
"You're just a bit of a clown really, aren't you?" she said, giving it one last attempt at pushing a button.
"I'm not a clown and this isn't a circus." Michael opened his car door and clambered into the driving seat. He quickly inserted his key into the ignition and brought the vehicle to life. He shoved it into gear and drove out of the car park, pulling on his seatbelt.
Catherine watched the car become more distant, nodding her head.
"What a nutcase," sighed Michael.
He was first at a set of roadwork traffic lights as he slowed to a halt.
There were so many roadwork signs, dug up holes and traffic lights in Greenwich. If Greenwich was a heart and the road a major artery, then the roadworks were clogging up that artery. Huge stress was being placed on the heart. Worse still, more often than not workmen were hardly ever visible. The lights took a lifetime to change from red to green. Michael's mobile phone rang. He retrieved it and noticed an unfamiliar number. He glanced up at the traffic lights. Still red. He took the call.
"Hello?" the voice on the other end was Scottish. Soft. Maybe Edinburgh.
"Hello, is that Michael?"
"Who's calling?" replied Michael, glancing up at the red light.
"This is Detective Constable Malcolm Crowe. My boss, Simon, is a neighbour of your parents."
"Oh, right," said Michael, looking up at the red traffic light and sighing.
"I was wondering if you have time to meet today. Just on the off chance. Today would be ideal though. Is it possible that would fit into your schedule?" replied the now identified DC Malcolm Crowe.
"Erm, when and where did you have in mind?" asked Michael.
"Well, we're near Blue Water. Would that be all right for you?"
Michael knew that if the lights changed and he drove beyond them, he would now have to head back on himself and be on the opposite side to where he currently was. Back at a set of annoying traffic lights. "And you'd like to meet today?" he asked.
"Would that be OK for yer?"
"No problem."
"Good stuff. When you arrive, just give us a call."
The lights changed to amber.
"OK. See you then," Michael quickly said, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat and shoving the vehicle into first gear, turning the wheel as far as it would go to the right.
Green light.
A car from the opposite direction had obviously gone over their own red light and narrowly missed Michael as he conducted an excellent U-turn, with his front wheel nearly touching the curb on the other side.
Second gear.
He accelerated and sighed as he was on the move once again.
Third gear.
He wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his right hand.
Fourth gear.
My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay Page 8