Patricia released a sigh of relief and stood up. She towered over her colleagues.
"Okay. Done it. I'd prefer it if this information doesn't leave here." With that, she left the room.
"Well, if that's not a conflict of interest, I don't know what is," remarked Michael.
"I think that's an unfair thing to say, Michael. I find you quite mean," protested Catherine. She wiped a tear from her cheek and walked out the room.
"What the bloody hell is she crying for?" asked Paul.
"What are you thinking, Helen?" Michael looked at his boss, who seemed a million miles away.
"I'm thinking lots of things. I'm thinking it's not only too soon for Patricia to be seeing someone, especially as she's still undergoing bereavement counselling, but that the someone who is seeing her is our Safer Schools Police Officer. You're right, Mike, it's a conflict of interest. Let me think on this one for a bit. It might not be anything to worry about, but gut feeling is telling me otherwise."
Helen wasn't too keen on Norman. She had tried to have him replaced by another officer. Someone who wasn't so easily swayed. Someone whom the children both respected as a force of law and were comfortable being around.
Norman was neither.
Michael walked along with two cups of tea. He stopped in the doorway to Helen's room as she looked up from her desk and her computer screen.
"Thanks, Mike," she said, as he placed one cup on her mouse mat.
"Everything ok?" he asked, seeing her frown at the monitor.
"Just looking at flights for Thailand."
"What do you think about Patricia then?" asked Michael.
"Hmm, I think it's a match made in ego land." Helen turned on her chair to face Michael. She sipped her tea and tightened her mouth as she looked at him.
"It could be dodgy."
"How do you mean?" she asked.
"Well, he's not exactly John McClane or Inspector Morse, is he?" Michael said.
Helen chuckled. "No. No, he's not."
"He wants to prove himself. Loves the fact that some staff members think he's quite powerful. He's all about status."
"As is Patricia."
"As nice as she is," Michael said.
"Exactly. Which is why we all have to keep her in check every now and again," Helen continued. She frowned at Michael's face which was scrunched up, looking pained. "What's the matter?" she asked.
"I don't know. It's just a feeling, really. A hunch, intuition, I don't know, I just sense danger," he replied.
"You think Patricia's dangerous?"
"Not intentionally, no, but irrational and misguided. That's what makes her dangerous, but hey, it's extremely early days."
"Yes, we should be happy for her that she's found love, despite it being far too soon," said Helen.
"I love our cynicism," Michael smiled.
"Let's hope it's just that."
Paul stood outside his room in the corridor and rang the brass hand bell. The sound echoed through the corridor. Paul looked at Michael at the other end of it and saluted him, accompanying it with a smile. "Halfway through the day, sir."
"Not halfway close enough, Mr J," Michael said, as several children spilled out from another class.
Sinatra Umbundo stepped into the corridor from a set of double doors. He was late. The first face he saw was Paul's.
"Late again, Sinatra. Everything okay?" asked Paul.
"Whatever, man," Sinatra replied, scowling and glancing up the corridor to see Michael.
Their eyes locked. Sinatra's expression was full of hurt.
"Stay away from me, snake." Sinatra stared at Michael as he passed Paul and went into his classroom.
In the classroom, Paul stepped half in and half out. He saw Sinatra slouched on a comfortable soft chair, checking his Blackberry messenger. "Wrong class, Sinatra. No maths today. You've got art."
"I'm done with that shit," Sinatra said, firmly.
"Bit grumpy today, sir. Woke up on the wrong side?" Paul enquired, keeping the door open with his body.
"My whole life is the wrong side," Sinatra answered.
"Okay. Well, c'mon, into art. It's nice and calm in there."
"I don't do calm. Fuck calm."
"No swearing, sir, and off the phone," Paul sighed.
"This is bullshit. It's fucked up," Sinatra grumbled as he pushed himself up from the chair and walked towards the door.
The art room had a host of pupils' work pinned to the walls. A few pupils were sitting around one big table in the centre of the room. A mixed bunch.
The white, violent schizophrenic
Lee Mace sat at the table, simply sketching a tag on an A3-sized piece of cartridge paper.
Anna, the quiet Russian girl, pretty and always clean and fresh, sat opposite Lee Mace. She wrapped some wool around a circular cardboard disc, occasionally tutting as she glanced up at the boy opposite her.
Olga, the outspoken, punky Polish girl sat next to Anna. Her beehive hairdo was firmly fixed with hairspray and her dark eye make-up was as much a stand-out feature as were the bright pink lacy knickers poking out at the top of her black Juicy Couture tracksuit bottoms. She, too, was wrapping wool, green wool, around a circular cardboard disc.
Abdul Rah-Maan, the kind, pleasant Afghan, sat next to Lee Mace, cutting out a circle from a square of cardboard.
Michael held up a woollen pom-pom that had been made using two cardboard circular discs and different coloured wool. It had sticky plastic eyes attached to it and a sort of monster appearance. A character.
"So, this is what we're aiming for." Michael looked up to see Sinatra in the doorway.
Paul was behind him. "We've come to join you, sir." Paul sat at the table and exchanged a look with Michael.
"Sure, no problem. Okay, Sinatra, you'll find on the table in front of you a piece of cardboard with a couple of shapes drawn on it. Circles. Cut the circles out, with the hole in the middle, and then I'll show you what to do after that," Michael instructed.
"I don't understand," said Anna.
"What? What don't you understand?" Paul mimicked her accent.
Anna smiled, trying hard to disguise it. She adored Paul and had great affection and admiration for him. She saw him as a father or even grandfather figure. Her own grandparents were back in Russia. She and her mother had fled a violent set of relationships in Moscow. Anna had witnessed severe domestic violence. Attacks on her mother by a dangerous, alcoholic father, who had once stabbed himself in front of her and beaten her beloved grandfather at the airport after chasing Anna and her mother all the way there.
The grandfather had driven them both there to catch their plane to London, when her biological father found out. In a drunken rage, he drove through the night and cast his angry eyes upon Anna and her mother, walking through to the gate, being waved at by her grandfather.
Anna had turned to wave back, only to see her father running towards him. Her eyes widened with shock and pain glazed over them when she saw her father punch her grandfather on the back of his head, striking him down to the ground.
Her father, wild as they came, stared at Anna, not taking his eyes off her as he sent a hard, swift kick to her grandfather beneath his feet.
Anna saw the grey-haired man in a heap as she was dragged round a corner by her mother. The last image of her grandfather. The last memory of home.
Paul had a couple of girls of his own. He was a quiet, caring, humble, kind, sensitive and an incredibly fun-loving man.
"I don't understand what pom-pom is," frowned Anna.
"Pom-pom. You are pom-pom," replied Paul in an Eastern European accent.
"Nyet," she said in Russian. "You are a pom-pom," Anna continued, pointing to a pile of coloured wool upon the table.
"Oi, mate, Abdul. D'you know the Taliban? D'you wanna join them?" said Lee Mace, randomly whispering loud enough for Paul and Michael to hear.
Both looked up to give him a disapproving stare as he glanced up to see if he had been hea
rd.
"Taliban? I join Taliban? No. Taliban are very bad. I know Taliban. I know they are bad," Abdul replied in his broken English.
"What's everyone doing this weekend then?" Michael asked, changing the subject.
"Yeah, what does everyone like to do?" Paul joined in.
"Weed. Smoking weed," confessed Lee Mace.
"Films. I will watch films. Harry Potter," replied Anna.
"I will be sleeping! My God, I have to get some sleep. Probably buy some make-up, see some friends, maybe a boy! Oh, don't! I am so excited for the weekend. Can I leave now, sir?" gushed Olga, excitedly.
"I'll probably be banged up. Right, sir?" Sinatra said, with a glare at Michael, who tilted his head, confused, but somewhat suspicious and a little concerned.
"Actually, I think I have to deal with my boyfriend. Well, he thinks he's my boyfriend. Bloody Albanian men," sighed Olga.
Anna rolled her eyes.
"Albania? You seeing someone from Albania?" asked Sinatra.
"Yeah! I am actually," smiled Olga.
"Is he in OTR?" Sinatra enquired, curiously.
OTR stood for On the Run. It was a gang formed around 2002 in the borough of Bromley, south-east London. The gang started various street battles with other Albanians, brandishing their weapons consisting of guns and knives and showing their tattoos off on the internet. Tired of killing and causing severe injury to one another, the OTR was said to have split, with other members and loyal, younger, highly impressionable Albanians forming their own gangs under the OTR umbrella, with names such as Real Albanian Gangsters and ASA Albanians spanning from north-west London to Greenwich. Their role wasn't to fight their fellow countryman, but to 'clean house' by claiming the streets of other gangs. As the majority of their members were older than your average gang member, they'd drive around in their cars packing automatic weapons, entering other boroughs, namely Greenwich, and 'sort out' other gangs. All the gangs were extremely dangerous, each with their unpredictable, unstable, volatile members. However, OTR was considered to be one of the worst out there.
"I like to wrestle. Wrestle fight. Fighting," said Abdul, motioning a wrestling action with a smile and recollecting a stirring memory of back home.
"Fucking Talibanna," muttered Lee Mace.
During break-time, the staff team assembled in a hall. Catherine stood watching a couple of kids playing table tennis, while Paul and Michael kept an eye on the rest sitting at a table, checking their mobile phones.
One dealt out some playing cards for a game of Black Jack.
A dinner lady, preparing for lunch, arranged tables and chairs.
Michael noticed Abdul in a corner of the hall, practically facing the wall. He looked upset.
Michael gestured to Paul. "Is he okay?"
"Dunno. He seemed all right in your class. Well done for covering that, by the way. Not just an oily rag, eh?"
"What, like you?" Michael teased.
"Eh, I'm just a rag. I'm not lucky enough to have any oil," smirked Paul, patting Michael on the back.
The two had a great working relationship. A surrogate work father for Michael and the son Paul never had. If only Michael enjoyed sport, like Paul did, he'd be perfect. They were practically inseparable at break-times. Playful banter was mixed easily and smoothly with serious work and home issues. Through rain or shine, windy or uncomfortably hot summer days, Paul and Michael were usually the only members of the staff team to be found outside.
Paul would often be seen in a black beanie hat, with his hands firmly shoved into his pockets, reeling off accounts from days of old when he was a mountaineer and how frostbite affected his hands and fingers considerably. He was a well-travelled, handsome man who had retired twice already. He was a true lover of work and his workmates.
Patricia entered the hall, looking taller, more upright, and she stepped up to Paul as Michael made his way to Abdul.
"Hello, miss," said Paul.
"Yes, I'm fine. Busy. Very busy." Patricia looked across the hall to fix on Michael and Abdul. "What's going on there with Abdul? Anything I should know about?"
"Nope," Paul frowned.
There was an air of some sort with Patricia. Perhaps it had always been there, but she held herself differently and looked at people differently, too.
"How was Abdul in class?" she asked.
"Okay. Talking about the Taliban a little. People joining it, I think, and a bit about wrestling," Paul said, recounting the lesson before.
"Really? Well, that's concerning." Patricia scrunched up her face.
"Not really," shrugged Paul, seeing Patricia turn and exit the hall. He turned his attention to the pupils playing Black Jack.
"Join in this game, sir," said Sinatra, pulling out a chair for Paul to sit next to him. Paul sat down with them.
Michael crouched next to Abdul in the far corner of the hall. He noticed Abdul's eyes were glassy and tearful.
"Are you okay, Abdul?"
"People think I am a rich man. The miss who interviewed me, she said two times to me that she think I am rich."
"When?" Michael frowned.
"I fly here by plane and she and other people think I am rich. I did come here by plane, but I had to walk to Iran to get to the plane. From Afghanistan to Iran, I walk. With a hundred people. All strangers to me, with bullets and guns and Taliban around me. I had to say goodbye to my mother and my Baba. I miss, you know miss? I miss my mum and dad." Abdul released a tear and immediately wiped it away. "Myself I hurt."
Michael placed a comforting hand upon Abdul's shoulder.
"You're safe now. You're safe here," Michael stated.
"Thank you."
"I mean it. I'm here to help you. All of us."
Abdul managed a smile and nodded his head. He stood and stretched, arched his back and made his way to the table where the pupils were playing Black Jack.
Sinatra glanced up to see Abdul sit down and looked back further to see Michael had followed him.
"I wouldn't trust him, man. Guy's a snake. I swear down that guy's a fucking Fed snake."
"Now, now, language, sir," Paul cautioned, eyeing his cards.
It was later that day, in Patricia's office with the door closed. PC Norman Clarke sat down with her. They sipped tea together.
He was leaning on the corner of the desk with his side practically becoming one with it.
She leaned one elbow on the desk, exposing tremendous cleavage from her enormous bosom. She crossed her legs and revealed a stocking-clad thigh. Being in Norman's company aroused her. It was no doubt the uniform as Norman had little power in his role to turn anybody on.
"Mm, good tea," observed PC Norman.
"Mm, you're not wrong." Patricia gently blew her hot beverage.
"So what's new today?" PC Norman's voice was ever so camp. It sounded similar to the cartoon character Henry's Cat, voiced and created by Bob Godfrey. Actually, it was somewhat unfair to the genius of Bob Godfrey as that would suggest Henry's Cat was boring. It was, by no means, boring, however, there was more than a mere hint of a whining nature when Henry's Cat, narrated by Godfrey, said "Ohhh." That was how PC Norman sounded. He had a monotonous, droning whine of a voice.
"Well, you know the Afghan boy?" asked Patricia.
"What's his name? Shaheen?" Norman sipped his tea.
"No, he's Iranian. He'll be moving on soon, but the Afghan lad is Abdul Rah-Maan."
"Oh. Yes. Go on, I know. I think I saw him outside when I was coming in. He pushed another boy. Might have been playing."
"No, probably not playing. Not when you hear this. He was in a classroom and talking about joining the Taliban and how he liked fighting," announced Patricia.
"Was he? Was he? Well, that's alarming."
"Isn't it?" Patricia agreed.
They sipped their tea.
Michael helped Paul unplug the laptops from the wall in his classroom, and together they placed them inside a lockable cupboard.
"Another day gone," Paul r
emarked, squatting to insert another computer on a shelf in the portable storage unit.
"Indeed. Odd one, as usual." Michael reached up to a plug socket and flicked the off switch.
"Don't bother unplugging it, we'll leave the leads in."
"Really? What's the point in the charging unit?" Michael asked.
"They don't bother elsewhere and well, why make it more difficult for ourselves?" Paul said as Catherine and Patricia entered and sat down.
"Shall we meet in here then?" asked Catherine. Her chin jutted out and her head nodded, in her usual wobbling fashion.
"I guess so," chuckled Paul.
"Who have you got there, Pat?" asked Catherine, who fixed on a green card file in Patricia's hand.
"Billy Ray."
"Cyrus?" chirped Paul.
"No." Patricia became incredibly serious.
"Okay," Paul shrugged and exchanged a look with Michael as they sat down. "It's nearly that time, sir," Paul continued, slouching in the comfortable chair. He rested his eyes and he placed his hands upon his belly.
"I'm whacked," said Michael.
When it got to around the two-thirty mark during the day, Paul and Michael were truly exhausted. It wasn't to say that the other staff members never felt the same, but the two thoroughly expressed it.
The days took their toll when dealing with the draining issues of the vulnerable, day in and day out.
"Before I get talking about this new referral, I'd like to discuss the Abdul issue," began Patricia.
"What Abdul issue?" asked Paul.
"Abdul said in a class today that he wanted to join the Taliban and how much he likes fighting," continued Patricia.
"Er, not really. Somewhat of a false truth," Michael sighed.
"I don't believe it is," snapped Patricia.
"How do you mean, Pat?" Catherine was confused.
"Abdul is dangerous and so I took it elsewhere," stated Patricia, with Michael and Paul frowning.
"Could you explain what happened? I'm feeling a little left out here," said Catherine.
"Nothing bloody happened!" Paul cried out.
"Oh, so an Afghan man saying he wants to join the Taliban is nothing happening, is it? Okay, okay, I'm wrong, forgive me, I'm wrong," blurted Patricia, causing more frowning and exchanging of looks between the other staff members.
My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay Page 15