My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay

by Ben Trebilcook

  "Yes. He's a student here," Michael replied.

  "Good. Then we want to discuss the incident that occurred in this school."

  "What incident? When?" blurted Michael, receiving again a deep, long sigh from Stevens, who slid a file in front of him, stubbing her manicured, maroon-painted fingernail to a date upon a piece of paper. Michael noticed the words, 'During a lesson, Afghan pupil Abdul Rah-Maan was discussing the Taliban in an alarming manner.' Michael looked up at the Detective and sneered.

  "Is something funny? Terrorism is a serious, serious threat to this country and it isn't anything to laugh at," she frowned.

  "You are the police, aren't you?" Michael asked.

  "Of course we're police," she snapped.

  "There was no incident here and I really think this is a complete waste of your time. You've been misled, detectives."

  "I want to make it clear that you understand that we are in a high state of terror here in the UK," she continued, in a progressively aggressive manner.

  "That's debatable. I do, however, understand what you're saying. I do. I also understand that the boy you've mentioned, Abdul, is simply that: a boy. He's a boy who misses his family considerably. He's a boy who is alone here in London, living in foster care. He's a boy who cries when he tells me about how he walked from Afghanistan to Iran in order to be able to travel to the UK. His family sent him here," Michael stated.

  "He was discussing the Taliban," said Stevens.

  "No. He was answering a question. The question was 'do you know the Taliban?' This question was from a white, working-class boy who is a bully and a racist. He asked if Abdul knew the Taliban," Michael replied, firmly.

  "So it's this white boy who we should be questioning?" Jordan remarked, looking up, but still resting his head on his knuckles.

  "You shouldn't be questioning anybody! Like I said, this is a big misunderstanding. I was there, in the class."

  "You weren't the teacher at the time?" asked Stevens.

  "No. Do you know what this school is? At all?" Michael asked each of the detectives, who both sat up and folded their arms.

  "It's a school, but go on," said Stevens, in a cocky manner.

  "Not exactly. This provision, on this particular level, this department, assesses students. The students come to us via a panel within the borough. They could be excluded kids - expelled from school. They could have moved into the borough and are therefore seeking a new school, closer to where they live. They could have even moved into the country. From ages eleven to sixteen. All races. All abilities, both genders and from any country. We even get asylum seekers, young offenders and the occasional attempted murderer, thief and rapist. The most high profile children in the borough come through these doors. Abdul Rah-Maan is one of those children who came from another country. Afghanistan. He doesn't know anybody. He keeps himself to himself. Don't you think if he wanted to join the Taliban then he would have probably stayed in his own country where it would have no doubt been a whole lot easier to do so?" Michael said passionately, as he reclined in his chair, searching with his eyes for some kind of relaxed realisation in the expressions of the officers opposite him.

  "Are you sympathising with terrorist views?" asked Jordan.

  Michael was in utter disbelief. He shook his head and curled his lip. He told them about Abdul and how he came to be here in the UK. He told them how good and respectful and polite he was in class and to him and the other members of staff.

  "When the complaint was brought to our attention, it was noted that Abdul can be violent and verbally abusive," stated Stevens.

  "Not at all. Never. Who made the complaint?" asked Michael.

  "PC Norman and another member of staff," responded Jordan, glancing at another piece of paper, in front of him on the table.

  Michael sneered again. "And what dealings would PC Norman have with Abdul? None. He doesn't. He's hardly ever here and when he is, he's downstairs with another member of staff, who no doubt was the one who made the complaint. Am I right?" Michael was on a roll.

  He watched the detectives exchange further looks before finally showing some genuine interest in him and what he was saying.

  "A Patricia Hayes made the initial complaint it says here," said Detective Jordan.

  "Exactly. I'm unsure whether you know this, you probably do, but PC Norman is in a relationship and currently living with Patricia Hayes. A recently bereaved woman," Michael told them.

  Detective Stevens briefly closed her eyes as if the hammer had fallen. She opened them and turned to her colleague, both forming an expression that clearly read: a) What the hell was going on here then? b) Typical Special Policeman turned typical Police Constable based in a school. c) What a waste of time. d) All of the above.

  "That explains it," muttered Stevens under her breath.

  "What you say in this room to us is of course taken in the strictest of confidence, Michael. You do understand that, don't you?" said Jordan, leaning in.

  "I understand. Yes."

  "You said that your father was in this line of work. What did you mean by that?" asked Stevens.

  "Whatever line of work you're in," Michael said firmly, "he was too."

  The detectives exchanged a look. Stevens slowly got up from her seat and discreetly made a call in one corner of the room.

  "Have the two of them been seeing each other long?" Jordan asked, showing more interest in Patricia and PC Norman's relationship than the originally intended reason for them being there.

  "It's hard to gauge. She's changed, or maybe she hasn't changed. She told her once trusted colleagues she was about to enter into a relationship with our school's police officer. She asked what we thought and we congratulated her on finding somebody again," informed Michael, honestly.

  "Why would she ask her colleagues what you all thought about it? What would it have to do with any of you?" inquired Detective Stevens.

  "Because we've each helped Patricia in our own unique way."

  "How do you mean?" asked Jordan, curiously.

  "Her husband committed suicide. It seemed an incredibly random act. My parents helped her considerably."

  "How?" Stevens questioned, quickly.

  "I can't say exactly how, but my father, being my father, knew a lot of people and had a lot of experience when it came to coroners and coroners' courts and, therefore managed, to get a 'death by misadventure' verdict that enabled Patricia to acquire her deceased husband's pension. His position in his job came with a lot of money. It wasn't just my parents who helped her out. So many close colleagues did. Helen, my Deputy Head, was wonderful. She'd visit her, without fail, every Sunday. She'd call her every night. She promoted her at work but now, suddenly and bizarrely, Patricia is this cold, calculating, egotistical power-tripper, who now believes she's-"

  "-Sherlock Holmes?" interrupted Jordan.

  "There are two of them we're talking about, Ben," sniped his colleague, Detective Paula Stevens.

  "Sherlock and Watson."

  "Clouseau and Kato, more like," she scoffed.

  "It's as if they get off on each other's power," Michael explained.

  "Imaginary power perhaps," added Jordan.

  "So, do either Patricia or PC Clarke have any direct dealings with Abdul?" asked Stevens.

  "Patricia interviews parents and new pupils. She'll make telephone calls home if they're late or absent. She'll go on various review meetings if they're involved with the Youth Offending Team or are in the care system."

  "But she isn't in the classrooms?" Stevens probed.

  "No," replied Michael, firmly.

  "And you are?" she asked him.

  "Yes, naturally. I monitor behaviour. I mentor and counsel the children, as well as provide support in the classes that may require it. The turnover for students is fast. You could have a great set of children who are high achievers one week or month, and then the next, they'll be the complete opposite and you'll get a set of criminals. It could flip again and you'll get a new coh
ort who are extremely needy and require one-to-one teaching or youngsters who just cannot be in a classroom with any other child. Like I said before, one minute a refugee, the next minute a sex offender. One minute a child with autism, then the next a boy soldier from the Democratic Republic of the Congo. I'm in a team that has to continuously adapt to the changing dynamics of the client group, and we do it incredibly well and have done for many years. It's a tight team, too. We know one another. We trust one another and we certainly know when a child is cause for concern or not, and when we do, we take the appropriate action. Abdul is not a cause for concern," Michael declared with true passion and conviction, staring directly at Stevens and Jordan.

  "I see. I read in a recent report dated two days ago that Abdul was swearing aggressively at a young girl and at Patricia," she observed to Michael as she eyed some paperwork.

  "The children are never out of our sight or hearing. From nine in the morning, through to break-time, lessons and lunchtime, and until they go home." Michael leaned over to see the report in front of Stevens. "It says here this particular incident occurred at break-time. I don't think so. It's made up. Fabricated. It's completely untrue because I play badminton with Abdul every break-time. He hates missing the opportunity to play with either Mr Jones or myself. This report was written up by Patricia who wasn't even in the dining hall at the time."

  "Why would she make it up?" asked Jordan.

  "To back herself up! To add weight to her complaint. To not make herself look stupid in front of the people that she reeled this pathetic story off to. To make Abdul appear to be a bad boy and justify her claim that he was a terrorist," continued Michael.

  Jordan and Stevens exchanged another look.

  Michael's time in the room entered into its second hour.

  The three of them discussed in more detail the ins and outs of the workings of the school and the types of children Michael encountered. The detectives finally got back round to quizzing him about Abdul before bringing the meeting slash interview to an abrupt end.

  Detective Paula Stevens closed the folder that she had been writing notes in. She felt disappointed the meeting hadn't gone entirely her way. Whether it was solely to do with Michael rightfully justifying his view, giving facts on PC Norman and Patricia, or if it was simply down to the fact that Michael's father used to be in a similar line of work to them, if not of higher rank. It was unclear.

  "Well, I don't think we'll be taking this any further," she said, looking at Michael, who instantly appeared satisfied with the decision.

  "Did you want to speak with anyone else? Another member of staff who deals with Abdul?" Michael offered.

  "Would they say anything different?" answered Jordan.

  "No. They'd say pretty much what I have said."

  "Apart from the 'my father was in the secret intelligence service'?" Stevens said, neither mocking, nor being sarcastic. She was serious and perhaps slightly concerned.

  "Yes, apart from that," admitted Michael.

  "Then there's no reason to speak with anyone else. There's no incident to follow up," Jordan said, with an out-of-the-blue smile.

  "Can I have the case number, please?" Michael asked.

  Detective Stevens sighed and nodded to Jordan, who jotted a number down and passed it to Michael.

  "So... Is that it?" Michael asked, warily.

  "Yes. If you do happen to come across anyone in the future who you feel is a potential threat or cause of concern, then please give us a call." Detective Stevens slid her card to Michael. It had her name and the familiar Metropolitan Police logo on it, a couple of telephone numbers, as well as an email address.

  Michael pocketed the card and nodded his head. He stood up and tucked his chair back under the table. He looked at them and lingered, wondering whether they would say anything else to him.

  They didn't. Their heads were lowered over a diary of some sort and Jordan was leaning in closer. His face was hidden by his bulky frame and Stevens' shoulder.

  Michael waited for a couple of seconds. He waited two more for any sense of a head movement or body shift. Nothing. He raised an eyebrow and turned. He opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

  Paul Jones, Michael's colleague, was in the doorway to his classroom and gestured to him, silently with his head, to step inside. He followed it with an empathetic smile. Warm, kind, like his father. The door closed to Paul's classroom and he sat himself down on a comfortable soft chair.

  "Take a seat. There's a cup of tea underneath the chair for yer," said Paul, watching Michael slump himself down on a similar chair next to him. He sighed deeply.

  "Man, how long was I in there for?" relaxed Michael, reaching underneath his chair to retrieve a mug of tea.

  "Nearly two hours. How'd it go? Did they water-board you?" Paul asked, sipping his tea with a smirk.

  "Ha, no, but I felt it was coming when I first sat down and they started to quiz me. They said 'We're here to ask you what you know about the suspect known as Abdul Rah-Maan and the leak to the Daily Express newspaper."

  "The Daily Express?" Paul echoed, with a frown.

  "Yeah. I'm like 'what?' and going straight in with calling him a suspect. Poor, poor boy." Michael drank some tea.

  "Indeed, sir. Indeed. Are they going to pursue this nonsense or not?" asked Paul, with a tightened, pained expression, watching Michael closely reclining into his chair, tired.

  He shook his head. "No. As soon as they learnt that Patricia and Norman were in a relationship, they pretty much realised that the whole thing was a waste of their time, or at least that's the impression I got."

  "Did they ask about them then?" Paul wanted to know.

  "It kind of steered that way. They had to know how the whole thing evolved into this stupid mess."

  Outside, in the corridor, Detectives Stevens and Jordan stepped out of the room they had been in. Josephine Golding trotted down the corridor to talk to them just as Sinatra Umbundo stepped out of the boys' toilets.

  He lingered in the corridor, outside the door, but within earshot, as he buckled his belt.

  Josephine didn't pay any attention to him. She was too wrapped up in her own ego and fixed her eyes on the officers before her. "Detectives. I hope your time spent here was of value and you managed to unearth the hard-line facts that we do indeed have a possible terror threat here in our school, not to mention a serious action of gross misconduct from a staff member," gushed Josephine in her usual harsh, self-righteous tone.

  Sinatra tilted his head, listening. He shuffled back towards the wall, into a darkened part of the corridor.

  Detective Stevens formed a hundred-mile-an-hour smile. It was more of a mouth twitch really. She sneered as she looked at Josephine. She towered above her, in a more powerful manner.

  Josephine frowned, awaiting an answer. Jordan coughed and looked into the shadows to fix his attention on Sinatra, who noticed that he'd been clocked.

  Sinatra entered a classroom.

  Jordan turned his head to Josephine. "We've come to our conclusion and we won't be pursuing this matter any further," he announced, stepping past Josephine to a set of double doors just as PC Norman and Patricia exited another door together, smiling.

  Their smiles instantly disappeared when they cast their eyes on Josephine, who looked angry and embarrassed.

  "What about the boy? What about the staff?" Josephine blurted.

  "The boy is fine."

  "And the staff?" Josephine asked.

  "Well, you have loyal staff, some of who have powerful connections. I'll leave it there."

  Detective Stevens walked away from her, making after her colleague. She snorted as she looked Patricia and Norman up and down.

  Patricia frowned and glanced at Norman, then at Josephine as Stevens exited via the double doors.

  "I wanna talk to you two. Now. In the office, now," commanded Josephine.

  She turned on her high-heeled shoes and clip-clopped up the corridor, toward the small office.<
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  Sinatra adjusted his belt and lowered his jeans below his backside, exposing a pair of black boxer shorts. He stood bow-legged by the classroom door.

  "Sinatra, sit down please and pull your trousers up. I don't want to see your backside," scolded Catherine Riverdale, sitting at the desk.

  "Why are there police detectives here, Miss? Have they come for the Afghan students?" asked Sinatra, trying to come across as innocent as he possibly could, but was clearly fishing.

  "What do you mean by that? There aren't police here and why would they be after Abdul? That's quite a racist thing to say?" responded Catherine sharply.

  "Why is it racist? Did I say Abdul? No. You must be thinking the same as what I was, otherwise you wouldn't be calling me racist, init, so you is as racist as well, but anyway, we'll leave it, yeah, so just tell me: why are the police here?"

  Catherine frowned, jutting her chin out as she looked around the class, fixing on Abdul who had already honed in on the conversation.

  "Police? Police are here? For me? Why for me?" Abdul cried, becoming tense and fearful and very defensive.

  "Nobody is here for you, Abdul. Continue with your work please," Catherine insisted.

  "It's time to go home. I'm going home, yeah," Sinatra said. He straightened and gripped the door handle.

  "Yes, home time now, Miss. Home time, but tell me why police are here. Why they here for me. I am good boy."

  "Sshh, no police are here," Catherine repeated.

  "What you lying for? I saw them. Dat other teacher even said 'detectives' to them and asked if they'd found the threat in the school. Who's da threat?" Sinatra said, forcefully.

  Catherine was confused, unaware that the detectives had questioned Michael, let alone for nearly two hours.

  "Have you seen Michael at all?" she asked Sinatra, who had already opened the classroom door and set foot outside.

  "Why would I see him? Have you not? Where's he been anyway? Has that snake been wiv da Feds? I bet he has, you know. That snake. I betchoo he has, man," Sinatra said angrily, bouncing out of the room and into the corridor.

  "Michael is with police? Why he talk with them? He tell things about me? Is he jasoos? You speak my name, Miss. Why police here? They come to my house and now they come to my school. What's happening? You tell me what's going on," pleaded Abdul.