It was late in the day when she reached the hospital but earlier than she had planned it to be. From Turnham Green she had taken the tube across London and picked up her car at her flat. She had driven to the school and pulled to the side of the road and for an hour at least she had sat. On her way home again she had stopped at the McDonald’s on the Bow Road and ordered French fries and a milkshake at the drive-through. She had parked in the car park and thought about eating but could not. Later, on her way to the hospital, the car had smelt of chip fat, which had made her nauseous but hungry too. She had chewed some chewing gum - soft, flavourless, warm from her pocket - while her stomach had pleaded its case for proper sustenance.
At the door to Elliot’s ward, she wished she had accepted Philip’s invitation to stay for lunch. She imagined salmon and salads and something with strawberries for dessert. They might still be seated on his terrace, three bottles down, a feverish city sunset tinting their reminiscences with sentiment. But at some point Philip would again have asked about David, and Lucia would have had to relive things she did not have the detachment yet to relive. That and the wine would have turned nostalgia into melancholy and when she thought about that she was glad she had not stayed. She wished instead that she had drunk the chocolate milkshake, maybe eaten a few of the chips.
The security glass was cold against her cheek. She could see Elliot in his bed, sitting upright but with his head bowed. There was a woman perched next to him and she too was staring at her hands. The woman looked like Elliot. No, that was not quite accurate. The woman had the same colour hair as Elliot did. That, and their bearing, was what made them seem so alike. The two of them might have been praying. Perhaps, thought Lucia, that was what they were doing.
She should go, she told herself, but she did not move. She watched the boy. She watched his mouth, as resolutely closed as it had been on the previous occasion that Lucia had visited. They might have stitched it shut when they sealed his wound.
The woman was saying something, Lucia realised. She heard her voice but not her words. Someone else came into view - a pair of shoulders, the back of a head, on Lucia’s side of the bed - and Lucia pulled back, out of sight. She should go.
‘Detective Inspector May, isn’t it?’
She stepped away from the door. ‘Doctor,’ she said. ‘Dr Stein.’
‘You’re back,’ the doctor said. ‘I didn’t expect to see you back.’
‘No, I . . . Yes. I’m back.’
‘This is his last day, you know. He’ll be leaving us in the morning.’ The doctor reached past her. ‘After you,’ he said and as the door opened and Lucia edged forwards, Elliot’s family turned to look.
‘Really, I don’t want to disturb anyone,’ Lucia said. She lingered. She directed a nod into the room. She smiled.
‘I’d rather you disturbed my patients during visiting hours. Please.’ The doctor gestured her inside. He overtook Lucia as they crossed the room. He was speaking, sounding upbeat, sounding competent, and though Elliot’s parents responded to his enquiries, it was Lucia they watched.
She stopped several paces from Elliot’s bed. She had meant her expression to seem apologetic, to convey kindness and concern and to let them know she had no desire to intrude but the longer she stood there with her teeth clenched and her lips tight, the more insincere, the more gormless, she realised she must look. She should have said something but she had left it too late. She would have to wait now until they asked her who she was, or until Dr Stein introduced her, which he had no obvious intention of doing.
‘Fine,’ he was saying. ‘All fine. The stitches are doing what they’re supposed to but I’m going to have to change this dressing, young man. It may sting, just a fraction.’
Lucia cleared her throat finally and was about to say something but before she could speak the doctor removed the bandage that had been taped across Elliot’s ear. For the first time Lucia was able to see the wound. The lobe of Elliot’s ear was gone. The boy did not flinch but Lucia did.
‘I’m sorry. Who are you?’
It was Elliot’s mother who had spoken. Lucia looked at her and then at Elliot’s father. She glanced at Elliot and caught him watching her but the boy quickly dropped his gaze.
Dr Stein raised his head. ‘I assumed the three of you had met.’
‘No,’ said Lucia. ‘No, we haven’t. I’m Lucia. Lucia May. I’m with the Met. The Metropolitan Police.’
‘The police?’ Elliot’s mother turned towards her husband.
‘You have some news,’ Elliot’s father said. ‘Do you have some news?’
‘No,’ Lucia said. ‘I’m sorry. That’s not why I’m here.’
Elliot’s father sought direction from Dr Stein. He got none. ‘Then why are you here?’
‘I brought something,’ Lucia said. She unfurled the carrier bag she was holding and reached inside. ‘For your son.’
‘What? What have you brought?’
‘It’s a book, dear.’
‘I can see that, Frances. Why have you brought my son a book?’ He looked at his son but Elliot sat still. Only the boy’s eyes moved as Lucia placed the book on the bed.
‘It’s The Hobbit,’ Lucia said. ‘You’ve probably read it. It’s just, I thought it might help.’
For a moment no one spoke. Lucia straightened the carrier bag and began to fold it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt.’ She nodded at Elliot’s mother but avoided his father’s eye. She tucked the carrier into her pocket and made to go. Over the rustle of the bag, she almost failed to hear the sound of Elliot’s fragile voice.
‘Thanks.’
Lucia turned. The doctor and Elliot’s parents were staring at the boy. Elliot had his head down still. The fingers of his right hand were resting on the book.
‘You’re welcome,’ Lucia said. ‘I hope you like it. You’ll have to tell me whether you like it.’
Elliot’s father caught up with her in the corridor. He took hold of her elbow and pulled her around.
‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘Why are you here?’
A nurse squeezed past them. Lucia moved to one side of the hallway. Elliot’s father followed.
‘Has something happened? Is there something you can tell us?’
Lucia shook her head. ‘It’s not my case, Mr Samson. I just wanted to give Elliot the book, that’s all.’
‘Not your case? What do you mean, it’s not your case? Why are you bringing my son books if it’s not your case? Why are you bringing my son books at all?’
‘I heard what happened to him. I . . . I don’t know. I thought the book might cheer him up.’
Elliot’s father was smiling now but there was no humour in his expression. ‘Cheer him up? Do you know what I think might cheer him up? Arresting the kids who did this to him. Locking them away. Making sure they don’t have a chance to do this to him again. That might cheer him up.’
‘I appreciate what you’re saying, Mr Samson, really I do. But it’s difficult. From what I understand—’
‘Don’t tell me that there were no witnesses. I don’t want to hear there were no witnesses.’
‘Please, Mr Samson. It’s not my case. Much as I would like to, I can’t help you. Maybe if you spoke to PC Price—’
Elliot’s father scoffed. ‘Price. Price is a moron. He’s an idiot.’
‘He’s just trying to do his job.’
‘Bullshit. As far as I can see, no one here is doing their job. Not one of you. You’re spending your time shopping for presents and Price is sitting around contemplating how to get his finger out of his arse.’
‘I should go, Mr Samson. I really think I should go.’ Lucia backed away. As she turned, she closed her eyes and almost collided with another nurse. Lucia muttered her apologies and slid past.
‘Stay away from my son. Do you hear me? The whole damn lot of you. Stay away from my son!’
Lucia focused on the floor. She hurried on.
They shat in his briefcase.
Don’t ask me when, don’t ask me how. They did it though. I saw it. I wish to God I hadn’t but I was sitting right beside him when he found it.
That was the only time I heard him swear. Usually the staffroom’s like Bill Nicholson Way on a Saturday. We have a swear box, much good it does. The money’s supposed to go to charity, to some hospice or hospital, but I don’t think they’ve ever seen a penny of it. We raid it. The teachers do. You know, for ice creams, biscuits, that sort of thing. I probably shouldn’t tell you that, should I? I’ll probably get the lot of us thrown in gaol. Janet, the headmaster’s secretary, she’s the worst. If you’re going to arrest anyone, arrest her.
Samuel, though. I’d never heard Samuel swear, not until that day. I won’t repeat what he said but you could hardly blame him. Christ knows what the kid must have been eating. I haven’t ever seen a turd that colour. I’d be at the doctor’s in a jiffy if I had. And the size of it. He must have been saving up for days. I won’t mention the smell because you can imagine the smell.
He jumps right up when he sees it, like it’s a tarantula in there or something. He jumps and he knocks the table and coffee, people’s coffee, it goes everywhere. There are a few of us, you know, scattered around on the chairs, around this big coffee table that we’ve got in there, and we’re marking papers or flicking through The Times or the Sun or whatever it is we’re doing. I was reading a book, this book I got sent from the States. It’s about the stock market, stocks and shares. It’s called How to Invest Your Salary and Make Loads of Money and Retire While You’ve Still Got a Life. Something like that. My cousin, Frank, he lives in Minnesota, he’s the one who sent it to me. Reckons he’s made a hundred k in sixteen months. Dollars he’s talking about but still. And he’s basically a moron and I teach economics, right, so I’m thinking, if he can do it, how hard can it be?
The coffee. It goes everywhere. The others start hollering, moaning at Samuel, saying Jesus Christ this, bloody hell that. But I’ve seen what he’s seen and I’m watching this turd roll on to the floor, under the table, and I’m watching Samuel’s face and I can’t help but look at this turd. The others can’t see it yet but they can smell it. Vicky, Vicky Long, she teaches drama, she’s the first. She lifts her chin and flares her nostrils and starts aiming them round the room like the barrels of a shotgun. All very theatrical. She sniffs - rapid fire, sniff sniff sniff. Then the others start doing it. Sniffing. All of them. Sniff sniff sniff. By this time I’ve got my face tucked into my shirt so as the lot of them are sniffing they also start looking at me. And I’m saying, don’t look at me, it’s got nothing to do with me, and that’s when Samuel picks it up.
He could have used a plate or something. Wrapped it in newspaper. I mean, there was a copy of the Sun just lying there and that’s about all it’s good for, right? But for whatever reason Samuel doesn’t feel the need. He just reaches down and picks it up, like maybe he’s dropped his pen, like all he’s doing is picking up his pen. He holds it up. Everyone can see it now. They can see it but that doesn’t explain it. What they’re seeing is Samuel Szajkowski, this weird little bloke with his fluffy little beard, standing in the staffroom, holding up a day-old turd.
It was in his case, I say. He found it in his case.
Because if I hadn’t said that I don’t know what the others would have done. Ran out screaming, half of them. Samuel’s not taking any notice though, he’s just staring at this thing in his hand. For some reason I think he’s going to drop it on me. Throw it to me to catch. I don’t know why. He doesn’t and he wouldn’t have but when someone’s standing over you, his fist around a great big turd, you don’t want to take any chances, do you?
We watch him, the rest of us. Or I do, Vicky does, Chrissie Hobbs does. Matilda and George, they turn away. They don’t want to see it. The rest of us don’t want to see it either but, like I said before, your attention’s kind of drawn to it.
Chrissie, she’s the first to respond. Here, she says. Let me get something.
And Vicky’s saying, don’t touch it, Samuel, put it down.
It was in his case, I say again. Someone put it in his case.
And Samuel, he doesn’t say a word.
He was almost lucky. The people who were there, they were nice people, kind people. I wouldn’t call them Samuel’s friends. Samuel didn’t really have any friends, except Maggie, although some friend Maggie turned out to be. They weren’t his friends but they would have helped him. To clean things up. To sort out his case. They would have helped.
He was almost lucky but then Terence walks in.
I call him Terence. I refuse to call him TJ. I call him TJ to his face because I don’t want to make a fuss. It’s important to him so I say let him have his little nickname. He might not be so keen on it if he knew what some of the kids say it stands for. Tosser Jones, they say. I hear them and I pretend I don’t. Toss Jism. That’s why they call him TJ. He thinks it’s because they all like him. He thinks I like him too. I don’t but what can you do? I work with him. I have to get on with him. It would be awkward for the others if I didn’t.
You’ve met Terence, right? So you’ve got a fair idea about how he might react. When Terence walks in, Samuel’s still standing where he’s standing, still holding this thing in his hand. Chrissie is in the kitchen. She’s got a carrier bag and the washing-up bowl and she doesn’t know which one to bring. I’ve moved away by now so I’m with the others, on the opposite side of the table. We turn to look at Terence and he sees the expressions on our faces and then the lot of us turn around again to look at Samuel.
Poor bugger.
Poor bugger: what am I talking about? He’s a murderer. I keep having to remind myself. He was a murderer. He shot three children. He killed a teacher, an innocent woman. And I’m feeling sorry for the bloke. This psycho nutcase maniac. I’m acting like he deserved compassion.
What’s that?
Well, I suppose that doesn’t surprise me. If he hadn’t done what he did, he might even have deserved it. The sympathy. These people you’ve talked to showing him pity. But not now.
Terence told everyone. The teachers, yes, but the teachers were always going to hear about it. Terence told the kids. He’s friendly with some of them, too friendly if you ask me. He wants to be one of the lads, you know, just a mate, which is not what he’s here for, is it? It took him a moment or two to understand, to realise what was going on, because all of us started gabbling at once. But after that he thought it was hilarious. It was like he wished he’d thought of it himself. So he tells his little buddies and his buddies spread the word and in six or seven minutes the story’s all over the school. For Donovan it was the perfect result. I mean, no one would have been able to prove it was Donovan but it was, of course it was. Even if it was Gideon who did the deed, it would have been Donovan who had the idea.
I had a word with Samuel after that. Everyone knew the kids were giving him a hard time but there’s a line to be drawn somewhere, isn’t there? I couldn’t tell you where, I couldn’t point and say, there, that’s the limit. But shitting in a man’s briefcase. It’s not the kind of thing you stand for. The line, well. It might as well be the horizon.
Go to the headmaster, I say. Tell him what’s been going on.
Samuel shakes his head. I’ve tried, he says. I’ve tried already. He makes to move past me but I hold his arm.
When? I say. What did you tell him?
Samuel just sort of shrugs. Not a lot, he says. Nothing specific. I told him I was finding it hard. I’ve told him more than once.
And?
And that was as far as we got.
But what did the headmaster say? He must have said something.
He told me it was hard. He told me teaching was hard.
Samuel, I say, that’s not good enough. You need to tell him about . . . about this. About everything. He’ll do something. He’ll have to. I try to make a joke, I say, you’ve got proof at least now, haven’t you? Exhibit number two, your honour.
Samuel seems to consider it. He doesn’t laugh of course but he seems to consider it. So I’m thinking he might go and speak to him but in the end he doesn’t. In the end I have to force him into it.
We’re in the staffroom. This is after lunch one day. I forget when exactly. November maybe? December? It’s me and Samuel and George, although George wanders out after a while, which leaves just me and Samuel. And we’re both minding our own, both of us just reading, when the headmaster appears at the door.
Janet? he says and takes a step into the room. He looks at me. Have you seen Janet?
I say, no, sorry, I haven’t, and he scowls, like he’s convinced that actually I have and I’m not telling him just to spite him. He takes another step and peers round the corner into the kitchen. For just a second or two he’s got his back to us and I don’t even need to think. I give Samuel a dig. I hiss at him. I say, go on, Samuel. Go on. And I give him another prod.
Samuel gets up. He looks at me. He’s trying to decide, I can tell, but he’s running out of time because the headmaster’s finished in the kitchen and he’s turning round and he’s heading for the door and he’s virtually out of the room.
I make a face and Samuel shakes his head. I clear my throat, like I’m about to say something, and I don’t know if the noise startles him or what. He says, Headmaster. Like the word was caught between his tongue and his teeth and just needed a jolt to knock it loose. Headmaster, he says again.
The headmaster stops. He turns to look. Meanwhile I get up and I say, excuse me, and I nip between them and into the kitchen like I’m going to make a coffee. Or that’s what I’m hoping it looks like. The headmaster, though - either he forgets I’m there or he doesn’t particularly care. More likely he doesn’t care. I could have settled into one of the armchairs with a Coke and a bucket of popcorn, and I doubt it would have made any difference.
Headmaster, Samuel says again and Travis says, Mr Szajkowski. What is it?
Simon Lelic Page 8