No. It was a common enough surname. It might not be him. She did not know for certain that it would be him. Not for certain.
They turned into a side street. The driver cancelled the siren but left the lights flashing. A car moved as though to pull out from the kerb in front of them and the policeman at the wheel of the squad car hammered the horn and swerved though he did not really need to. Lucia turned her head as they passed. She saw a woman’s face, her expression teetering between shock and fury. The policeman up front switched the siren back on.
They arrived. They were the first. The car stopped and the siren stopped but Lucia heard its echo. An ambulance, four blocks away perhaps. She got out. The uniforms followed, placing their caps on their heads and trailing Lucia up the path.
The front door was ajar. Lucia rang the bell, knocked, rang the bell again. Without waiting for a reply, she pushed the door wide.
‘Mr Samson?’
Immediately she heard sobbing. A woman, upstairs.
‘Mrs Samson?’ Lucia spoke louder, almost shouting. She said her name. She said, ‘It’s the police, Mrs Samson. The ambulance is right behind us.’ She led the way towards the staircase.
She did not recognise anything and though she could not have expected to, this gave her hope. In the hallway was a coat rack straining with coats and just about clinging to the wall. There were shoes, some placed neatly in a line along the skirting board, others discarded with their laces still tied. There was a child’s bike, too small for him, she thought, almost certainly too small for him. They passed the living room and Lucia saw remnants on the coffee table of a breakfast interrupted: toast buttered but naked of jam, juice half drunk from glasses perspiring in the heat. The weather girl on the television grinned and caught Lucia’s eye but Lucia’s gaze did not settle. She looked for bookcases. In his house she expected bookcases. There were none in the living room and this was a relief, until she saw a set of shelves in the hallway beyond the stairs and another just inside the kitchen door.
She climbed the stairs quickly. Her feet scuffed against the wooden steps but the sound was soon masked by the stomping boots of the uniforms behind her, the crackle of their radios, their open-mouthed breathing at her ear. At the top Lucia hesitated and she sensed the men behind her collide. The sobbing had stopped. The door ahead of her was shut and there was no obvious movement further along the landing. She called aloud once more.
‘Here. In here.’
A man’s voice: quiet, defeated. It was a voice Lucia recognised. She hurried on, tensing her stomach to catch her falling heart.
She reached the doorway to the bedroom. The door was open, obscuring the main portion of the room. Ahead of her, slumped against a wardrobe, was Elliot’s father. His head was bowed. His hands were crimson.
Lucia stepped inside. She watched Elliot’s father as she moved. She knew she should turn her head, refocus her eyes but her body no longer felt under her control. Even her feet seemed to be carrying her against her will. She knew what was waiting inside and she did not want to see it. She wanted to back away, to turn, to leave the house. She wanted to rewind and tell Cole, give it to Charlie, give it to Walter even, because then at least she would not have to see it. But the uniforms crowded behind her and her feet kept moving and before she could resist she was in the room.
Elliot’s mother was cradling her son’s body. The blood was everywhere: in black puddles on the sand-coloured carpet, in Elliot’s hair, on his mother’s face and up her arms, on the bed sheets that were still entangled around Elliot’s legs, soaking through the strips of linen that were wrapped and knotted about Elliot’s wrists. With the blood, the colour had left Elliot’s skin. His eyes were closed and his head was tilted backwards and the fingers of his left hand were crumpled against the floor. Beneath the hair that covered her face, Elliot’s mother was sobbing still but silently. Her shoulders trembled. Her hands shook. She clung to her son as though willing the warmth of her body to diffuse into his.
Lucia took another step and reached with a hand and all of a sudden she was on her knees, the carpet damp and cold through the fabric of her trousers. She reached again but her hand hovered in the air and fell away. She looked behind her, up at her colleagues. They were staring at the boy. It was all they could do. It was the most that any one of them could do.
Someone told you about that, did they?
Who?
Whoever. Doesn’t matter to me.
What did they say?
Whatever. They can say what they like. And anyway I’m glad. I’m glad we did it. I’d do it again if I could. I’d do it even better. I wouldn’t get in trouble for it neither. They’d be thanking me. They’d be cheering me. They’d be saying I did em all a favour.
Why do you wanna know?
Why, what does it matter?
Am I gonna get paid for this?
So why should I?
Fuck you. Arrest me for what?
Obstructing. What the fuck am I obstructing? You’re the one obstructing me. And anyway, you can’t arrest me. I’m too young. You can’t do anything to me.
Do me a favour. They only send you to them places if you’ve killed someone, shagged some tart and she’s called it rape. You might get em to give me an asbo but I’ve always sort of fancied one of them.
Fuck it though. I’ll tell you. Doesn’t matter now, does it? Like I say, you should be thanking me. The teachers, the parents, your lot: you should be thanking me.
We knew he was a freak from the start, me and Don. It was obvious. You just had to look at him. His beard. I mean, fuck. What was he thinking? Did he look in the mirror in the morning and think, yep, that’s the look I’m going for: I want my face to look like an arse. The ladies’ll just love it. And his clothes. I never knew it was possible to wear so much brown. His jacket was brown, his shirt was brown, his trousers were brown, his socks were brown. He had brown shoes and brown pants probably, ha, yeah, brown pants. But that’s another story innit?
He was an immigrant. That’s what he told us. He wasn’t ashamed of it neither. He was boasting about it, making out he was better than the rest of us. Teachers aren’t supposed to do that, are they? They’re not supposed to insult you. Like when I told him my name. He asked me and I told him and he didn’t believe me. Said I was a liar. Called me one to my face. Threatened to hit me. Teachers aren’t supposed to do that either. Or maybe he said he’d touch me, which when you think about it is even worse. So he was threatening us and insulting us and acting like he was some kind of big shot even though he wasn’t no older than a sixth-former.
Do you know what he did? This is funny. His first class, right, and guess what he does. He runs out blubbing. Can you believe it? Although you’re a bird so you probably cry all the time. Like my sister, she’s always fucking snivelling, saying Gi did this, Gi did that, blah blah blah, blah blah blah.
All right all right. Don’t get your tits in a twist. I was coming to that, wasn’t I?
The football match.
This is much later though. We did loads of good stuff to him before then. Like the turd, that was funny, and the Guy Fawkes we made of him and set alight on the hockey pitch. And this one time we bought these eggs, right, and pierced em so they’d go off. Then we—
All right, whatever. Your loss. You’ll never know now, will you?
The football match. We have this match, right? Once a year. Just before Christmas usually but this time it was afterwards, cos of all the snow and that. It’s teachers against the first team. It’s Terence’s thing, he organises it. Terence. Most people call him TJ. Or Twat Jam. We just call him Terence cos it’s Terence he hates the most. So it’s Terence’s thing, he loves it. You should of seen him when Bickle made him put it on hold. It was like he’d been promised an Action Man for Christmas but got given Fag Hag Barbie instead.
Me and Don, we were in the team. The first team. Don was up front. He was captain. I play midfield. Terence is the coach. He calls himself the coach - no, that’s n
ot right, what he calls himself is the manager - but he does fuck-all coaching if you ask me, and fuck-all managing come to that. What he does is he makes the first team play the second team and he makes one player from the first team sit on the bench so that he can take his place. So Terence’ll be in defence for five minutes while the defender’s off the field, and then he’ll swap with a midfielder while the midfielder takes a rest, and then he’ll swap with a striker. Mainly he swaps with the strikers. He never goes in goal. There’s never anything to do in goal cos the second team are shite. There’s no point playing em really. We usually win like eleven-nil. Our record is twenty-four-nil. This was in a sixty-minute game. Ask Terence if you don’t believe me. He’s always going on about it cos he got a double hat-trick.
Anyway, teachers against the first team. Terence loves it but when it comes to getting a team together he always starts bitching, saying it’s hardly fucking fair, what the fuck am I supposed to do with this rabble, I’ve barely got enough for eleven. Basically, the only teachers who are halfway decent are Grunt and Jesus Roth. And Bickle always refs so that’s one less for Terence to choose from, not that Bickle’d be any good, I mean he’d probably have a colonary. So apart from Grunt and Roth there’s Terence and Boardman, although Boardman’s older than Bickle, and Daniels, he teaches physics right, which just about says it all, and there’s . . . oh fuck , I dunno. The point is there’s hardly anyone.
So Terence is getting desperate, right? I mean, he’s already drafted in the caretaker and the guy who sorts out the DVDs. Mr Pressplay we call him. But he still needs a keeper, right, just someone to stand between the posts.
Wow. That must be why you’re a detective. You’re like frigging Columbo. Or that bird, ha, yeah, that old biddy who goes around solving murders. Only she was better looking.
Fuck knows how he managed to convince him. Maybe he didn’t convince him. Maybe he, I dunno. Made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Whatever. I just remember we’re all on the field and it’s pissing down and it’s fucking freezing and we’re like, what the fuck are we doing out here? And Don, right, he goes, fuck this lads, I ain’t losing a testicle just so Terence has something else to do but sit at home and play with his. And he starts walking off and the rest of us, we follow. There’s a crowd along the touchline, all with umbrellas and that, and the rest of the school’s inside, all toasty and smug, watching out through the classroom windows. And everyone starts pointing and someone starts booing and Bickle, he’s doing lunges in the centre circle, he stops and he puts his hands on his hips and then he’s digging in his pocket for his whistle. He blows. He shouts, he goes, you boys, where the blazes do you think you’re going, and Don, he shouts back, he goes, the library, sir, and, just a little bit quieter, where do you fucking think? And we’re all looking at Bickle, wondering what he’s gonna do after that. But it turns out he doesn’t need to do anything cos that’s when Manchester United come running out on to the pitch.
They’re wearing the strip. All of em. Not just the shirt, I don’t mean just the shirt. They were wearing the full kit: black socks, white shorts, red top. And Terence, he’s got on green boots. Green ones. Such a cock.
We stop. I mean, us lot, we’ve got the school kit on, which is blue and white stripes, like Wigan or, I dunno, like Brighton. Cept it’s all faded and torn and it stinks of vegetables even when it’s just been washed. We’ve been going on at Terence that we need a new kit and he’s always like, you’ll get a new kit when you deserve a new kit. And here’s him poncing about in a kit so fresh off the boat from India or wherever it’s made that you can practically smell the curry.
It would of been annoying if the lot of em didn’t look so fucking ridiculous.
Check it out, goes Don and he’s pointing at Terence and Roth. It’s the Neville brothers! Which one are you, Terence?
And Terence, he checks Bickle isn’t looking and he grins at Don and slips him the bird. Then he turns around and points with his thumb at his back. He’s wearing number seven and he’s got Beckham across his shoulders. Which is funny enough, right, but then Roth turns around and he’s wearing a Beckham shirt too. And Boardman is. And Grunt is. And Mr Pressplay is. All of em are. And this is just too much.
They couldn’t agree. I found this out later. Terence wanted to be Beckham but so did Boardman. Then Roth, he decides he wants to be Beckham too. And Terence goes, I’m captain so I have to be Beckham, it’s obvious. And Boardman goes, maybe if Beckham were still playing for United but he isn’t. If you’re captain then you have to be Gary Neville. And Terence is like, fuck that, there’s no way I’m being Gary Neville. So in the end they order ten identical shirts and all of em get to pretend they’re shagging Posh.
But it gets better. Bumfluff, he can’t be David Beckham, can he? Bumfluff is playing in goal, which means he gets a costume all of his own.
We hear the cheer before we see him. By this time we’re all lined up again cos we’re obviously gonna play em now, I mean they look ridiculous already but we also wanna make em look stupid, right? So we’re ready and Terence’s lot are ready and Bickle’s ready and the only thing missing is Peter Schmeichel. And Terence is looking around, he’s like, where the fuck is he, and then we hear this clapping on the sidelines, just quiet at first, down at one end. But then some of the kids pull back and Bumfluff appears and by the time he steps on to the pitch even the teachers are applauding and hollering and whistling, you know like workmen whistle when they see a decent rack.
You know those big foam hands those dickhead Americans wear when they go and watch baseball? Imagine Bumfluff in two of them: at the end of his scrawny arms, his goalie gloves look like that. And his shorts, they’re bright yellow and so baggy you could of got two of him standing in each leg. Although you can only really see the bottoms of em cos the rest is somewhere under his shirt, which is yellow too but sort of splattered with black. It’s like he’s wearing a bumblebee outfit his mum’s made him but she’s got the measurements all wrong. And maybe he’s having trouble walking in it and that’s why he’s fifty yards behind the rest of em. Or maybe he just wanted to make an entrance. Maybe he wanted to make sure that everyone’s eyes would be on him.
I grin at Don and Don grins at me. We don’t say anything. We don’t need to. But right then: that’s when we decide.
Bickle blows and Terence kicks off. He knocks it to Roth and Roth knocks it back and Terence launches one straight at the goal. It’s a crap shot. The ball doesn’t even reach the keeper. So now we’ve got it and Scott, he plays in defence, he passes it to me and Terence is behind me but I do this little turn, like this, like imagine the ball’s here, right, I do this, and Terence is left standing there and I knock the ball out wide. Micky plays on the right, he’s well quick, he picks up the ball and he knocks it on and he’s legging it down the wing and he’s past Mr Pressplay and he whips in this cross and Don gets a head to it but he puts it inches wide. Bumfluff, he’s just standing there. He has no idea what’s going on. Terence is shouting at him, telling him to watch his back fucking post, and Bumfluff looks at the goalpost like he’s only just noticed it’s there. And while Terence and Boardman are arguing about who’s gonna take the goal kick, Don goes over to Bumfluff. He says, nice outfit, Mr Shitecoughski sir. Did you choose the colour yourself? And Bumfluff sort of looks down at what he’s wearing like, what, what’s wrong with luminous yellow, and while he’s doing that Don brushes past him and lands his studs on Bumfluff’s toes.
He squealed. I mean, he actually squealed. We went on this school trip once, to this farm or something, and Scott, he brought his catapult and a bag of carpet tacks. It was well funny. The cows didn’t hardly feel anything but the pigs . . . Honestly, it was fucking hilarious.
But you know what a squealing pig sounds like, don’t you? You get to hear it all the time.
So Bumfluff squeals and he goes down but nobody’s taking any notice cos the ball is back in play. Mr Pressplay’s got it. He passes it inside and the caretaker gives it ba
ck and then Mr Pressplay knocks one across to Terence. Terence shoots again, from the edge of the area this time. All day long. That’s what I say to him. Is that all you’ve got? And he’s jogging towards me and I’m standing there and he dips his shoulder, like this, and it feels like I’ve run bicep first into a doorframe. And I’m like, fucking hell Terence you cocksucker. And Terence turns and he’s like, watch your mouth, boy, I’m still your fucking teacher. And I wanna say something back but Bickle’s watching us now so I just hold up my good arm for the ball.
It’s out with Micky again. This time he loses it to Mr Pressplay and the ball goes loose and Terence is nearer but I’m quicker. I get it and Terence is behind me and he’s expecting me to do the turn, right, the one I showed you before, but instead what I do is—
What? I’m telling you, aren’t I?
No you didn’t, you said you wanted me to tell you what happened at the match.
Well, you should of fucking said so.
You fucking didn’t. Jesus Christ. You’re worse than my fucking mum.
All right all right. It wasn’t till the second half though. I mean, loads of stuff happened before then, like Don, he scored this blinding volley, right—
Can I at least tell you the score? Are you gonna get your period if I tell you the score?
Four-nil. We were four-nil up at half-time. The teachers, they’re fucking shattered. Terence is on his feet but the rest of em haven’t got the juice to suck on a piece of orange. Us lot, we’re having a brilliant time. Mickey’s doing keepy-ups and Don’s lighting up a fag and the rest of us are just chatting and messing about. We could of been seven or eight up, easy. I mean, we’ve won. It’s only half-time but basically we’ve won. So when Bickle blows his whistle and we jog back on to the pitch, that’s when Don gives me the nod. The game’s over, right? Time for a bit of fun.
Bumfluff is last on again. He’s in a state. He hasn’t touched the ball all match, cept for when he’s been picking it out of the net and rolling it out to Terence, but he’s fallen over a fair few times; fallen or been made to fall. So he’s covered in mud and he’s limping from where Don stamped on him and he’s got a bruise across his ribs probably cos that’s where I gave him a little dig when I was up on his line for a corner. Oh, I didn’t say, did I, I can’t believe I didn’t say. Don pulled down his shorts. In front of everyone. We were all waiting for a free kick and Terence, he was shouting at Bumfluff, saying, watch it, Sam, don’t fucking miss it, here it comes now, and Bumfluff almost looked like he was making an effort. He had his knees bent and he was holding his hands up in front of his chin and his tongue was sticking out between his teeth and just as the ball came over and Bumfluff was about to make this leap into the air, Don crouches down behind him and gives his shorts a tug.
Simon Lelic Page 14