Proof of Life

by Steven Suttie

  “Taj Mahal!” shouted Mike.

  “Paris, at the Eiffel Tower.” Buzzed the contestant.

  “Oh, bad luck. I’m not in Paris. For three points I can offer it to you Maureen.”

  “Taj Mahal!” Shouted Darren’s dad, louder this time, in a desperate bid to help Maureen secure the points.

  “Tower Bridge, in London?” suggested Maureen, with a look of worried uncertainty.

  “No, I’m afraid you’re both wrong. Where in the world I am is India, at the Taj Mahal.”

  “Get in!” shouted Mike at the television. “Should have listened to me Maureen, you gormless old boot!” Mike laughed loudly and held his hand out for a high-five as Darren walked in.

  Darren placed the brew down on the floor beside the settee where his father was sprawled out. The teenager clapped the high-five.

  “Here you go dad, toast is just coming now.”

  “Thanks. Did you hear that then? Smashed it there for six points!”

  “Yes, nice one dad” said Darren, with a smirk on his face as he walked back into the kitchen to spread some marge on the toast, doing well not to blurt out his observation of the earlier questions.

  After returning and handing the plate of toast to his dad, Darren headed upstairs to start work on the two-thousand word essay for Well’ard. As he sat down on his bed with his A4 lined pad, it occurred to him that he wasn’t feeling remotely anxious or stressed about the task. If anything, he was quite looking forward to getting stuck in.

  *****

  Mr Pollard arrived home shortly after 6pm, still clutching the unopened envelope. He knew that it was getting silly now, he’d had it in his possession for more than eight hours. Before the break-up, his wife Sandra made fun of his strange habit of not checking his lottery ticket. He reasoned that as long as he had the unchecked ticket on his person, the dream was still alive. Only after he’d checked the lottery numbers against the ticket would the fantasy end. He liked to prolong the anticipation.

  But this was slightly different, the letter he had waited for contained a simple yes or no. A stop or go. The very thought of opening it and reading the contents made his belly flip over. He placed it down on the kitchen work top.

  He went for a shower and came back through to the kitchen. After stabbing the film lid of his lasagne ready-meal several times and loading it into the microwave, he poured himself a large glass of red wine and started unloading the stacks of coursework, which he planned to mark through the evening. As he stared at the microwave, watching the plastic container revolve around on the turntable, Mr Pollard’s mind wandered back to the situation with Darren Jenkins. He wondered if he had dealt with the boy reasonably. The threat of making him stand up in assembly and completely humiliate himself was probably going a bit too far, and the thought made him feel guilty. But he’d been known to do much worse. Perhaps he was going soft in his old age, he considered.

  In the past, before his marriage fell apart, Mr Pollard would talk about his day, and go over the finer details with Sandra, analysing any situation that he was unsure about. In his heart of hearts, he knew that it was this self-indulgent behaviour that had proved a significant factor in the break-up of his marriage of thirty-six years.

  These moments made Mr Pollard feel lonely. It wasn’t often, but when something at work was bugging him, he really missed having Sandra’s opinion to help put things into perspective. Most of the time, he actually enjoyed the new experience of living alone, in a strange way. The independence, the solitude and the quiet were new experiences that he didn’t mind at all. This fact made him feel quite guilty, but after a life full of noise and activity, and his needs always being the last on the list, the new life that he was adapting to was presenting some surprising outcomes.

  The microwave pinged. Mr Pollard opened the door and began dishing out the lava hot meal onto his plate. He swore under his breath as he burnt the tip of his thumb on the film lid. With regards to Jenkins, he’d just have to wait and see if the lad would turn up with the essay in the morning.

  *****

  Darren finished his explanation at around about ten o’ clock, went into the bathroom for a pee and to fill his glass with water from the sink. He returned to his neat little bedroom, and got into bed on the top bunk. Although it was more of a letter than an essay, the young lad had got so much out of his system, he felt completely relaxed for the first time in his entire life.

  Darren had always found it hard to sleep, bedtime was a difficult time for him, it always had been, for as long as he could remember. Pointless, endless thoughts would run around his mind for hours. Thoughts like; “If you were walking on ice in the Arctic and it broke and you fell in the icy waters below, would you be able to get out, and if you did, how would you get dry, and if you did get dry, would you freeze to death because you didn’t have dry clothes? And if you did have dry clothes, how come they hadn’t fallen through the ice anyway? You wouldn’t have had time to pull your back-pack off and throw it clear. Do Penguins have knees.”

  Tonight though, the thoughts that Darren had shared in his essay had completely cleared his mind. He put his head on his Manchester United pillowcase and fell into a deep, calm sleep.

  *****

  The following morning, Darren found himself walking very quickly to school, occasionally breaking into a jog. He had whizzed through his paper-round, arrived home, changed into his uniform and had left the house before 8 o’ clock. He was in school for quarter past eight, he’d never seen the school so deserted and quiet, not even after a detention. The desire to give his essay to Mr Pollard was overwhelming him, he literally could not wait to hand it over and share his words. It quickly transpired that he was being a little bit too enthusiastic though. When Darren arrived at school, there was no sign of Mr Pollard. He wasn’t in his office and he hadn’t arrived at the staff room yet either.

  Darren went up to the school office. After hearing the details of why he was on school premises so early, Mrs Horsfield, the kind-faced school secretary explained that Mr Pollard didn’t usually arrive until eight thirty. Darren was crushed, he really wanted the essay to be read, right now. He walked back through the school and stood at his usual spot, outside Well’ards office, and decided to give his essay a quick read through to pass the time.

  Dear Mr Pollard,

  As you requested earlier today, I am going to write down a two-thousand word explanation about my misbehaviour, and mainly about why I don’t want to say beans-on-toast in assembly. Sir, I know what you mean when you say that you can’t understand why I come out with stuff in class when I’m not supposed to, but now you say that I can do it in assembly, I don’t want to do it. I am glad to have this chance to try and get my side across about it and I hope you think that it makes some sense anyway. Here goes.

  Today, everyone was laughing at me shouting out in Mr Briggs class and yesterday I was in your office for the same thing in Mrs Dawson’s class and the day before for shouting out in Mr McGuire’s lesson. Sir, every time you ask me why I do this stuff I just say I don’t know. You always go mad at me and you say that I must know. But the truth is, I do know, or at least I think I know why. I want to try and explain it to you, as it is the worst thing in my life. I have hardly no friends because of it, the teachers all hate me because of it, my dad thinks I’m special needs and you Sir, who has always been really good to me, you are also getting sick of me now.

  When I think about what you said to me today, you are right, it doesn’t make sense that I don’t want the whole school’s attention on me. The truth is Sir, I would happily live the rest of my life without anyone ever looking at me again. I hate this part of me that shouts out stupid things like beans-on-toast or Sunday-roast, or summer-on-the-coast, or whatever stupid crap it is.

  I hate that when the room goes quiet, I have this urge inside me to fill the quiet. I feel uncomfortable when it goes quiet, nervous I suppose, so I just do stuff so everyone laughs, or I get sent out. When it goes quiet, it’s like
I feel that it’s my job to do something. I don’t care about the quiet when I’m on my own or stood out in the corridor but when I’m in a big group, I can’t help it. It just happens. My dad does it as well. My aunty Julie does everyone’s head in because she doesn’t stop talking, not ever, and my dad says it’s because she can’t handle silence. Whatever it is that makes her like that, I think I’ve got it Sir! But I just want you to know that even though I know I do it, I do try to stop myself all the time, it’s just by the time I realise I’m doing it, it’s too late. I really do try but I can’t do it. Most of the time, when I shout out, or say something cocky or cheeky or make fun out of someone, it’s like I don’t even know I’m doing it. It’s only afterwards when I’m sent out or in your office that I’m trying to work out what I’ve done or why I’ve done it. Because I’m so confused about everything that’s just gone on, I normally deny it anyway, which just gets me in even more trouble.

  Sir, my nickname is Daz the spaz because of my behaviour. It’s not funny to everyone else, I know they laugh, but its laughing at what a fool I am, how far I’m taking it. I know they’re not laughing because the joke is funny. If I could stop acting like this, I would do, I know that for a fact. On Monday in Mr McGuire’s class, I’d only just come out from your office and within five minutes of being in the class I was swearing under my breath and squeaking my chair on the floor. I was like, what am I doing? I was thinking about what you’d said and that I had already been in your office twice. I had to try really hard to stop doing it. It takes proper hard effort to stop myself, and I can keep it up for a few minutes before I find myself doing something wrong again like throwing a pen at someone. Then I get told off and start arguing back at the teacher, pretending that I haven’t done anything. It’s like I’m not in control of myself.

  Seriously Sir, even though it’s embarrassing, I’m finding it dead easy to talk about it by writing this, but there’s something definitely wrong with me, I swear to God, I’m not just trying to get on people’s nerves, I can’t help it.

  When I try really hard to keep still and quiet, my mind just goes blank, and I just sort of drift off. I’m trying to listen to the teacher and write down all the stuff but I just sort of go into a dream world, like when the telly has all that snow thing on it when the aerial comes out and my eyes start watering and I’m yawning like mad, all the words the teachers are saying just sound like they’re under-water or something. It looks like I’m crying because my eyes water so much when I’m concentrating on sitting quiet and doing the work.

  This will seem weird, well, it is weird, but it’s not just at school I have this. It happens when I go to the pictures, I’ll be looking forward to going to see the film for days but when I’m in the cinema, and the film’s on, I start going to the toilet or kicking the chair in front of me. Afterwards, I get home and I think about how I’ve missed half of the film. It’s exactly the same as when I’m at school, except there’s no teachers telling me off. It’s weird, Sir.

  The thing is, I’ve been really worried about this for years but I have never felt like I can tell anyone. Hopefully, you won’t think I’m being cheeky Sir, but I can’t do school. It’s not just school though, its life. When I’m with a group of people I have this urge to do stuff that always ends up with me getting in bother. I was with a load of lads a few weeks ago and we were all just walking down towards the train station and for some reason that I still don’t understand, I just walked over someone’s car. Everyone else was walking on the pavement and I just jumped up and walked over it, then everyone laughed and was pointing at me, so I walked over the next one. I swear I don’t remember thinking oh I’ll jump on these cars and everyone will laugh at me and like me. When I stopped, one of the lads who was there called me a retard and punched me in the face, and everyone laughed again.

  There is no thought in this stuff at all, it’s not planned out you see. I hope this is making sense to you Sir, but I doubt it is really. The next thing that happened was the police came round to my house and said I was on CCTV and I got took down to the station, got a caution and obviously my dad went ape about it. I’ve lost my telly and playstation, got grounded, got a police caution on my record and everyone thinks I’m a freak. So, all I’m saying is, I don’t sit here trying to think of ways that I can really drop myself in it. It just happens. My dad is like ‘why do you jump up on a car?’ and I say I don’t know and that angers him even more because he thinks I’m just being cocky or something, then he batters me as well.

  It’s the same at school, at the youth club and everywhere. Half of the time someone is after me because of the way I carry on. I’m always being cocky and giving abuse to people. I’m always watching around corners and checking who is around whenever I go out. There are five people after me at the moment, so it’s just as well I’m grounded really. I have to watch my back going to and from school, but luckily it’s pretty safe at school. I wish more than anything that I didn’t have to live like this. I hate it. My life is nothing but hassle.

  The only time that I’m not doing all this stuff is when I’m on my own. I can go out all day on my own, travelling about on the buses and trains, going for walks and looking round places and I go all day without the slightest problem. If I’m sat on the bus and a load of other kids get on I just sit there looking out the window, I don’t try and get noticed or anything. I don’t even make eye contact, even if they’re trying to talk to me and ask me where I’m from. It’s weird because if they were kids from my school I’d be rubbing my bare bum on the windows or something. Everyone would be laughing and saying I’m a retard but I’d just laugh about it. But when I get home I sit by myself and start thinking why did I do that, what’s the point!!

  Sir in this essay you wanted me to explain why I don’t want to get up in assembly. Well, it would just be another thing for people to give me a hard time about, to talk about what a weirdo I am. You are right though, what is the difference? As I try my best to understand whatever it is that is wrong with me, I still can’t say why it is okay for me to say beans-on-toast all the way through class though. When I know why, I think I’ll probably know enough about it to make it stop.

  Even though I do try really hard, I can’t stop. So now Sir, I am saying to you that I want to leave school and just forget about my exams. I know I’m holding everyone back, I know I’m wasting your time, all the teachers and just causing a lot of stress for my parents. I feel really bad about what you said about Mr Briggs. It’s not my goal to get him sacked, like you say he is a nice teacher and I really like him. But even though you said that, that I might be the reason for him getting sacked, I still won’t be able to do anything about my behaviour. That sounds really cocky Sir, but it’s not. It just sums up the truth.

  I know for a fact that I won’t be able to stop myself from doing some absolutely stupid stuff in that class, all the time knowing that I might be making a teacher who I really like lose his job. I bet you think I’m being cocky writing all this stuff down, speaking my mind but it’s not cocky sir, this is just me being honest and truthful. If I could just sort myself out I would. But I know, after all the years of trying for all the reasons I’ve said, I can’t do it.

  The point of this essay was why don’t I want to stand in assembly shouting beans-on-toast? Well the answer is because I don’t ever want to come back to school again, I don’t want to be known as a dickhead and I don’t want the constant trouble that I’m in, just for being me. This is just who I am, I’m no good at school, I can’t do it, I can’t learn anything. I need to be the centre of attention but even when I am, I don’t really like it anyway. That’s what it all boils down to Sir. Some kids are good at football, some are good at maths and science. I’m just good at disrupting the class and making a tit of myself. Well it would save us all a lot of time and trouble if we just went our separate ways to be honest.

  I’ve still got about a hundred and fifty words to do sir, so what I would just like to say is that even though you
are always being really awful to me, I do like you. You’re the best teacher at Astley High and I have the most respect for you. I hope you can see what I’m saying here in this essay, and as I have already said, I truthfully hope that you can maybe see this from my side and let me leave.

  Thank you for giving me this opportunity to express myself. It’s been really helpful for me, and I hope it’s not been too boring for you.

  Darren Jenkins

  Darren was really happy with his letter. He noticed a few repetitions in it, but overall, after sleeping on it, and reading through it again, he was pleased with the document. He looked impatiently along the corridor, willing Well’ard to hurry up so he too could read it. Darren had never felt so excited about anything in his entire life. But as he stared along the familiar school corridor, his excitement was turning into frustration that the teacher wasn’t appearing. He decided to start reading through again.

  He’d only got through the first few paragraphs when he heard Well’ard’s heavy shoes approaching on the shiny tiled floor.

  “Bloody hell! Have you wet the bed Jenkins?!” boomed Mr Pollard as he got nearer, his unmistakable smile lit up the corridor.

  “No Sir. I’ve done your essay, Sir.” Jenkins was holding it out at arms-length, looking extremely pleased with himself. Mr Pollard rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

  “Let me get in the office first, you little twerp! Here, grab this bag.”

  Mr Pollard unloaded his heavy bag of coursework onto the pupil and fumbled around for his keys. Eventually, he unlocked the office door and entered. The door made its familiar, loud squeak. Jenkins followed excitedly and placed the books down on a desk.

  “Sir, if there are bits of it that you think are cocky, it’s not sir – I’m not trying to…”