Proof of Life

by Steven Suttie

  “Shut up a minute Jenkins. I’m not ready for you at this hour. Just leave it there on my desk and I’ll have a look at it later.”

  Jenkins looked absolutely crushed. “Sir, are you not reading it now?”

  “No. Don’t be daft, I’ve only just walked in. I’ve got loads of things I need to do before I can look at that. Just leave it there.” Mr Pollard bent down, reaching under his desk and turned his PC on. He looked at Jenkins. The boy was devastated.

  “But sir,” he pleaded.

  Well’ard laughed mockingly. “For heaven’s sake Darren – will you just put it on my desk and piss off out of it!”

  After a brief pause, Jenkins placed the letter on the desk, and walked slowly out of the office. He had tears streaming down his face. Mr Pollard was oblivious as he unpacked the coursework and arranged the pile neatly. A few seconds after the door closed behind Jenkins, Mr Pollard heard the forbidden sound of running along the corridor, then a loud bang as a door slammed against a wall, followed by the unmistakable sound of shattering glass, reverberating along the echoey corridor.

  “What the bloody…” said Mr Pollard as he rushed over to his office door to see what was going on. There was nobody around, but the corridor floor was covered in broken-glass.

  ***** Before he knew what was happening, Darren was walking along the canal, headed out of town. Quite what he was doing here, or where he was headed was unclear. Nothing really made much sense to him. He just felt that he needed to get away and spend some time alone.

  Darren hadn’t meant to break the door at school. Like so many things that plagued his young, but eventful life, it had just happened. He had just thrown it open a bit too hard as he ran away from Well’ard. But he knew that nobody would believe that. This would just go down as another “incident” and yet another black mark against him. He was on his last, last chance. He would probably get excluded now.

  “Fuck ‘em.” He shouted, as he kicked a stone which danced along the canal towpath, before finally plopping into the cut.

  As the thoughts of the trouble he faced ran around his mind, Darren felt an overwhelming burden of bad luck. It never made sense to him why things would just escalate so quickly, why there was always a black cloud of trouble hanging over him.

  Darren had no firm idea of where he was going, or what he was doing. The thought of going back home and facing his dad, and Well’ard, and all the dickhead kids who made his life a constant misery filled him with loathing. He’d really felt that his letter to Well’ard was going to be the start of a new chapter.

  Never before had Darren felt so happy, or relaxed, and even feeling positive about the future. He always felt that he was stuck on a never-ending hamster-wheel of problems, bollockings and restarts. That letter had made him feel like the cycle was finally over. And, Well’ard couldn’t even be arsed to read it, something that was so personal, and that had taken him nearly six hours to write.

  As Darren saw it, he was just the unluckiest kid in Britain. He dwelled on his situation as he walked along the side of the derelict mills and factories. Most of the broken windows along here were his, but he wasn’t interested in throwing any stones today. He wasn’t wallowing in self-pity or feeling sorry for himself. He was just recounting how badly his luck seemed to run.

  As he approached the town centre, Darren was unsure of the next move. He didn’t particularly want to walk around Stalybridge town centre because he knew it wouldn’t be long until a police officer or truancy officer pulled him up and asked him why he wasn’t at school. He knew that the security guard at Tesco phoned school if he saw anybody in Astley High uniform, so he’d have to stay away from there. Knowing his own luck, Darren imagined that a police officer and a truancy officer would come walking along this canal towards him at any moment.

  He stayed on the canal, under the bridge, just leaning over the barrier and staring into the water. After a short while, the fuzziness of everything that had happened began to pass. Darren started to regret the decision to run out of school. But it was done now, and he couldn’t face the thought of going back into school. He decided that he would just have to stay-put for now, and hope that no more trouble would be headed his way for the time being. His thoughts began to turn to his dad. He was bound to know about him bunking off by now. Although he was beginning to feel calmer and more settled, the problem hadn’t gone away. Darren resigned himself to the fact that he would just have to deal with that when he got back home, probably with a good kicking as well.

  As Darren sat and contemplated the situation, and worked on explanations to try and give himself the easiest way out of this latest mess, he realised that the only answer was to run away. Just fuck off and get away from everything. Within seconds of this thought popping into his mind, Darren Jenkins felt an electrical buzz running through his body. His hands and feet were tingling and his tummy was doing somersaults as his heart-rate quickened. Darren started walking at quite a pace, back in the direction he’d come from.

  *****

  After the school assembly, once it had become clear that Jenkins was nowhere within the school community, Mr Pollard went to see the Headmistress to explain the situation, and ask what steps should be taken next. The child’s welfare is entrusted to the school once a pupil enters the building. Now that Jenkins had effectively absconded, there were certain procedures that needed to be adhered to. As this had not happened for a couple of years, Mr Pollard was uncertain what the latest procedure was, or what the next course of action should be.

  “STOP RUNNING! ARE YOU A MAD PERSON?”

  Mr Pollard shouted at the top of his voice to a year nine who had obviously forgotten himself in an attempt to get where he was going a little bit quicker. Pollard instantly switched into Well’ard mode and stopped the boy from continuing by stretching his arm out, blocking his way.

  “Sorry, Sir.” Said the petrified kid, looking as though he was about to burst into tears.

  “If you run, that means everybody else can run. And that means we will all be trampled on, our limbs crushed to dust. Is that what you want?”

  “No, Sir.” The little lad looked sad, and scared.

  “If we allowed everybody to run we could all be poisoned to death by the fast-flowing fumes of Lynx Africa. Do you have a death-wish?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Good. Now go on, be on your way. If I see you running again I will personally throw you in the pig-swill bins out back!”

  “Sir!”

  Mr Pollard continued on his way, following behind the boy as he walked ridiculously quickly.

  Eventually, Mr Pollard reached the Head’s office. The Headmistress, Mrs Houghton was twenty years younger than Mr Pollard and had been at the school for less than a quarter of the time. There was a certain amount of animosity between the two – but both managed to get along professionally and kept their personal views to one side. Mr Pollard thought that Mrs Houghton was a good role model for the pupils and above all else, that was his number one interest. But he didn’t particularly like her, in his view, she was more of a politician than a teacher. In short, Mr Pollard thought that Mrs Houghton was full of shit.

  “So, he’s done a runner?” asked the Head.

  “I’m pretty certain of it, I’ve done the rounds and he’s not in any of the usual hot spots. A couple of his form group saw him running out of the school gates as they were heading in to school.”

  “What time was this?” asked Mrs Houghton.

  “I’d just arrived at school, about half eight. He wanted me to read an essay that I’d set him. I told him that I’d look at it in a bit, but he just went off on one.” Mr Pollard placed the folded-up writing paper on his superior’s desk.

  “Have you managed to read it yet?”

  The loaded question irritated the teacher. “No, I’ve been looking for him!” Pollard raised his voice slightly, unintentionally.

  The Headmistress looked disinterested. She picked up the paper and began reading. The gesture un
dermined Mr Pollard slightly, who was sitting redundantly across the desk. Mrs Houghton sighed a few times as she read and Pollard tried to guess what each sigh implied, whether it was a noise of frustration at the boy, or a noise or irritation directed at Mr Pollard’s handling of the situation. Several minutes passed before Mrs Houghton looked up from the essay and made eye contact with the head of year.

  “Well, I can see why he’s upset. He’s poured his heart and soul into this.”

  “Yes, but the world does not revolve around Darren Jenkins. I told him I’d read it, but I’d not even taken my jacket off. What does it say?”

  “In a nutshell, he’s saying that he’s tried, but he can’t behave and that he wants to leave. It’s all very positive stuff, surprisingly mature – I’ll give him that.”

  “So, what do we do?”

  “Have you phoned his father?”

  “Yes, no answer.”

  “What is your timetable this morning?”

  “I’ve got year 9 for maths in second period.”

  “Okay, well I would suggest that you go to his home and see if he’s there. Have a quick drive near the usual hangouts as well. Try and get him to come back and we can all have a good chat about the future. Frankly, I’m at a lost cause with the boy and I want him out.”

  “We can’t just kick him out. Those days are gone. We have a duty to manage his behaviour, the units are all full. There’s nowhere for him.”

  “I know that. But I can’t throw any more resources at a kid who is set on messing about. He’ll fail his GCSEs anyway and he’ll drag half of his class down with him. Most concerningly, his failure grades will pull the school’s over-all results down. We can’t have it, the stakes are too high.”

  Mrs Houghton was using this situation as a way of asserting her own authority over Mr Pollard. The comment seemed to do the trick and Pollard stayed silent.

  “Anyway, we have far more pressing matters with Jenkins at this point-in-time. Do you want to go now, try and track him down. If you find him, bring him straight to me.”

  Mr Pollard had a strained and difficult rapport with his superior. He really wasn’t keen on her, but none-the-less, he genuinely wanted to be liked by her. Her guard was always up around him. He had always assumed that she was cautious of him and it troubled him. Mr Pollard had enjoyed a good working relationship with all of the school’s staff, but Mrs Houghton was very aloof. She had her inner-circle of brown-nosing staff and they tended to be young, ambitious and unlikely to question any of her decisions.

  It was almost skilful how she had wrong-footed him. She had just engaged him in a conversation about Darren Jenkin’s future with the school, and then just as he’d attempted to make a case for Darren, she’d pulled the rug out and effectively suggested he had better things to be thinking about. It was this kind of daily awkwardness which drove the wedge between them.

  Mr Pollard had twice avoided going to the Christmas staff meal out of a genuine concern of being belittled or embarrassed by his boss.

  And, if he was being brutally honest, it was also because he’d been anxious that after a few glasses of Merlot he might tell her exactly what he thought of her.

  “Yes, of course. On my way.” He grabbed Jenkins’ letter off the head’s desk, before leaving.

  *****

  It was almost ten-thirty by the time Mr Pollard had pulled his car up outside Jenkin’s address. He looked at his watch and worked out that he had fifty minutes before he was due back in school to take his class. He wondered if that would be enough time to talk to Jenkins, calm him down, and get him back into school. He got out and closed the car door and looked up at the property. It looked reasonably well kept, there were no obviously outward signs of a dysfunctional household.

  Mr Pollard knocked at the door. A minute passed before a face appeared at the window, grinned and then disappeared again. A few seconds later the door opened slightly. The grinning face was wedged between the door and the frame.

  “Hello. Mr Jenkins?” said the visitor.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m Mr Pollard, from Astley High.”

  “Yeah, I know you are. Fuck me! You’ve not changed one bit!” Mike Jenkins had a look of cocky sarcasm across his face. Mr Pollard just looked puzzled.

  “Don’t remember me, do you? Shit, I can’t believe that!”

  “I’m sorry…”

  “Michael Jenkins. Used to teach me, God, twenty-odd years ago now!”

  It only took half a second. “Bloody hell, yes, I remember now.” Mr Pollard suddenly had flashbacks of this man as a boy, a hell-raising, gobshite, pain in the arsehole of clusterfuck proportions. “So, you’re Darren’s dad? I hadn’t realised…”

  “Yeah, course I’m his dad. What’s he done now?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Nah mate. In the middle of summat.”

  “Oh…”

  “So, what’s he done now, the little prick?” Mike took a cigarette packet out of his jeans pocket, took one out and lit it as he leant against the doorframe.

  “Well, he’s come to school this morning and then he ran off, we are trying to locate him and get him back into the school environment. I just wondered if he’d come back home?”

  “No, course he hasn’t. He knows I’ll kick fuck out of him if he does. Why’s he ran off?”

  “Well that’s the peculiar thing, we’re not sure and that’s why we want to find out where he is and get to the bottom of what’s wrong.”

  The boy’s father blew smoke out his mouth and stared aggressively at Mr Pollard.

  “Are you sure,” Mike pointed a finger at his old teacher’s chest, “that it’s not because you’re being a twat with him? Because you were a mean old twat with me, I hated your fucking guts when I was his age.” Mike suddenly had a wild look in his eyes, and Mr Pollard suddenly felt vulnerable, for the very first time in his adult life.

  “You were a right nasty old bastard with me!” continued Mike. “Always on my fucking case, giving me shit. You’re a fucking bully pal. And that’s why he’s run off.”

  “Well, no. Er…”

  “Don’t answer me back dickhead. I’m not a little fucking kid anymore. I’ll break your nose sunny Jim.” Mike was squaring up to his old school master. The adrenaline had started to build in Mr Pollard, he was determined to stand his ground, he could not allow Jenkins Senior to intimidate him.

  “Right, well, I think I’d better be going…”

  “You’re not going anywhere ‘til you tell me why my lad’s run off.”

  “Really Mr Jenkins, I must leave now.” Mr Pollard turned and began returning to his car.

  “Yeah, that’s it, shit-head, off you go. And if you see Darren, tell him I’m going to break his fucking legs when I get hold of him. Ta ta, knob-head.”

  Mr Pollard stopped dead. He wasn’t having this. Despite his better judgement, he turned back around and walked straight up to Jenkins Snr. He stood, with his face inches away from his aggressor’s.

  “You know what, you were the most horrible kid I ever taught, out of ten-thousand. Of course I remember you, I could never forget.”

  Jenkins looked down at the floor. His arse had gone.

  Mr Pollard turned again and the door was slammed shut behind him. He hurriedly got into his car, started the engine and pulled out of his parking space and began rattling and vibrating as his car drove down the cobbled street. Tears filled his eyes as he drove, it was the combination of anger, shock, adrenaline and sadness, all in one heavy, sudden dose.

  Mr Pollard pulled the car up again once he’d got around the corner at the bottom of the street. The tears began to fall freely and the teacher found himself sobbing like a baby. His mind was filled with thoughts and questions. How could he not have realised that Darren Jenkins was the product of the most impossible kid he’d ever taught? How had he got caught up in alpha-male bullshit with a grown man at his age? Where was Darren? Why hadn’t he just read the lad’s letter? All these ques
tions were rushing around his head. After a few moments, the tears began to subside and the confusion cleared.

  “God, I hated that little bastard!” He began to laugh, as it occurred to him that he would only cry some more if he didn’t. A big bubble of snot burst from the teachers nose and he laughed again, wiping away the tears on his sleeve. A few minutes passed, he had calmed down, took stock of the events and regained some sense of reality. Compared to his father, Jenkins junior was an angel. He decided to read his pupil’s letter and grabbed it out of his inside pocket where he’d stuffed it after leaving Mrs Houghton’s office half-an-hour earlier.

  Pretty soon, Mr Pollard was in tears again, as a fuller picture of the boy’s life became depressingly clear. Jenkins’ letter had made a real connection with him.

  But all that had to wait for now, Mr Pollard realised with a start that he needed to update Mrs Houghton. He had a maths class to teach in five minutes. He grabbed a packet of hankies out of the glove-box, wiped his face and blew his nose and tried to regain his composure before phoning the school and asking to speak to Mrs Houghton.

  As he waited for the call to connect, it occurred to Mr Pollard that it had been a good thing that he’d not read the letter until now. Coming face to face with Darren’s father had made the content read so much more profoundly. The young lad’s wise words had hit home and had certainly given the experienced teacher some food for thought. He was nervous as he waited for the head to answer the phone, although he suspected that she was just exercising her authority by leaving Mr Pollard waiting. “Come on!” he said, under his breath as the stupid music-loop played out. Finally, the call connected.

  “Mrs Houghton!” she said.

  “Hello, it’s Phil Pollard.”

  “Oh, yes. How did you get on?” Mrs Houghton didn’t sound particularly interested.

  “No sign. I went to his house, he wasn’t there. His dad is aware of the situation, although he was making some rather troubling comments. I’ve had a drive around the area he lives, and the town centre. He’s not hanging about town, that’s for sure.”