The Art Teacher

by Paul Read

  ‘For Jenna, yes. I think so.’

  ‘Diplomatic.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Nothing. I don’t know. You really do look very beautiful.’

  Looking past him and scowling seemed to be her way of forcing herself not to blush. It didn’t work.

  ‘I mean it, you…’

  ‘Alright. You told me.’ The redder she blushed, the angrier she seemed to become. ‘I better…’ She indicated her seat.

  ‘Okay. Thank you for coming. See you later?’

  ‘Good luck tonight.’

  Sarah strolled back up the aisle to sit next to Jenna, the adolescent shock absorber between parents. Patrick looked worriedly round the hall, knowing full well what cynicisms the recent paedophile taunts carried as their by-line.

  Who had written that on his door on Friday? Had they been responsible for the vandalism and those accusations all along?

  Two reporters shuffled past, nodded at Patrick’s name badge.

  By now the venue was almost full and many journos, presumably those who’d been seated since the advertised five thirty start (it was now quarter to six), showed signs of professional boredom on top of their glazed, overworked fatigue. The one injured by PC Thomas was sitting at the front, bandage like a miniature swing under his swollen snout, two seats to the left of a stony-faced Mr Hutchinson.

  Finally, Ana slipped in, with Danny asleep in a pushchair. She braked his throne and perched herself in the back row. Suddenly, this felt very, very, real.

  Meadows approached the lectern, lights casting dramatic shadows across his solemn face. Uniformed policemen lined the walls, watched his preliminary shuffling of blank papers.

  ‘Good afternoon. Thank you all for coming…,’ he began, and his audience bowed heads in note-taking contrition.

  He gave out Denis’s details, the location of the found body, dates, timelines, last sightings, and spoke with an easy beam, a surety, only once referring to his notes. He declared, ‘possible witnesses are being interviewed.’

  Patrick’s speech fluttered in his hand.

  Denis’s mother was politely invited to the front and cameras fired off flashes as a monastic hush fell over the hall.

  Meadows flanked her as she eulogised her offspring. It was the usual stuff: a caring boy, a loving son, taken too early. Most of her speech centred on finding the ‘criminal’, a word she pronounced as though it were a more vulgar term, and despite using the word ‘justice’, as opposed to revenge, everyone knew what she meant. The police investigation – which Meadows’ team, at least at this point, didn’t know how to advance; otherwise, Patrick rationalised, none of this would be necessary – was a sidebar to her disgust of humanity itself. Seeing her there, drenched in hellfire, there was a lot of Denis about her.

  Towards the end, she deviated from the script and flapped a heavy arm towards ‘Mr Owers’ and thanked him for his ‘dedication’ before stuttering to the finish line, whereby she broke down in a fanfare of snot and animal noises and was gently steered off-stage by Mary Haynes of Murder Investigation, who’d rushed in like a boxer’s trainer at the bell.

  Meadows introduced Patrick.

  Tomblike silence. The Art teacher walked into exploding flashbulbs, flattened a speech written by some budding Met bard out on the lectern and tried to focus on its nonsensical hieroglyphs. His heart punched in his throat and his ears whined. In the fourth row, Sarah’s encouraging but nervous smile. In the last, his wife stared with mute suspicion at the back of Sarah’s head.

  ‘It’s estimated there are one hundred and seventy gangs with five thousand members in London alone,’ he read, ‘children who assemble in expensive trainers, low-slung jeans and hoodies as dusk falls. They’ve replaced the names their parents gave them in favour of new identities, forging an alternative family. Their lifestyle breeds contempt for anyone not involved in the gang world: politicians, parents, teachers. Some join out of boredom and many have no qualifications so have to make money their own way. An honour code binds these young people to crime, to violence…’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘…And even to murder.’

  As Meadows had explained to him, his presence was designed purely to capitalise on the media interest surrounding the case, not call upon the public at large to throw away their weapons. Yet the speech he’d been prepared was nothing short of tub-thumping. As he read, his teacher training kicked him into the moment and it sounded, even to his wounded ears, an inflected, impassioned plea.

  ‘But not all our children are potential loaded guns. World-weariness doesn’t lead inevitably to moral corruption. This is a senseless waste of a young life and we call upon anyone, if they should know anything, to come forward. All information will be treated in strictest confidence. We need to bring union to Union City. Thank you.’

  As he prepared to walk off, a reporter threw a question.

  ‘Mr Owen? A certain newspaper has suggested sending any teenager found carrying a weapon straight into the army. What are your opinions on this?’

  ‘I really don’t…’ He looked to the back row for help but his wife could only offer an anxious smile.

  The broken-nosed journalist seized his chance. ‘And what about teachers, Mr Owen? Aren’t they in some way accountable for failing to instil a moral code in young people?’

  Patrick wasn’t supposed to be taking part in any Q and A; that was Meadows’ responsibility. But the Inspector still stood to one side, whispering with his colleagues.

  Patrick coughed into the microphone and a squeal of feedback rang throughout the hall.

  The broken-nosed journalist persevered. ‘Three-quarters of all young, violent crime suspects are freed on bail while awaiting Crown Court trials, sending out the message that they can get away with anything. Youth crime was up a third last year. The government has failed. I repeat, what are schools doing to instil morals in our young?’

  Mr Hutchinson flashed a concerned look at his Art teacher, dabbed a handkerchief to his soaking forehead.

  ‘Look… I hardly think it’s the fault of the schools,’ Patrick explained. ‘You quote a good statistic, but if anyone’s to blame it’s you lot. A kid gets stabbed on the street and it’s front page news the next day. Instant glorification. ’

  There was murmuring from the audience. Whether it was of an approving or disapproving nature he couldn’t tell.

  ‘Most of the time you bang on about “our responsibilities”, how “we” oughtn’t fail low-achieving children but…’ He didn’t know where he was going with this. Half the audience were looking at him with wide-eyed approval, as though he could steer them towards the cures to society’s ills, and the other half, the half with Teeline shorthand in their blood, sharpened pencils. ‘I mean…’ How had Meadows put it? ‘Have you noticed how innocent the dead become…?’

  In the grim silence which followed, the hall’s main doors opened.

  It took Patrick very little time before he recognised the boy from the footage on Matthew’s phone. He was dressed exactly the same. Gold trainers. Grey tracksuit trousers. Black top. White cap. Patrick felt his blood curdle in his veins: when he’d retrieved the gun from the murder site, this was what he’d been dressed like. The boy’s presence, the way he looked idly for support over the heads of the audience, as though his very appearance were against his will, freaked Patrick out. Why had this unknown youth bought himself an identical set of clothes to the ones he’d been stripped of in the video? The clothes Patrick had burned in the kiln upstairs. What the hell was he doing in Highfields’ school hall?

  As one, the audience turned to look at the intruder. Except for Meadows, who glared with violating intensity straight at Patrick.

  The boy was approached by a teacher and, after a brief conversation, walked his gold trainers out the way they’d come. Meadows stared Patrick’s way a little longer, then walked up to the lectern.

  The Art teacher tried to concentrate on what the Inspector was saying, but felt himself pulled int
o a bottomless underworld of fear.

  Meadows knew. He knew.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming…’

  A creak, stage left. A rattle of quick feet.

  There came a whistling noise, the waspish sound of rope whipping through a pulley, followed by a loud crack as the ceiling fell and flapped about a metre behind Patrick and Meadows. The gasps from the audience couldn’t mask the drumroll of running feet behind the stage, nor the creaking of the projection screen swaying backwards and forwards after its violent deployment.

  Meadows turned, whistled at the large image affixed to the screen.

  The image of Patrick, stony-faced and official against the school photographer’s off-white background, must’ve been taken from the school website. Someone had crudely photoshopped his eyes red and pasted two hands at the bottom of the picture, dripping with blood. Another vampiric trickle emanated from the corner of his mouth. Scrawled in scarlet across the top of the screen was one word.

  Molester.

  Mr Hutchinson was out of his chair, nervous laughter resounding through the hall, as fast hands attempted to tear the picture down and hoist the screen back into the rafters. But not before half the room stood to take a photo on their cameras and, as if in some awful re-imagining of Spartacus, the other half rose to record the incident on mobile phones. A handful of teachers searched backstage to no avail and, in the fourth row, Sarah’s family scurried from their seats.

  Through the bodies, he saw Ana reach into the pushchair and pull out Danny, who’d been rudely woken by the commotion just in time to see the photo of his daddy with blood on his hands and lips be torn to shreds by baying strangers. Even over the sound of the congregated governors, parents and journalists, Patrick could make out the pitiful wail of his terrified, confused son.

  Meadows assuaged the remaining crowd with talk of gremlins in the machine but in the presence of youth’s mutiny the press conference was inconsequential and insincere.

  Slapping a counterfeit smile across his face, Patrick bolted from the hall.

  FIVE

  He found mother and daughter arguing in the playground, Jenna’s father between them, attempting to coo the women into acquiescence. Several parent clusters braved shrill winds to view the showdown, to gossip about the fact or fiction which had unfurled above the hall stage.

  Jenna’s friend Marie stood nearby, smug and cold in plastic trousers and ten centimetre rubber heels. She dragged Jenna away when she saw Patrick approach. ‘That was epic,’ she muttered, as the two girls scurried off.

  Patrick stood a short distance from Sarah, the ex-husband rising himself by a fraction but holding his ground, a leashed Doberman awaiting its command.

  It was Sarah who spoke first. ‘So…’ she whistled. ‘That went well…’

  Patrick squinted to make her out. All the classrooms had been doused and the playground itself had no form of illumination. ‘What were you and Jenna arguing about?’

  He was aware of whispering behind him, a sparking of cigarettes.

  ‘Patrick, you were just publicly accused of…’ She lowered her voice. ‘Maybe it’s not worth it. I think people might be confused by your motives…’

  ‘Motives?’

  ‘My daughter’s certainly not happy you’ve done this.’

  ‘She wouldn’t be.’ It occurred to him that, in the aftermath of the conference, he should perhaps be more careful about what his tongue gave away. ‘I mean, Denis attacked her. I haven’t forgotten that. I know he wasn’t an angel but I didn’t write what I just read out. I’m not some colossal attention-seeker; I was essentially blackmailed into doing this.’

  ‘Well, maybe now… Stop.’ She stood closer, her tone so serious it scared him. ‘Patrick, people might not understand why you’re martyring yourself. They realise you care about the children you teach but… The killer always cries in front of the camera, doesn’t he?’

  Patrick felt a nasty, coppery sensation in his mouth, as though he’d bitten into an ulcer. She was right. He was firmly in the line of fire now.

  Jenna’s father sensed his opportunity to interrupt.

  ‘Alright,’ he said, stepping up to Patrick too, staring him down. ‘I think this conversation has gone on long enough. Go home.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘My daughter’s upset. Seriously, piss off now, pal.’

  The gruff pitch of voice was clear; the meathead was actually picking a fight with the one person specifically chosen by the Metropolitan Police to sell the press conference.

  Patrick felt sufficiently emboldened to say, ‘Or what?’

  He’d been in few fights in his life – three in fact; two drunken and one very messy incident with his former lead singer – but he knew the element of surprise was the only way he was ever likely to come out on top against a man of Mike’s build, and that element of surprise had been efficiently removed by his aggressor’s unashamed grandstanding. The only option, surprise-wise, left to Patrick appeared to be to punch him first, before all the boring, macho preamble could be curtailed by sensible, female intervention. As he swung his fist, the disconcerting realisation that he’d lost his three previous fights hit him in return.

  There came a joyful gasp from the crowd as his knuckles clipped Mike’s chin.

  The next moment, Patrick was on the playground tarmac and pain scorched his brain to a ragtime beat of steel drums. A crowd was gathering above him, dark silhouettes against a waning moon.

  He heard an altercation between Sarah and Mike, gazed groggily upwards to see her grab him by the jacket and swing him away into the night.

  Sarah bent down, helped him into a sitting position. ‘Amateur welterweight boxing champion two years running. He got you with the classic counter punch. Does it hurt?’

  ‘Yep.’

  He let himself be helped to his feet and the onlookers stepped back. With one thing and another, he’d surely provided them enough entertainment tonight, but still they hung about for more.

  Sarah reached out and prodded his cheekbone. Patrick winced.

  ‘Nothing broken. He wasn’t trying to kill you.’

  ‘Charming.’

  Ana stepped forward out of the crowd. ‘See,’ she cooed to Danny, pointing at Patrick, ‘Daddy’s alright. There he is, with a strange lady touching his face.’

  Danny jumped from her and shyly lolled over to his father, reached his arms up so he could be lifted off the playground.

  ‘I didn’t know your mother would be here,’ Sarah said mock-politely, indicating Ana.

  The two women eyeballed one another with a strangely pleasant curiosity.

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us, Patrick?’ Ana asked.

  A door exploded and Mr Hutchinson barrelled out of reception. ‘Mr Owen,’ he boomed. ‘A word, if you don’t mind.’

  Union City had its own heartbeat, an anomalous quickstep of slammed doors and distant yodels. A resonance. The world heard through the stomach of an expectant mother.

  Mr Hutchinson and PC Thomas had grilled Patrick, with predictable banality, about who might have a grudge against him for an interminable time and, Sarah and Ana gone their own ways, he was now so tired he could barely walk straight. His right eye was a shameful coin of purple bruise and, though this was a corner of the estate he’d traversed a hundred times, Patrick had never felt such an outsider before. Every flickering streetlight or drip of water was a merciless assault on his senses and, as the heartbeat around him quickened, he stopped to inspect his surroundings. Windows were steamed by cooking pots and poor ventilation, bricks inscribed with initials of lovers or victims. Grand boasts amid the sameness.

  His phone buzzed a text message. It was from Ana.

  I DON’T TRUST HER

  A shifting shadow awaited him underneath a fire exit, jade light across young features.

  ‘How you doing, Mr Owen?’

  The amplified voice was older than its face would suggest, a surly bass which echoed off his mildewed a
lcove. The boy was affecting a degree of power and, with the estate on all sides, achieved it.

  Matthew had good reason to be confident. The police would almost definitely have interviewed him, over his brother’s whereabouts if for nothing else, but gang members were easily backed up by the alibis of peers and his anonymity as a suspect was guaranteed. He was too young and too alive to make the news.

  Patrick uttered the boy’s name as though it repulsed him.

  Matthew stepped forward, raised his nose and circled shoulders in defiance. One hand held a spliff and the other was bandaged waist-height by its cage of dull metal. The mix of the boy and the adult made him a curiously sinister specimen.

  ‘Run into some beef back there, did you sir?’

  ‘You need to learn to mind your own business.’ Patrick walked on past the boy.

  He wasn’t Denis, that much was clear. Patrick could see through his ganglord pretensions. He’d met hundreds of teenagers in his time and knew genuine trouble when it accosted him. Matthew had never carried himself the way Denis did. It wasn’t as easy for him.

  ‘Maybe you do too, sir.’

  Patrick stopped, turned around.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Matthew inspected Patrick carefully. ‘We don’t like you talking on behalf of D-Man. Interfering.’

  ‘I don’t believe this. I was forced into that press conference…’

  ‘Back off, sir. Leave us alone.’

  What did it matter to Matthew what Patrick had or hadn’t said about Denis? Did the boy see himself as a new general, stepping into Denis’s shiny Nikes? Perhaps the media’s inevitable immortalisation of D-Man had made the gang-leader position, if that’s what Denis had held, more lustrous. Or maybe Matthew was in a rival gang and was worried a state-paid educator lauding his enemy’s ‘innocence in death’ would detract credibility from his own crew, tar it with his very adulthood. Either way, Denis was an overnight martyr, with or without approval from Art teachers, and Matthew, wherever he sat in whichever gang’s hierarchy, was probably sore about that.