by Mike Bursell
“Why, what...?” he started, but then there were sounds of shouting and hooting from down the corridor. It sounded ugly.
“She's a police officer, remember?” I reminded him, and his face went grey as he looked down the corridor through the open door and saw what I could also see: half a dozen girls advancing on Ryan. I left him to join the dots for himself and headed carefully down the corridor towards the commotion.
I could see what was happening through the window in the door. They had found him, and were advancing towards him, forming a semicircle, diminutive female figures against a fairly big boy. He looked like he was going to stand up to them, and his face was defiant.
No, no, you moron, I thought. You need to calm them down, not wind them up. One of them, who looked like Danni, though I couldn't be sure, was advancing on him. Her hockey stick wasn't raised, but I could see her knuckles turning white as she gripped it tightly. Her body language was clear, and I was amazed that Ryan wasn't getting it: she was right on the edge, her shoulders tense, her head, wrapped in a jumper, thrust towards him. She needed just a little tap – anything, almost – to push her over from barely-held control to actual violence.
Just then, a couple of teachers came round the corner, and stopped up short. We could be all right, I thought, hopefully, and then I saw them look at the scene in front of them, saw two of the girls with hockey sticks turn at them and wave menacingly in their direction. They glanced at Ryan, who was clearly expecting them to come and defuse the situation, and then they turned away. If the staff aren't going to intervene, who is? I wondered.
At this, Ryan seemed to realise that he might actually be in some serious trouble, and he did what he obviously thought was going to get him back in control: he pointed at his black Young Enforcer armband. This is meant to convince them to stop? To calm them down? Haven't you realised that stupid armband gives you no respect, no authority? Danni – I was now sure it was Danni, from something about the way she held herself – threw her head back and I heard her laugh as I pushed the door open in front of me, desperate to do something to stop things getting worse than they already were.
She raised her hockey stick right-handed, and brought it scything diagonally down, aimed at his torso.
Ryan looked more shocked than afraid, and half parried it with his arm. He cried in shock and pain.
Another girl - Jenny? - stepped forward. She hooked his leg with her stick, pulling him over as Danni reversed what was no longer just a hockey stick, but a weapon, and one she was quite happy to use. She pushed him in the chest with the handle. He fell down, hard, on the floor, as a third girl got him in the ribs. I started towards them, aware of how nobody else was doing anything, everybody frozen in horror or, and though I hoped it wasn't this, just tacit approval.
The blows started falling.
I took another pace forward, steeling myself to try to find a way to stop them, even if it meant getting hurt as well.
Then I heard the door slam open behind me, but didn't have time to react before I was shouldered aside by somebody coming fast past me in a dark jacket. I staggered and just had time to gather my wits before realising it was Mum.
Chapter 12 – You called your mother
“No,” she said with authority: loudly but not shouting, striding straight into the group of girls, stopping them with the sheer force of her command. She grabbed a hockey stick in each hand and shoved them away, forcing the girls wielding them to step aside, and stood over Ryan, one leg either side of his prone body.
“This stops. It stops now.”
There was silence for a heartbeat. Two.
She looked around at the circle of girls. Their hockey sticks were still half-raised, and I realised that it could still go either way, even with an adult intervening. Mum had taken the time to put her uniform jacket on, I saw. She wasn't in full uniform – she was wearing trainers and jeans below – but she reached into her pocket and took out her warrant card. She flipped it open, and displayed it to the girls, turning her body to present it to them, one after another.
“This is over. I have stopped it. You will leave. Now.” She was calm. And scary. I was glad she hadn't spoken to me like this. Ever.
“I don't know who any of you are. You will walk away, and I will have no way of tracing you. Do you understand? You will stop this. Now. Walk away.”
She isn't giving them choices: she's telling them what they will do, using the force of her words to try to close off their options and move things in the direction she wants them to go. She's good, really good.
Ryan was at her feet, rolled into a ball, whimpering – he seemed to be in real pain. The leader – Danni, I was sure – looked at Mum, then down at him, and then threw her hockey stick down on the ground near his feet, rattling on the tarmac, in a gesture of disgust. With that, she turned, and strode away. One after another, the mob – for that was what they had become – followed her example and stalked away after her, around the corner and out of sight.
I let out a sigh of relief that I didn't know I'd been holding and saw Mum glance down at Ryan. She looked up and seemed to see me for the first time.
“You,” she said, pointing at me, but not even saying my name, “we need another ambulance. Make it happen.”
I didn't need telling twice, and turned round back into the school to find Mr Rudge already over with the initial ambulance crew, asking for more assistance.
I think they would have sent everyone home if they could have done, but the buses wouldn't have been ready, nor parents ready to pick up the younger children. Instead, they called everybody back into classes early, cutting the break short, Ms Martin clearly having given the teachers strict instructions to call spot tests and maintain silence in their classrooms. Mr Jeffreys, who was taking our class, looked somewhere between scared and apprehensive, and kept glancing nervously at the door. We all looked up at the sound of sirens – two of them – an ambulance and a police car, I guessed. A number of the girls who had been part of the initial group I had seen were in class with us, swapping glances with each other and alternating between looking elated and terrified. After maybe twenty minutes of our staring at Maths problems on the board, few of us actually tackling any of them, Mr Rudge poked his head around the door and called me out. There was a rustle of whispering, which Mr Jeffreys shushed. Mr Rudge took me to the library, past Ms Martin's office. Mum was there, talking animatedly to another police officer, but there was no sign of Joe, Ryan or the ambulance crews.
Ms Martin was in the library, waiting for me, standing tensely near the non-fiction section.
“Sit down,” she said tensely, and I did. She sat, as well.
I waited, unclear what I should be saying or what she wanted from me.
“You phoned your mother.”
It was a statement, not a question. I nodded in assent.
She was silent for a moment. “Thank you.”
I opened my mouth, ready to say something, and then realised that there was nothing I needed to say, or, in fact, that she needed me to say.
Her eyes were red, and I suddenly realised that she had been crying. Why? I wondered. For Joe? For herself? For Ryan?
“In a few minutes, I think you're going to be called into my office. There will be a police officer there.”
“And my mother?” I asked.
“I don't know.” She hesitated. “But I think that an Enforcer will be there, too.”
Again, I didn't have anything to say.
“I don't know for certain what they'll ask you. But I want you to think very carefully about one question. Because I'm pretty sure it'll come up,” she said.
“What?”
Again, she hesitated, and then looked me directly in the eye. “Can you identify the pupils who attacked Ryan Tunley?”
“I … I saw...,” I started. And then I stopped. I think I understand.
There was a knock, and Mum opened the door before Ms Martin had a chance to say anything further.
&nbs
p; “Lena,” she nodded to me. “Ms Martin.” Formal, this time, now we were back at the school. “Come with me, please, Lena.”
I got up, gave Ms Martin one last look, which I hoped was reassuring, and went with Mum. As we exited the library I saw a female Enforcer, blonde, short-haired, taller than Mum, and in uniform. She was shaking hands stiffly with the police officer I had seen in Ms Martin's office. They turned towards us as we approached, and the police officer motioned us into the office.
I followed them in, but the Enforcer stopped Mum in as she was entering. “I think we'll be fine without you, officer. Maybe,” she glanced down at Mum's trousers and shoes, and arched an eyebrow “you could go and change into regulation uniform before we go any further.”
The other police officer seemed about to defend Mum, but she stopped him. “It's all right, sir. I'll go and change, of course. I shouldn't be long.” Then, to me, “will you be OK with Superintendent Morton and Enforcer Officer …”
“Turnbull,” the Enforcer supplied.
“With Enforcer Officer Turnbull?” Mum looked at me piercingly.
“I'll be fine, thanks Mum.”
She put her hand on my shoulder, nodded to Turnbull, made a show of saluting the Superintendent whilst ignoring the Enforcer and left, closing the door behind her.
We all sat, Turnbull taking Ms Martin's chair, and making no attempt, I noticed, to equalise the power relationships in the room as Ms Martin had when I had been in the office last. I sat next to Morton, feeling rather self-conscious next to such a senior officer. “You don't mind if I conduct the questionin... interview, do you, Superintendent?” she asked.
The cheek of her! I thought, looking at her rank insignia. He must be at least two ranks senior to her! But I hadn't failed to notice the slip – intentional or otherwise – when she'd moved from saying “questioning” to “interview”. Rather different, those two things, I thought to myself. Why is she trying to intimidate me, if she's just trying to get to the truth? Or maybe it's just what they do: their usual style of interacting with people.
“Not at all,” he responded affably. “Do we want to make this formal? I'm happy to record this session if you want.” He reached into his pocket, and took out a small recorder.
She looked surprised, and somewhat affronted. I wondered whether she was used to being recorded when she was “interviewing” people. Only ever on her own terms, I guessed.
“Oh, I don't think that will be necessary,” she replied, waving the recorder away.
He put it back into his pocket, but not, I noticed, before tapping it once and causing a small green light to come on. He's recording anyway. The police don't trust the Enforcers any more than anybody else does.
“So,” Turnbull said, turning to me, “I believe that a thank you is in order.”
“I'm not sure why...” I started.
“It appears that without your … intervention … a Youth Enforcer might have been very severely injured. As it is, he has had to be taken to hospital and is likely, I believe, to have to spend some time recovering. If he's lucky, he's got away with only a couple of cracked ribs and a broken leg.”
“If he's lucky?” I echoed.
“Yes. It appears that your mother appeared in the nick of time. So we, as a service, thank you for your prompt thinking in calling the relevant authorities. If only more Youths were so responsible.”
“I … well, I just did what seemed the right thing.”
“Well done.” She looked down at the desk, ready to move on from the tiresome duty of thanking a youth, and onto something more interesting and important, from her point of view. “I do, however, have a couple of questions.”
Here we go. “Of course.”
“First, I must ask why you called your mother, rather than using the standard emergency number.”
That was easy. “It was the first thing that occurred to me. I knew that she was likely to be at home, and, so, well, I called her.” I paused. “If she hadn't answered, I would probably have called 999, but the nearest police station's a couple of miles away, so ...”
“So the response time might not have been adequate to halt the attack?” the Superintendent suggested.
Turnbull shot him a look, not liking the fact that he was wading into the conversation, and on my side, too.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Although I don't think I thought it through, really: I just did the first thing that occurred to me.”
“And very quick thinking it was, too,” Morton said.
Turnbull glared at him. “Quite,” she almost snapped.
She really isn't used to being interrupted, I thought. I glanced over to look at him. He was smiling innocently.
“That's all fine, then. You may go.”
“OK. Thanks. I'm glad Ryan should be all right,” I volunteered.
“Yes. Indeed, indeed.” She didn't really seem to care that much, despite the fact that as a Y.E., he was officially aligned with her.
The Superintendent and I were just getting up from our chairs when she spoke again. “There is one more thing.”
The oldest trick in the book, I thought. I bet she's watched way too many episodes of Columbo. “Of course,” I said, trying to sound surprised. “What is it?”
“I was wondering if you could just give me the names of the youths who attacked Youth Enforcer Tunley?”
I sat back down heavily in chair. I could feel the policeman's presence hovering behind me, but forced myself not to look up at him. I thought for a moment.
“I'm afraid that I can't,” I finally said, as neutrally as possible.
“Can't, or won't?” she demanded abruptly, leaning forward across the desk.
“I can't,” I repeated. “I don't know who they are.”
“But surely you saw them? You were one of the closest, by all accounts. Or one of the closest who has come forward.”
I didn't exactly come forward, I mentally corrected her, but decided to leave that thought unsaid. “They were all wearing jumpers round their faces.”
“Of course. Yes. At the time of the attack.”
“Yes. When they went for him. That's when I saw them,” I confirmed.
“But that's not quite true, is it?” she said, jumping on my words.
“What do you mean?” I said, defensively.
“You called your mother before the attack began, didn't you? So you must have seen the attackers beforehand.”
“Oh! Yes, I did. Yes,” I blurted.
“And so you must know who they are!” Turnbull announced, triumphantly. “And I need their names. All of them.”
“But I didn't see them,” I tried to explain.
“You just said that you did,” she said, accusingly.
“I know. But I didn't see their faces. I saw people – girls, all of them girls – coming out of the gym. With hockey sticks. They had their faces covered. They looked … determined. Their body language did. I called Mum, told her to come. Quickly.”
“And you don't know who they were? You never saw them with their faces uncovered?” she probed.
“Never.” True. Only just, but true. I saw a group girls going into the gym, I saw the same group of girls coming out of the gym, and a minute or two later, after I'd spoken to Mr Rudge, I saw a group of girls with sweaters around their heads. I saw Danni joining them. But I didn't see her put her sweater over her head, and I couldn't say that they were the same people. Not positively. Not conclusively. I suspect that telling Turnbull what I did see would be enough for her to arrest them and take them away, but I'm not going to say it. I'm not sending anybody to the Camps – not even people I don't like very much.