No Alarms

by Beckett, Bernard

  Sharon ran out of there, blocking her ears to any sound she might have left behind, the tears in her eyes competing with the sick feeling in her stomach. The further she ran the sicker she felt and the faster the tears flowed, like her body was trying to get rid of the whole stupid evening. She stopped at the empty section just before the railway track and puked her guts out, seeing the two toppings they hadn’t been able to choose between all mixed together, steaming there beside the line.

  Back down the end of Hardy St, Tom was having a car party. He was a mechanic at a haulage firm until a couple of years back when they went broke. These days he kept his hand in stripping old cars for spare parts. Round here there was no shortage of raw material. People would turn up with this ‘old wreck I come across’. ‘Yep,’ Tom’d say, rubbing the grey stubble on his dark chin, ‘needs stripping for sure I reckon. Not much good for anything else.’ And no one’d discuss any of the problems with cars that could just be found, with no ownership papers, no keys, and one time even someone’s shopping still locked up in the boot, because really they weren’t problems at all. The person who’d brought it in would be offered a few bucks, never anything much, and a few beers too, and being Hardy St the next thing there’d be a party happening on the front lawn, while Tom’d set about his work under the power of the diesel generator that had gone missing the day the haulage company closed.

  Normally Sharon would have thought about hanging round, just to catch up on the goss, and to be seen. It didn’t do to drop out of sight for too long on Hardy St. People noticed. Not tonight though. She could still taste the acid of thrown up food in her throat and she couldn’t trust the tears not to start again. She dropped her head into her shoulders and quickened her pace, so if anyone saw her they’d understand.

  ‘Hey Shaz!’ It was Tom. ‘Wanna beer?’

  ‘No thanks.’ But she had to stop and look up, and even across the street he noticed. He put down his wrench and ambled out onto the road. No one else seemed to pay him any attention. Just old Tom, looking out for that Sharon kid again. Nothing new there.

  ‘How are you girl?’ One arm draped around her and she felt his full weight as his feet shifted beneath him. ‘How’s my special girl?’

  Special because once, years ago when Sharon was too little to remember, there’d been a few of them round at Kaz’s place, and there’d been this little blow-up pool where Sharon had been left to cool off. Only then she’d tripped and gone face down and it was only Tom who noticed. Just in time too, so the story went. There was a trip in the ambulance and a night over at the hospital and a childhood of never being able to walk past Tom’s house without having to call in, to see the guy who’d saved her life. Only Kaz had explained it differently, later when Sharon was old enough to see the way one event could have so many different stories.

  ‘It’s you saved his life,’ she’d said. ‘Doesn’t matter how much he fucks things up, he’s always going to be able to look at you and see the one good thing he’s done.’ To Sharon that felt like a lot of pressure and it seemed to make it even more important to treat him properly, even times like this, when he’d drunk so much the liquid sloshing about inside was close to toppling him.

  ‘Hey, what’s with all these tears?’ He wasn’t so far gone he couldn’t notice. ‘Some fella is it? Being bad to you.’

  ‘Nah,’ Sharon said. ‘Just one of those days Tom. You know.’

  ‘Oh sure. I know.’

  Just another good reason to get out somehow. Fuck Simon.

  ‘Hey, you need my help any time girl, you just say the word eh?’

  ‘Sure. Um, I’d better be going now Tom. Thanks.’ She removed herself from under his arm carefully, as if it belonged to some monster she was afraid of awakening.

  ‘Later then. Take care.’

  ‘You too girl.’ And as she walked on down the street she knew he’d be watching her the whole way, and that thought was almost enough to make her smile. Almost enough to make her forget how life was always doing this, keeping all the good things out in front of her, just out of reach, so if she had any sense she’d learn not to look at them.

  • • •

  Thursday afternoons were never good. Maths straight after lunch, when Mr Jenkins was always at his most unreasonable. There was no way it was Sharon’s fault. She had no reason to be stuffing about. They were doing trigonometry and she wasn’t bad at trigonometry. In the fourth form when they put her in the withdrawal room for a week, she’d spent a whole day on trigonometry and now it was easy. So she knew she hadn’t been doing anything, just sitting there staring through the haze of hot air and deodorant spray, looking at the familiar shapes on the board. Opposite over Hypotenuse, stupid word, Sin, easy. It was Lisa’s fault really. It was Lisa who spoke.

  ‘What are you doing after school?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ Sharon replied, like you do, when you’re being polite. You shouldn’t be able to get into trouble for being polite. Another example of the way rules can collide, and just when Sharon wasn’t in the mood.

  ‘Sharon!’ Yelling straight off, not giving her any room to back down, or negotiate. And all Sharon could think of was the same thing she’d been thinking of all day. Justin, the lying bastard. Why would he do that?

  ‘Do you want to explain this?’ With big sarcastic emphasis on the you, like he thought she was the worst person in the world to be doing any explaining.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So why weren’t you listening?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Sharon, you were talking.’ He said it slowly, like he was fighting not to lose it. Over one little sentence, not even said that loud. The sort of sentence someone like Mark, right up the front next to the door like always, could get away with a hundred times in the same day.

  ‘I can already do this.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Shit, should never have said that.

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Well then, perhaps you’d like to do this one now, for everybody.’ And of course the one he put on the board was real hard, with decimals and everything turned upside down, just to be a prick.

  ‘Why do you always pick on me sir?’ Sharon said, letting some of her mood into her voice now. Why not? It was being polite that had caused the problem.

  ‘Can you do it or can’t you?’ he said.

  ‘Dunno,’ Sharon said. ‘I could do an easier one. You’ve made this one hard.’

  She could feel it turning now, the way it always did. People starting to laugh at her, for being so stupid. Teachers could always fall back on that, when they ran out of other ideas.

  ‘Just like they make exams hard Sharon,’ to really rub it in.

  ‘Fuck you!’ Sharon replied, because it was hot, because she was pissed off, because she was tired of being stupid, even when she tried not to.

  All the other conversations around the room, conversations Mr Jenkins had let continue, stopped.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘That’s a detention, in here, after school.’

  ‘Can’t.’ Sharon could feel the class moving with her. It changed everything.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Got an appointment.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Sexual Health Centre.’ He walked into it and when it hit him his faced turned crimson. Everybody laughed and it felt so good that it wasn’t her they were laughing at.

  ‘Mrs Flynn! Now!’ Because it was his only option. ‘Straight away. I’ll be checking!’

  Sharon walked out slowly, not feeling stupid at all. Feeling in control.

  • • •

  Mrs Flynn wasn’t in much of a mood either. Sharon saw that as soon as the Deputy Principal looked up at her over her glasses.

  ‘Sharon.’ Said with a short sharp breath as she straightened behind her desk. No smile, no ‘what is it this time?’ like Mr Jenkins’ little fits were a secret between them. Mrs Flynn’d cut Sharon a lot of slack in the past,
treating her like some special project she was working on. Not this time.

  ‘I didn’t ask you to sit!’

  Sharon backed away from the only other seat in the tiny office, and hovered, feeling uncomfortable. Just like she was meant to. She wondered how many little juniors had stood in the same spot, felt exactly like this. First time waggers maybe, or caught smoking second time they tried it. Sharon wasn’t some little junior though. She’d been wagging since primary and smoking as long. She didn’t deserve this sort of treatment. Sharon was the sort you invited to sit, so you could talk one adult to another, negotiate a reasonable way out. Except today. Today Mrs Flynn didn’t look in a negotiating mood.

  ‘What are you doing here Sharon?’

  Like she didn’t know.

  ‘I was sent here,’ Sharon said, back to being polite, in case it might work.

  ‘By who?’

  ‘Mr Jenkins. It was a misunderstanding, that’s all. I was just trying to…’

  ‘Sharon,’ Mrs Flynn held up her hand, like a cop at a check-point. Slow down now, if you know what’s good for you. ‘I have to tell you I’m in no mood for your stories. Do you understand that?’

  ‘S’pose,’ Sharon shrugged, although she was sure it meant something she wasn’t quite getting. She stood there, silent, while Mrs Flynn looked at her again, running her eyes up and down, like this was some sort of competition where you had to spot the defect.

  ‘Alright then,’ Mrs Flynn stood and turned to the grey filing cabinet jammed hard into one corner, blocking out part of the room’s one small window. No wonder Mrs Flynn’s moods got to her some days, Sharon thought, left to rot in a place like this. Mrs Flynn produced a white sheet of paper, some letter or other, more formal than Sharon liked the look of, and sat back down. ‘I think it’s time we put you on a contract.’

  ‘What?’ Sharon knew all about contracts. The last step before they kicked you out, or a way of kicking you out really. That’s what had happened to every one else who’d signed one, as far as Sharon could see. They made you sign promises you could never keep, that no human being could keep, promises to never get into any sort of trouble, which makes no sense when you’re the sort of person trouble comes looking for. Then when something went wrong, just one spell wagged or one little cigarette sucked on, and bang, you were out of there. No warning, they don’t even have to pull the indefinite suspension thing or call in the board. Only if you sign though. Sharon smiled at the sense of it.

  ‘I don’t see what you’ve got to smirk about!’ Mrs Flynn muttered, pushing the paper over the desk towards her. ‘Read this.’

  ‘No point,’ Sharon replied, not even looking down.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said there’s no point. I’m not going to sign that.’

  ‘And what makes you think you have any choice?’ Mrs Flynn asked, sitting herself up a little straighter, a little taller, like some animal under attack in a wildlife video.

  ‘You can’t make me sign anything,’ Sharon pointed out. ‘It’s not legal.’

  ‘So now we’re a lawyer all of a sudden are we?’ Mrs Flynn asked, but Sharon saw the skin going dark underneath her makeup.

  ‘I know what happens, if you sign that,’ Sharon said. ‘I know it’s a way of getting yourself kicked out.’

  ‘I would have thought that would be attractive to you Sharon.’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Nah,’ Mrs Flynn mimicked, copying her shrug as well, and Sharon saw the look in her eyes change. Not frustration any more, but proper pissed off, although she’d use a different word if you asked her.

  ‘Look Sharon, I’m tired of these games. You think you’re special don’t you, but problem is there’s nothing special about you at all. I wish there was, I really do. You’re one of a thousand I’ve seen come through here, I’m not exaggerating. Just this morning I’ve seen three juniors just like you were at their age.

  ‘They could have been you, probably were trying to be you. Well it doesn’t impress me. Do you understand that? It doesn’t impress me at all. It just makes me sad. I get to see you later on, well after you’ve left this place you’re so sure you hate right now. I see you pushing your prams down through the mall, coughing up all that rubbish your lungs have given up on, wishing the benefit went a little further, wishing the bruises didn’t show quite so much. And you look at me like it’s my fault. I will smile you know, I’ll say hello, but all you’ll do is scowl back. Mark my words, three years from now, I’ll be walking past and you’ll give me that look, like I’m somehow responsible for it all. Well…’

  ‘I won’t,’ Sharon interrupted, because she was sick of hearing it. Like she’d know anything, fifty-something and still stuck at school.

  ‘I beg you pardon?’

  ‘I won’t do that, because you won’t see me. Because I’m getting out of here.’

  Sharon wanted it to sound harder than that but it came out wrong, more like Zinny when he made things up. And Mrs Flynn laughed, out loud, not even pretending to take it seriously.

  ‘And how exactly do you propose to do that then? Some man is it, promising you a life of riches?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Lotto then, or is the money going to fall from the sky? It certainly isn’t going to be a job Sharon, not until you do something about making yourself employable.’

  There are ways, Sharon thought, but she didn’t say it. Instead she sat and stared at a point she imagined on the wall, directly behind Mrs Flynn’s head. Mrs Flynn stared back.

  ‘Look, I’m not even going to waste any more of my time. These are your choices, and I’ll be explaining them to your mother when I ring tonight. You can sign this contract or you can go before the board, where I’ll be recommending your exclusion from the school. It’s your last chance, that simple. In the meantime you will not be attending mathematics. I’ll not have any member of my staff subjected to that sort of treatment.’

  ‘Is that all then?’ Sharon asked, already out of her seat. Maybe she’d sign, maybe she wouldn’t. Not that she could see how it mattered all that much anyway. Meantime she wouldn’t let anyone score any points on her.

  You think I’m a loser don’t you? Well I’m not.

  ‘What do you have now Sharon?’

  ‘English.’

  ‘Who’s your teacher?’

  ‘Dalgleish.’

  ‘That’s Mrs Dalgleish to you. And she’s away on leave until the end of the next term, as you’d know if you ever attended. Away you go then. I’ll be checking with your reliever.’

  ‘Later.’

  four

  THERE WERE TWO TYPES of relievers. Everyone knew that. The ones that came on all hard-out, like they were proper teachers or something, and the ones that were happy enough sitting at the back reading the paper, just so long as nobody broke anything or made too much noise. The good ones. Either way it would be an improvement on Dalgleish’s classes.

  Sharon sat down the back, same as always, and waited to see what sort the school had come up with.

  ‘Hi guys.’ The new face hurried into the room and dumped a pile of books on the teacher’s desk. Then she turned, leant back against it, brushed a mess of brown red curls off her face and smiled. She looked like a PE teacher who’d got lost on her way to the gym, little shorts and a tight t-shirt. Sharon looked closely at her face. She’d seen her before somewhere.

  ‘My name’s Ms Black. I’ve just moved down here from teaching in Rotorua.’

  Rotorua, Sharon remembered now. Last year’s touch nationals. Ms Black had coached the other team, the team that had knocked them out in the first round.

  ‘Actually my real name’s Trish, call me either.’ One of them. ‘I’m with you for the month and this,’ she held up a copy of a book Sharon recognised from the year before, ‘is what we’ve been left to get through. So it’s pretty simple really. We’ll read it, get to know it a bit, and it should all be sweet. Any questions?’

  Sharon looked round the class,
saw them all weighing her up, watching her as she walked round handing out the books, wondering whether they’d have to do any work, what would happen if they tried it on.

  ‘So we just read it?’ someone near the front asked.

  ‘Yeah, for now. Let’s say twenty minutes, see how far you get. We’ll take it from there.’ She didn’t seem to notice the way people started to moan, like to her that was perfectly normal.

  ‘I haven’t read it yet either,’ she added, ‘so I’ll be doing the same.’

  ‘You won’t like it Miss, it sucks.’ It was Jason, another second year.

  ‘So you’ve already read it then?’

  ‘Did it last year.’

  ‘Oh well.’

  The class was getting restless, like they’d seen a way in, a way of maybe taking over.

  ‘Yeah, I done it too,’ Junior, sitting next to Jason, lied. ‘It’s gay.’

  ‘Couldn’t we get a video of it and watch that?’

  ‘Reading sucks miss. It’s last spell.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s too stuffy. Can we go outside?’

  ‘Yeah, let’s do something outside. We can read these at home.’

  Sharon watched carefully, seeing the way Ms Black stood there in the middle of them, not arguing, just listening, not giving anything away. Her eyes were quiet too, like Kaz’s got when she was playing poker. Any thinking was going on way back out of view. There was something about her, something hard. It kept Sharon staring at her. Other people too, so the complaints and suggestions died away without Ms Black having to say anything. And that was the same as them having given in.

  She could say what she wanted now and they’d have to listen, those were the rules. Someone had flinched and walked away. Ms Black knew it too, and let the silence hang round before she spoke, making the point. And then, she surprised them some more.

  ‘Okay, listen carefully, because I’ve got a deal for you.’

  ‘We don’t have to read the book?’ Jason called out but Ollie leaned forward and hit him, before he could ruin it.

  ‘On the one hand you’re perfectly right, it’s hot in here and we’re all tired and it’s a lousy time to be sitting inside reading.’ She spoke slowly, not hurrying with the instructions the way most relievers did. ‘On the other hand there’s no way I’m going to spend a month of my life sitting round watching you guys run away from every little thing that looks like it might take a bit of effort. So, here’s the thing. We go out onto the field now, and we play touch in the sun for forty minutes.’ There was an eruption of approval. Half the class were already up out of their seats. Ms Black held up a hand and waited quietly, still not giving anything away. ‘And in return, at the end of this spell, you listen to me talking about this book for fifteen minutes, without a word, and you get a writing assignment due at the end of the week. So what do you say? Do we have a deal?’