by C. J. Tudor
More silence.
‘I said – whose idea?’
My voice reverberates off the tiled walls.
Hurst steps forward, lips curving into a smirk. The desire to rip it from his face is overwhelming.
‘It was mine, sir. But I was provoked.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Marcus has been calling my mum names. About the cancer. Ask anyone.’
He glances at his band of boneheads. They all nod.
‘You’re a liar,’ I say.
He steps forward to meet me until we are almost nose to nose.
‘Prove it, sir.’
Before I can stop myself I have shoved him hard up against the sink. I grab his hair and ram his head into the rusted taps, again and again. Blood sprays up the tiled walls and decorates them in abstract patterns of red. I feel his skull splinter and crack. Several teeth shoot from his mouth and hit the floor. And I can’t stop. Can’t stop until –
Beth lays a hand on my arm. ‘Why don’t I deal with this, Mr Thorne?’
I blink. Hurst still stands before me, still smirking. My right hand has formed a fist at my side. But I haven’t touched him.
Beth takes the Tupperware box from my other hand.
‘Hurst – I’m a gnat’s knacker away from suspending you on the spot. One more word and I will. All of you – headmaster’s office. Now.’
‘I should come with you,’ I say.
‘No,’ she says firmly. ‘You should stay right here and take care of Marcus.’
She yanks open the door and they all file through, even Hurst. She turns and gives me an odd look.
‘We’ll discuss this later, Mr Thorne.’
‘I had it under control.’
Her only reply is the slam of the door. I stare at it for a while, then look back down at Marcus. He remains half curled on the floor, breathing heavily.
‘Can you stand up?’
He nods faintly. I hold out my hand and this time he takes it. I haul him up and point at the sink. ‘Why don’t you wash your face, rinse out your mouth?’
Another dazed nod. I look back down at the pile of regurgitated toast and daddy-long-legs. The half-dead insect has given up and sprawls on the floor.
I sigh. A teacher’s work. I walk into one of the cubicles and grab some loo roll (being school regulation, it takes several sheets to constitute a safe handful that won’t disintegrate upon contact with anything wet or solid). I notice there’s something in the toilet, as well as a vast quantity of sour-smelling urine. A black object bobs in the centre of the bowl. A mobile phone. I flush the loo, taking the chance it’s too big to go down the pipe, then fish it out gingerly and dry it on the loo roll. I look at the old Nokia and walk back out of the cubicle.
Marcus turns off the tap, wipes his face on the sleeve of his blazer and blinks at me. His eyes are red-rimmed.
‘This yours?’ I hold up the phone.
He nods. ‘Yeah.’
‘What happened to your iPhone?’
He stares down at his shoes. ‘What d’you think?’
Anger burns in my chest. You can’t protect them all the time. I know that. You do your best while they are in school. But you can’t be there on the way home, in the park, the playground, by the shops. Bullies don’t stop being bullies when the bell rings.
‘Marcus –’
‘I’m not going to the head.’
‘And I’m not going to make you. Beth and I both saw what happened. With any luck, Hurst will be suspended.’
‘Yeah. Right.’
I’d like to contradict him but find I haven’t got the will.
‘You never know,’ I say.
‘Yes, I do. And you do too.’
I don’t reply.
‘Can I go now, sir?’
I nod wearily. He slings his bag over his shoulder and shambles off. I remain, staring down at the sick on the floor. Marcus is not my problem, I tell myself. I won’t even be here much longer. But still, my irritating good side wants to help him. I try to ignore it and grab some more loo roll. As I do, I realize I still have his phone. I slip it into my pocket. I’ll find him later and hand it back. I clean up the sick – grimacing, my own stomach turning – and limp from the toilets.
I could go to Harry’s office, but my gut tells me that my presence may only hinder the situation. Besides, I already know what will happen. I can see it now. A slap on the wrist. Detention. A deep sigh from Harry as he explains that his hands are tied; to suspend Hurst now wouldn’t be appropriate, bearing in mind his mother’s condition, not to mention the upcoming exams. And after all, kids will be kids.
The problem is, if you let kid be kids, then before you know it they’re smearing their faces in pig’s blood, pushing each other off the edge of cliffs and smashing their mates’ heads in with rocks. Our job as teachers, adults and parents is to stop, at every level, kids being kids, or they’ll tear the fucking world down around our ears.
I shuffle slowly along the corridor, empty now, except school corridors never really feel empty. They echo with the laughter, shouts and screams of pupils long departed. Their ghosts remain, milling around me, shoving past with cries of ‘Hey, Thorney!’ and ‘We’re gonna get you, Doughboy!’ The bell rings again and again as trainers now rotted to dust squeal around corners to classes that never end. Once or twice I think I catch a reflection other than my own in the glass of the windows. A shock of blond hair, a small skinny kid with a mass of red where his face used to be. And then they are gone again, consigned to the register of memory.
‘Mr Thorne?’
I jump. Miss Grayson stands in front of me, clutching a pile of blue folders to her chest and staring at me coolly through her glasses.
‘Shouldn’t you be in lessons?’
Her tone makes me feel like I should be in short trousers.
‘Err, yes, I’m just on my way.’
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Just one of those mornings. You know, the ones that make you wonder why you became a teacher.’
She nods. ‘You’re doing a good job, Mr Thorne.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ She rests a hand on my arm. Through my shirt her fingers feel cold. ‘You’re needed here. Don’t give up.’
‘Thank you.’
Something which looks remarkably like a smile slips briefly across her features. And then she is gone, padding away in her sensible moccasins, cardigan and beige skirt, like the ghost of schooldays past.
My Year 10 pupils are waiting for me when I finally reach the classroom. And when I say ‘waiting’, I mean that they are sat around, glued to smartphones, feet on desks. Some make a half-hearted attempt to pocket their phones or sit up as I enter. Most don’t bother, barely glancing around as I sling my satchel on to my chair.
I stare at them. Despite Miss Grayson’s words, I suddenly feel depressed with the futility of my job, my life, my return here. I walk around the room and hand out well-thumbed copies of Romeo and Juliet.
‘Phones away before I confiscate them. And I should warn you, I often get mixed up between the school safe and the microwave.’
There is a small avalanche of activity.
‘Okay,’ I say as I return to the front of the class. ‘Today’s lesson – how you can all get at least a Grade B for the lacklustre essays you turned in last week.’
A murmur runs around the room. One foolhardy suspect shoots their hand up:
‘How’s that, sir?’
I sit down and take out the mountain of homework that I should have marked over the weekend.
‘You can sit quietly and pretend to revise, while I pretend to actually read them.’
I take out my red pen and look meaningfully around the room. They open their books.
Lesson ended, pupils released and marking complete – contrary to what I may have said, I read most and some even deserved a B – I pack up my bag, turn on my phone and check for messages. Nothing. No reply from my cryptic courier. Not
that I was really expecting one. That’s not how these things work. Still, ever one for pursuing the futile, I try the number one more time.
It rings. I frown. Another phone is ringing too. In perfect synchronization. In this room. In my pocket. I slip my hand inside and pull out the old Nokia. Marcus’s phone. I stare at the handset. My number flashes up. The ringing stops and an automated voice informs me that I have reached the Vodafone voicemail, blah, blah.
I’m still staring at the phone, trying to make sense of things – anything – when someone raps loudly on the classroom door. I stuff the Nokia back in my pocket.
Beth strolls into the room and perches on a desk. ‘Hey.’
‘Come in, sit down.’
‘Thanks. I will.’
‘What happened with Hurst?’
‘A week’s detention.’
‘That’s it?’
‘More than I expected. I’ve met amoebas with more backbone than Harry.’
‘So, all Hurst’s mates backed his story?’
‘Oh, they sang to his chorus like the world’s ugliest boy band.’
‘Right.’
A pause. ‘Look, about what happened –’
‘You were right,’ I say. ‘I almost lost it.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Sometimes, with Hurst, it’s a bit too much like history repeating.’
‘I know it’s probably none of my business –’
‘Probably.’
‘But is there something more going on with you and Hurst Senior? With you coming back here?’
‘Why d’you ask?’
‘I’m not the only one asking.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Word has got back to Harry that you two have history. I think he’s worried it’s going to cause him problems. And by problems, I mean work.’
‘No need for him to worry. That particular history is ancient.’
‘No such thing in this place.’
She’s right. Arnhill has more secrets than shared genes.
‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘if you fancy a chat over a beer, tomorrow night?’
I consider. I don’t really want to talk about Hurst. But I would like to talk to Beth.
‘Okay.’
‘Good. You’re buying.’
‘Oh. Good.’
She grins and slips off the desk. There’s something else I need to ask her.
‘Beth – do you know much about Marcus and his family?’
‘Why?’
‘Just curious.’
‘Well, his mum is a cleaner. Lauren gave you her card in the pub the other day.’
I hear a dull clunk at the back of my mind. The penny dropping. I take out my wallet and fish out the card.
‘Dawson’s Dust Busters?’
‘There you go,’ says Beth.
Which would make Lauren – Sullen Barmaid, Reluctant Dog Walker – Marcus’s sister. And now I can see the resemblance. The gangly awkwardness. The social weirdness. I consider. The text came from Marcus’s phone. He was in the graveyard that day. Not a coincidence. But how did he get hold of my number? And how would he know about the graffiti, about my sister? No. There’s something more. Something I’m missing.
‘Marcus’s mum – has she lived here all her life?’
‘Haven’t most people in Arnhill?’
‘What’s her first name?’
‘Ruth.’
And now something stirs at the back of my mind. Just like it did on my very first day at the school gates. An old memory reawakened.
‘Is Dawson her maiden name?’
Beth rolls her eyes. ‘Jesus! What d’you think I am? The marriage register for every person in Arnhill? I do have a life outside this crappy village, you know.’
‘Right. Sorry.’
She folds her arms and glares at me. ‘Why d’you need to know anyway?’
Because I do. Because I need answers.
‘I think I may have gone to school with her.’
She sighs heavily. ‘Actually, no, it’s not. Her husband died several years ago. No loss – he was a nasty piece of work, by all accounts. Lauren won’t even use his surname.’
‘And you know this how?’
‘I helped Lauren fill in some job applications. Noticed the surname was different. She told me she uses her mum’s name –’
‘Which is?’
‘Moore.’
I almost palm slap my forehead.
Ruth Moore, she’s so poor, gets free meals and begs for more. Ruth Moore, ugly and poor, licks up shit from the toilet floor.
Another awkward, socially impaired kid. Another victim. And yet, sometimes, those are the kids that see the most. Unnoticed, they absorb everything that goes on – the stories, the gossip, the detritus of school life, catching it like a log bobbing in a busy river current. And no one ever realizes how much they know. Because no one ever asks.
Beth is frowning. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah. I was just thinking, maybe I could talk to her … about Marcus.’
Among other things.
‘You could try. But she’s a little odd.’ She looks at me and reconsiders. ‘On second thoughts, you two will probably get on fine.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ She strolls to the door. ‘I’ll see you later.’
I wait until the squeak of her trainers has faded then I take out Ruth’s card. Dawson’s Dust Busters. On the back, a number and a strapline: ‘No job too small. No mess too big.’
If only that were true. Unfortunately, there are some things you can’t just scrub away with a scouring pad and a bucket of bleach. Like blood, they remain, festering beneath the surface.
I know what happened to your sister.
And sometimes, they come back.
21
The terrace is small and neatly kept. It does not look poor by any means. New UPVC windows, smart wooden door, a bright hanging basket outside. A blue Fiesta is parked on the kerb, ‘Dawson’s Dust Busters’ written along the side in shiny silver lettering.
I walk up the short pathway. A fat tabby cat lounges on the windowsill. It eyes me with a lazy contempt. At the door, I pause. Even though I’ve had all day to think about it, I’m still not sure exactly how to approach this. Those messages were anonymous for a reason. If Ruth sent them, she doesn’t want to talk. The question is, why did she send them?
I don’t know Ruth. I never really knew her all those years ago. No one did. At school, she was never part of any group. Never friends with anyone. Never included. Never picked first unless the team sport was humiliation and torment.
I remember one day some of the other girls stole her knickers in PE. A gang of kids – boys and girls – armed with sticks and rulers followed her out of school. They surrounded her as she tried to escape home, jeering, calling her names and lifting her skirt to reveal her nudity. It was cruel and horrendous and not even sexual. It was brutal and simple degradation. I’m not sure quite how far it would have gone if Miss Grayson hadn’t spotted what was going on out of a window, intervened and taken her home.
Not that home was much better. Her mum liked a drink and her dad had a temper. Not a good combination. Apparently, you could hear them screaming at each other all the way down the street. About the only companion she had was a mangy old dog she used to walk up over the old colliery site.
I wasn’t one of the kids who bullied her. Not that day. But that’s nothing to be proud of. I didn’t help her either. I just stood by, watching her torment. And then I walked away. Not for the first time. Or the last.
Ruth was one of those kids you try hard not to think about after you have left school, because to do so makes you feel just that little bit worse about yourself. And I had far bigger things to feel worse about.
I raise my hand to knock on the door … and it swings open.
A short, stocky woman stands in front of me. She is dressed in a magenta cleaner’s smock, the company name neatly embroidered on the che
st. Her thick, dark hair has been cropped short. For practical rather than aesthetic reasons, I presume. Beneath the blunt fringe her square face has the stoic look of someone who has become accustomed to disappointment. A face battered by life’s small blows. They are often the ones that hurt the most.
She regards me suspiciously, arms folded.
‘Yes?’
‘Erm, Mrs Dawson? I left a message earlier. I’m Joe Thorne. I’m a teacher at –’
‘I know who you are.’
‘Right.’
‘What do you want?’
The lack of social niceties evidently runs in the family.
‘Well, like I said in the message, I wanted to return Marcus’s phone. He lost it at school today. Is he here?’
‘No.’ She holds out her hand. ‘I’ll give it to him.’
I hesitate. If I give her the phone now, I’m pretty sure I will be continuing this conversation with a closed door.
‘Could I come in?’
‘Why?’
‘There’s something else I’d like to talk to you about.’
‘What?’
I debate with myself. Sometimes you need to show your cards. Others, you need to play the long game.
‘A cleaning job.’
I wait. For a moment I think she’s still going to slam the door in my face. Instead, she stands to one side.
‘Kettle’s on.’
The house is as pristine inside as out, a little unnervingly so. It smells of disinfectant and air fresheners. I feel my sinuses swell and a dull throb begin in my temple.
‘Through here.’ Ruth leads me into a small kitchen. Another cat squats on the kitchen worktop: grey, fluffy, malevolent-looking. I wonder where the dog is. Perhaps Lauren is out walking him.
I take Marcus’s phone out of my pocket and place it on the kitchen table.
‘It got a bit wet but I think it still works.’
Ruth glances at it. Her face betrays nothing.
‘Marcus has an iPhone.’
‘Not any more, I’m afraid. It got broken.’
She gives me a sharper look. ‘Broken or smashed?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘Of course not. No one ever can.’
‘If Marcus wants to make a complaint about bullying –’
‘What? What will you do? What will the school do?’