Revenge Runs Deep

by Pat Young

  ‘But it’s important,’ insisted Joe, hating himself for sounding so pathetic.

  ‘Joe,’ said Cooper with feigned patience, ‘you need to realise we are living in a time of austerity. Cuts have to be made somewhere. People are screaming for road repairs, care for the elderly, support for the disabled. My goodness, we’ve had to shut a day-care centre. You can imagine how that went down.’ She turned to Smeaton. He responded with a sympathetic smile then spoke to Joe, all warmth gone.

  ‘Our decision stands, Joe. We cannot afford luxuries like the bothy. It will close at the end of the financial year and will not reopen. It will be your responsibility to clear the premises and to that end you may continue to run the minibus.’

  He turned and smiled at the woman by his side. ‘Well, Councillor, coffee time?’

  Joe knew he had been dismissed, but was not prepared to give up. He stood, towering over the two at the desk. ‘You can’t do this. What am I supposed to tell the boys?’

  ‘Tell them what you like. You’re the one with the great relationship, after all.’ His attention on the councillor, he said, ‘Oh, Joe, there is one more thing …’ He paused, making Joe stand and wait. ‘On your way out? Could you tell Carole to bring us two coffees?’

  ***

  CHAPTER 5

  Marty had lain awake all night, waiting for the police to come to the door. She’d considered confessing to David that she’d gone to see Smeaton, but had decided against it. He would be appalled that she’d pulled such a stunt.

  Morning, when it finally came, brought no relief and as she’d stood in the shower, she felt stunned by her own stupidity. Why on earth had she given him yet another opportunity to humiliate her, another chance to demonstrate his power over her? Why couldn’t she just walk away from this nightmare, put it all behind her? David kept encouraging her to get on with her new life.

  And here she was, doing her best. Doing her bit. Helping out at the local charity shop. Unfortunately, this wonderful new life was getting right up her nose, literally. She took a step away from the table, her face averted, as if that could protect her from the stench of decay. Holding the bin bag at arm’s length she tipped out its contents. A jumble of meagre possessions lay exposed, painting a bleak picture of an old man’s life. A tangle of single socks, a well-sucked pipe still reeking of tobacco, a small, leather bound bible whose pages had been thumbed till their corners eroded. A pair of shirts, their pattern faded and a bundle of squalid underwear. Marty extricated a string vest, so stained it would pass muster as desert camouflage. It dangled from the pincered fingertips of her rubber gloves, an unlikely last straw for her camel’s back.

  Felicity Matthews looked up from the computer as Marty stepped into the little office.

  ‘Good morning, Marty. Everything okay?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Marty dropped the vest, pleased to see it land right under Felicity’s nose.

  The woman removed her glasses and positioned them in her blonde-streaked hair. Her glossy lips pouted into a perfect moue of distaste as she picked up the vest with the tip of a pencil and dropped both into the waste paper basket.

  ‘This isn’t the job for me,’ said Marty.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Most of us find it rewarding. Sorting the donations can be a bit, how shall I put it, unsavoury at times, but actually, I think it’s quite exciting, knowing I might turn up a gem. I’ll never forget the day I opened a bag of Chanel suits. What a thrill.’

  ‘I’m afraid, from what I’ve seen, I’m more likely to be traumatised than thrilled. See that string vest? It smells like its owner died wearing it.

  Felicity tutted. ‘Oh really, Marty, don’t exaggerate.’

  ‘When I volunteered, I imagined myself helping folk, not picking over the belongings of dead people. It’s as if someone clears their house, bags their possessions and drops them off here instead of the dump.’

  ‘I agree it might seem like that. Occasionally. But I think you’ll find most of our donations come from benefactors who change their wardrobe every season. As many of us do.’ Felicity looked her up and down.

  It was time to leave. ‘It seems I’m not cut out to be a volunteer. Sorry.’

  ‘Oh, don’t apologise, Marty. Not everyone has what it takes to do this work. And you have rather been through the mill lately.’ With a patronising smile, she added, ‘Fortunately, some of us don’t mind getting our hands dirty in the service of others.’

  Marty could not resist a pointed look at Felicity’s perfectly manicured fingers before she left, slamming the door for effect. She knew the whole episode would be repeated to the local ladies who lunch, but she didn’t care. It would give them a new tasty morsel to add to the gossip about her.

  Marty undid the lock that tethered her bike to a streetlamp, grateful to have escaped into the cool, fresh air. As she climbed on she wondered what David would have to say about this, her latest in a line of failures.

  She couldn’t bear to face traffic, fumes and impatient drivers in this mood. She’d be likely to commit road rage if someone cut her up at the traffic lights. Although it was the long way round, the path by the canal might calm her down. By the time she reached home she might be ready to laugh at the ridiculous Felicity. Marty had already offended similar acquaintances when they’d invited her to join the ‘girls’ for lunch or to ‘pop round’ for coffee. She couldn’t remember the exact words of her refusal, but it was caustic enough to ensure she hadn’t been invited to any other daytime events. Word had gone round like measles in a playgroup.

  Of course, her real friends had been loyal and sympathetic throughout the whole Lee-Anne affair, but, like David, they failed to understand the devastating effect it had on her psyche. Every morning she woke to the chilling realisation that the loss of her job had left her with no reason to get out of bed. Without work her life lacked purpose. No amount of coffee mornings or ladies’ lunches could ever fill that gap. She wasn’t interested in idle chat or gossip, had always been too busy to bother about fashion trends, and couldn’t give a stuff about so-called celebrities. She had nothing in common with people like Felicity and would rather her days remain empty than spend time with them.

  When she had to swerve to avoid a broken bottle, Marty swore and skidded to a halt, expecting at least one puncture. She waited, ready to throw the whole bike in the canal, but no, both tyres seemed to be intact.

  Marty sagged under a burden of worry about the future and anger about the past. As heavy as an overloaded rucksack, it was wearing her down, chafing her shoulders, lowering her head. All day long she raged through inner dialogues that solved nothing.

  She would recall conversations she’d had with Smeaton in the past and wish she’d played them differently, imagining the things she could have said. Should have said.

  Like the day he said, ‘Maybe we made a mistake appointing you. Not sure it’s a job for a woman. Men and boys feel more secure with a man at the helm, you know.’

  Or the Friday afternoon meeting when he dropped the bombshell, ‘Everyone says you’re the most difficult head-teacher they deal with.’

  Everyone says. Classic bullying talk. She knew that. She’d heard kids at it often enough.

  How she wished now she had stood up to him. Why didn’t she challenge his claim? ‘Who says that?’ she could have said. ‘Name me one person who says I’m difficult,’ she should have said.

  But she didn’t. Because he was her boss. And there was only so often you could contradict your boss. Especially when he was known to be ruthlessly vindictive when crossed.

  On the few occasions she had dared to stand up for herself, he’d been merciless. ‘Marty, Marty, Marty,’ he’d sneered one memorable time. Shaking his head in that patronising way he had. Like she was some kind of disappointing child. ‘You’ve got a lot of growing up to do before you make a decent head-teacher.’

  Well, she was all grown up now. And she was just about at the end of her tether.

  Boy, she wis
hed she could find a way to get revenge. She’d love to teach Smeaton a lesson he’d never forget.

  ***

  CHAPTER 6

  The boys were huddled in the back of the mini-bus, sheltering from the chill wind blowing off the loch. This might have to be their last canoeing session. It was getting colder every week. Even with the proper gear, these boys were too malnourished to withstand the elements. Except for Slug, a sloth-like giant of a boy, they were mostly skinny, puny-looking kids.

  ‘Come on, lads,’ shouted Joe. ‘Any chance of you giving me a hand to get these canoes loaded before it gets dark?’

  Daron Dykes, the undisputed leader of the group, barked out a command. ‘Right, boys. Big Joe needs us to move the canoes.’

  ‘It’s pure freezin, Dykesy. Can we no just wait in the van?’

  ‘Get yer arse out here, TJ. If the Big Man wants a hand, he’ll get it, right?’

  Slug didn’t budge but TJ, Liam, Smithy and Dangermoose jumped from the minibus and started to manhandle the canoes onto the trailer.

  Dykesy, at five foot one, was an unlikely alpha male, but rumour had it he was a hard wee bastard, afraid of nobody. Joe wondered if that was the secret of success, to let no one ever smell your fear. Maybe that’s where he was going wrong.

  ‘Thanks, lads,’ he said, when the canoes were safely transferred from the trailer and into the storeroom at the bothy. ‘Great teamwork.’

  ‘Nae worries, Big Man,’ said Dykesy.

  Slug’s voice came from the van, ‘Can we go, Sur? Ah’m pure starvin. Ah could eat a scabby dug.’

  ‘Hey, that’s likely what yer mammy’s made for yer dinner, Sluggo. Scabby dug wi chips.’

  ‘The Slugster would eat it.’

  ‘Aye, if it had enough gravy. Why no? I like a hot dog.’

  The boys hooted and Joe couldn’t help joining in. He loved their banter. Didn’t mind the way they called him Big Joe or the Big Man. He’d worked with teenagers long enough to know it was a mark of respect, not the opposite. In any case, he’d never get the best out of these lads if he insisted on being addressed as Mr Docherty or Sir. That stuff was for the classroom teacher, not for the likes of him and these rough boys. When he took troubled kids up on the hills or out on the loch, Joe needed to be one of the lads. Their trust in him was vital. And now he was going to have to let them down.

  As he pulled into Bankside and slowed down outside a row of boarded up shops, the back door swung open.

  ‘Wait! Hang on a minute, lads.’

  The boys spilled out before he could pull on the handbrake. Joe wished they wouldn’t do that.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

  Slug was last out. He turned back and shouted, ‘Too late, Sur. They’re away.’

  Joe rubbed his cheek. What difference would it make, telling them now?

  ‘Do ye want me to pass on a message?’

  ‘Thanks, Slug, but it’ll keep. Take care now.’

  ‘See ye next week, Mr Docherty. Are we goin canoein again?’

  ‘Don’t know yet, pal. It’s maybe getting a bit cold for it, eh?’

  ‘Nae worries, we can always go hill-walkin, eh? See ye, Sur.’

  Shaking his head, Joe watched as Slug lumbered after his mates, who were running up the middle of the road, ignoring car horns and giving the finger to swerving motorists. They didn’t give a damn for authority, and who could blame them?

  ***

  CHAPTER 7

  Long before Marty made it through the gate, Chance had announced her arrival. She bent to stroke his unruly quiff. ‘Good boy. Did you miss me?’ The dog danced around her, delirious to have her home.

  As she leaned her bike against the wall, she could hear David calling from one of the borders. He was cutting back shrubs that had become troublesome and hard to control. A bit like herself.

  ‘You’re back early. Find any hidden treasures today?’

  ‘Oh sure. If you’d call grotty string vests hidden treasure.’

  David laughed, right on cue. Marty often wished she could be more like him. He was possibly the most good-natured man in the universe. He had gone through his whole working life without falling out with anyone.

  Making an effort to be pleasant, she said, ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, please. I could do with a break. Put the kettle on and I’ll be right in.’

  When David appeared in the kitchen, she had two mugs on the table, each with a teabag floating in hot water, and a packet of digestives, three of which Chance had already scoffed. Ever optimistic, the dog was lying under the table, one eye open for stray crumbs.

  ‘What?’ said David, ‘No freshly baked scones or feather-light sponge cake straight from the oven?’

  ‘Domestic goddess, I ain’t, David. You knew that when you married me.’

  ‘And yet I live in hope.’ He took a digestive and dipped it in his tea.

  Marty bit her bottom lip, dreading the next bit of the conversation, but keen to get it over with. ‘Don’t you want to know why I’m home so early?’

  ‘I assumed your organisational skills had the place running like clockwork.’

  ‘Thanks for the compliment, but wrong.’ She broke off a piece of biscuit and dropped it for Chance, who snaffled the morsel before it had time to hit the floor. David didn’t like her feeding scraps to the dog but she could see he was going to let it pass this time.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, reaching for another biscuit, ‘why are you home early?

  Marty took a sip of tea. ‘I jacked it in. Fortunately, without beating the Botox out of Felicity’s face. God, that woman’s patronising.’

  David scowled. ‘I hope you weren’t unpleasant to her. Remember I play golf with her husband.’

  ‘No, I was very dignified, considering how much I wanted to strangle her with a rancid vest.’

  David’s smile looked strained. ‘Never mind,’ he said, ‘You’ve got your art class and your yoga.’

  Marty raised her eyes to the ceiling and inhaled loudly.

  If David heard he hid it well. Still smiling, he said, ‘And you’ll find another volunteering job, I’m sure. One that uses your talents properly.’

  Her tutting made sure he noticed her impatience this time.

  ‘It’s okay. There’s no rush. Why don’t you just enjoy being a lady of leisure for a while?’

  Marty had already tried to explain to her husband how she felt, the last time only a few nights ago. ‘David, it’s the injustice of it all that’s making me livid. It’s not right, what Smeaton did to me. He knew I never laid a finger on that girl, but he threw me to the dogs. I’m sure he’s delighted to be rid of me, because I refused to be one of his yes men.’ She searched for the right words to explain why she was so miserable all the time. ‘I’ve been robbed of my identity, my persona, my role in society.’

  ‘Is that what you miss, the power?’

  She clapped her hands. ‘Yes!’ She leaned towards him and touched his cheek. ‘That’s it, David, the power. Thank God, you do understand. I had the power to change lives, to make sure vulnerable young people got the best opportunities a school can give them. I had the power to make their world a better place.’

  David nodded. ‘And it was prestigious, wasn’t it, to be known as the Head of Moorcroft Academy? I used to rather enjoy telling the chaps at golf that my wife was rector.’

  Marty leaned her elbows on the table and dropped her head into her hands. Through clenched her teeth she groaned, ‘You really don’t get it, do you, David?’

  ‘Get what, honey?’

  ‘It was never about the prestige. I’ve never cared about that stuff. It was about doing a useful job where I could make a real difference for youngsters. I don’t want to waste my time going to art classes or yoga, or out to lunch with a crowd of ‘girls’.’ She could hear her voice rising, knew she was starting to shout. Chance hauled himself to his feet and slunk off to his basket. ‘I don’t want to escort people round the hospital or make tea for
oldies or help out at the playgroup.’ She stood up, glaring at her husband. ‘All I want to do is what I’m good at,’ she screamed. ‘I want my school back.’ She grabbed her mug and hurled it at the sink, showering the kitchen in a spray of broken china and tea.

  David sat staring at her, eyes wide. Finally, he let out a long, low whistle. ‘Marty, this anger of yours is getting out of control. You need to do something.’

  ‘You know what? That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said since this whole fiasco started.’

  She grabbed her jacket and snatched the dog lead from its hook by the back door. Chance rose from his bed.

  ‘Come on, boy,’ she muttered. ‘Let’s go.’

  ***

  CHAPTER 8

  It had always been Joe’s Friday night routine to wander down for a pint while Sally prepared dinner. Until she became too ill to eat, they had always tried to have a special meal on a Friday. Even when she became too unwell to cook, she had kept the routine going, sending Joe to the pub while she set the table for a carry-out curry or supermarket dine-in deal.

  There was no Sally and no special meal these days, but Joe defiantly stuck to his end of week ritual, as if to flip two fingers to fate.

  The pub door swung open as Joe reached for the handle. In a waft of warm air and beer fumes a group of regulars filed out, greeting Joe as they passed.

  ‘Hiya, Joe. How you doin?’

  ‘I’m ok, yeah.’

  ‘Sorry, mate, got to rush. Wife will have the dinner ready. You know how it is.’

  Joe stood to attention and gave them a jaunty salute, a clown hiding his tears in silliness.

  The young Polish guy was on the bar.

  ‘Evening, Bolek.’