Don't Tell Teacher

by Suzy K Quinn

  ‘So there’s been no contact since the move? Not even phone calls?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Does Tom have other carers, in addition to yourself?’

  ‘He sees both his grandmothers. No one else. The only time he’s away from me is at school.’

  ‘I’d like a quick look at Tom’s arm, if I may,’ says Kate.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I put a gentle hand on Tom’s shoulder, shaking him awake. ‘Tom. Can you wake up for me, love? Just for a minute. I need to pull your sleeve up.’

  Tom turns on the sofa, blinking sleepy eyes.

  ‘Is everything okay, Mum?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s fine, love. This is Kate. She’s a social worker.’

  ‘Hello, Tom.’

  Gently, I pull back the blanket, warm from his body.

  ‘I’m just going to show Kate these marks on your arm.’

  Tom’s skin glimmers, pale and clear, as I slide up his Transformers pyjama sleeve.

  Kate leans closer, peering through her plain, wire glasses.

  There are two teeny, tiny scabs on Tom’s arm now, no bigger than grains of sand. One mark has completely healed.

  ‘Was it this arm?’ Kate asks, looking to me for affirmation. Then she checks her notes and reminds herself: ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘They’re nearly gone now,’ I say. ‘They were much more pronounced before.’

  ‘I should have got to you sooner,’ says Kate, shaking her head. ‘And arranged for a paediatrician.’

  ‘The nurse at the clinic—’

  ‘A proper paediatrician should have checked it over.’

  ‘I did take him to our GP,’ I say. ‘She brushed it off, just like the school did. Too busy. Kate … can I call you that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The marks on Tom’s arms … he must have got them at school. There’s no other time he’s away from me. I don’t let him out of my sight. I don’t know if he’s being bullied, or … He’s hanging out with some rough kids right now. And the school does seem a little … odd. They won’t let parents in during the day and there’s a locked medical cabinet in the headmaster’s office and CCTV cameras and bars on the windows—’

  Kate interrupts. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’

  I wipe red, swollen eyes. ‘Yes. Yes, go ahead.’

  ‘Is it just you and Tom living here at the moment?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tom’s father … you’re separated?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you working at the minute?’

  ‘I will be soon. I’m looking for a job.’

  ‘And how is Tom doing? Is he a good boy? Well-behaved?’

  ‘He’s perfect.’

  ‘But unwell sometimes? That must be tiring. Especially now you’re on your own.’

  Our eyes lock, and I know what she’s getting at.

  Are you exhausted? Fed up with your sick child? Taking your aggression out on him?

  ‘I love my son,’ I tell Kate, my eyes defiant. ‘I would never hurt him. I’ll never forgive myself for what Olly did. But that’s behind us now.’

  ‘And you have no idea what could have caused the marks, Miss Riley?’

  I shake my head, trying not to cry. ‘I’ve been obsessing over them. Considered every possibility. They must have happened at school.’

  Lizzie

  ‘Here you go, gorgeous.’ Olly slides back a railway-sleeper bench and gestures for me to sit. I’m eight-months’ pregnant now. Olly doesn’t know how uncomfortable I’ll feel sitting on hard wood, and I’m too polite to tell him.

  There are tea-towel napkins and tin cans of cutlery on the table. Very casual. This restaurant is built in a conservatory, with a vegetable garden growing outside. Olly thinks it’s my favourite place to eat. But actually, it’s his favourite place.

  I barely know my own tastes any more.

  People from difficult families seek other difficult people, isn’t that what they say? I think about that sometimes. My mother. Olly. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  Little by little, my personality has been sucked into Olly’s. He took my mind first, my body second. I didn’t realise what was happening until it was far, far too late. When Olly’s bad side surfaced, he’d already broken down all my defences.

  And now he has me. All of me.

  To do with what he will.

  I’ve married my mother.

  Taking a seat, I wonder if the other diners have noticed how red my eyes are. Will the waiting staff guess I’ve been crying?

  Olly unfolds a napkin and lays it over my lap, putting a casual hand on my baby bump and giving it a little stroke. He does this with tenderness and caring. Like he really loves me. Loves us. Then he sits opposite and takes my hand.

  These are my favourite times with Olly. It’s almost worth the arguments to see this side of him. Because like day follows night, praise and adoration follow darkness and rage.

  I notice other female diners looking at Olly. He’s never been short of female attention – his friends have told me all the stories. But his girlfriends didn’t last long, apparently. Until I came along.

  Olly squeezes my fingers. I flinch, biting my lip.

  Olly says, ‘You are so unbelievably beautiful. Do you know that?’

  I take my hands back to pick up the menu, printed on thick, grey recycled card.

  My ring finger throbs. I’m scared it might be broken. Olly again. Careless. Shutting that car door on my hand. Just a mistake …

  ‘Lizzie?’ Olly pushes the menu down, blue eyes meeting mine. ‘I’m sorry.’

  I wonder how long his good mood will last for this time. He sits back, and I realise my hands are shaking uncontrollably.

  A woman at the next table glances over. She whispers something to her dining companion, then looks again.

  I slide my hair from behind my ears to cover my frightened face.

  ‘Are you ready to order, gorgeous?’ Olly asks me, waving the waiter over.

  ‘Oh … um. Not quite.’ I try for a more natural smile, but the edges of my eyes are tight. ‘You know what’s good here. I’ll have whatever you’re having.’

  Olly turns to the waitress – a young girl in a black apron who’s just appeared at the table. ‘My beautiful fiancée here will have the sea bass,’ he tells her, all puffed up with the control I’ve given him.

  I wonder if Olly knows that often I don’t like what he orders.

  I suppose a better question is: does he care?

  Kate

  6.30 a.m.

  I hold a Tupperware tub of Kellogg’s All-Bran in one hand, an apple in the other. No milk, but I bought two pints yesterday so there should be plenty in the work fridge. Breakfast in the office again.

  ‘Good morning,’ I call out, praying Tessa isn’t here yet.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Tessa calls from her corner office.

  Oh no.

  Tessa’s door is open. I see her savaging a giant chocolate croissant, pastry exploding over her keyboard. Several empty cappuccino cups decorate her desk.

  ‘Hi Tessa.’ I sit on my thinly padded swivel chair.

  ‘Who is it?’ Tessa barks, leaning back, affording herself a full view.

  I give a little wave.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ Tessa considers this, then takes another bite of croissant, more pastry flakes exploding. ‘Here to prepare for the multi-disciplinary meeting? I was worried you’d let me down on that.’

  ‘I’m writing up last night’s Tom Kinnock visit.’

  ‘Oh, Kate.’ Tessa lays on some parental sounding disappointment. ‘Failing to plan—’

  ‘Is planning to fail. Yes, I know. That was one of my catchphrases at university. But if I don’t write up the Kinnock visit now, I could forget important details. This case has been messed around enough. I want to do it properly.’

  An understatement.

  The Tom Kinnock documents make me, a compulsively organised person, feel physical
ly sick.

  It’s like someone has jumbled everything up on purpose.

  Ten different social workers have been involved with the Kinnock family. Seven left without doing a proper handover.

  Patchy information. Missing reports. No wonder the custody decision took so long.

  Suddenly, there’s a slap of papers and Tessa looms over me, hands on hips. ‘You need to read through all sixty pages in the next half hour, Kate, or there’ll be hell to pay. They’ve finally shared Leanne Neilson’s medical records. She’s been at that doctors’ surgery every week, near enough, making up story after story. It’s all there. She brought in the older boy, saying he gets backache.’

  ‘I can only do one thing at a time, Tessa,’ I say, pushing the report bundles to one side. ‘Tom seemed tired during my visit,’ I murmur, tapping my keyboard. ‘The house was somewhat chaotic, washing-up in the sink …’

  I can’t type without talking out loud. It’s one of my most irritating habits, especially when I’m in a shared office space. Even if I try really hard, sounds come out.

  ‘What’s that?’ Tessa asks, reading over my shoulder. ‘Next steps … visiting Tom Kinnock’s school? This week? What’s the school going to tell you? He’s only been there five minutes.’

  ‘The usual sort of thing. How Tom is in class. Whether he turns up on time. If he seems withdrawn. But I also want to ask about the marks on Tom’s arm.’

  ‘How could he have got them at school?’ asks Tessa. ‘If they were injection marks.’

  ‘The marks had faded by my visit,’ I say. ‘We don’t know anything for certain.’

  If Tessa hears the disappointment in my voice, she doesn’t show it. ‘So, what? You think someone at school is stabbing Tom Kinnock with needles?’

  ‘I have to consider every possibility. If this was a school prank or a dare or something, we could consider closing the case down. There would be reasonable cause.’

  Tessa’s eyes light up. ‘Yes. Yes, I see what you’re saying.’

  I feel like I’ve just offered Tessa a slice of cake. But it’s cake with a slightly shitty centre, because I doubt there’ll be any conclusive proof Tom got those marks at school.

  ‘I wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I didn’t meet Tom’s teacher,’ I say.

  ‘If you want to do a proper job, you’re in the wrong profession,’ Tessa snorts. ‘Oh, by the way.’ She glances at my Tupperware tub of All-Bran. ‘I used all the milk.’

  Lizzie

  ‘Hey, Tommo.’ I wave, feeling small and invisible in the crowd of parent pick-ups at the school gates.

  Tom is on the far side of the playground. Who’s he talking to?

  Pauly Neilson.

  Actually, talking is the wrong word. Pauly looms over Tom, a proprietary hand on his shoulder. Tom is making little frightened rabbit nods, while Pauly talks and gestures.

  There was gossip about the Neilson family at the school gates this morning. Apparently, the police were called to the Neilson house again after a domestic between Leanne and her boyfriend.

  ‘Tom!’ I call out again. ‘Hey, Tom! I’m here, love.’

  Tom looks up.

  Pauly slaps him hard on the back. Tom nods, giving a meek smile. Then he walks towards me, a tired walk, feet barely lifting off the tarmac.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘Everything okay?’ I ask. ‘What were you and Pauly talking about?’

  ‘Huh?’ Tom makes a furtive glance over his shoulder. ‘Nothing. Just … nothing.’

  ‘You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t need to tell you anything.’

  ‘Mums fix things. If you’re having any problems …’

  ‘I’m not.’

  I decide to lighten the mood. ‘Guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I went shopping today.’ I hold up bags. ‘Here are the shoes you wanted, and some fun stuff for dinner.’

  ‘Cool!’ Tom grabs one bag and pulls out the Nike shoebox. His face crumples. ‘These aren’t the ones.’ He stuffs the box back in the bag. ‘These are like … skater shoes. I want ones like Pauly wears for PE. Orange ones.’

  ‘What about “thank you very much”?’ I say.

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  ‘I can always swap them,’ I say. ‘But orange is too bright for school.’

  ‘I want orange ones.’

  ‘No, Tom.’ I have no intention of buying him bright orange sports shoes. First, I’m sure the school won’t like it. They’re very strict on dress code. Very strict. And second, I don’t want him looking like Pauly Neilson.

  ‘So, what did you get for dinner?’ Tom asks.

  ‘Fun picnic stuff. I know it’s a little chilly but the sun’s still out. I thought we’d go to the park and eat Nutella sandwiches.’

  The eldest Neilson brother, Lloyd, shoots past on a green BMX, spraying bark chips as he bikes across the flowerbeds at an insane speed.

  His head has been shaved at the sides with zigzag tramlines, and he darts his bike back and forth, eyes wide and manic.

  I notice a smudge behind his ear. No, not a smudge – a bruise.

  Funny place to have a bruise.

  ‘Aall riiight, Tom!’ he yells, words a little slurred and sort of garbled. It’s the same kind of slurry speech his mother had when I met her at the school gates and I wonder if he’s on something. ‘Toooo … morrow, ye-ah?’

  ‘Yes, okay.’ Tom gives another meek little smile.

  ‘You play with Pauly’s older brother?’ I ask.

  ‘Not play. Sometimes he talks to us. We’re like his foot soldiers.’

  ‘Broaden your friendship net a bit. Keep your options open.’

  ‘I don’t get to choose,’ says Tom. ‘You don’t, with Lloyd.’

  ‘He had a funny bruise behind his ear,’ I say. ‘Did you notice it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A bruise. Lloyd had a bruise behind his ear. Strange place to have one. How do you think he got it?’

  ‘Lloyd doesn’t like talking about that kind of stuff.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘He gets in trouble with Mr Cockrun if he talks.’

  ‘What? Why on earth would he get in trouble?’

  ‘Mr Cockrun is funny. You never know what you’re gonna get in trouble for.’

  ‘You haven’t been in trouble, have you?’ I ask. ‘With the headmaster?’

  Tom kicks a stone. ‘Not trouble. I’ve been to his office.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He wanted to tell me the school rules. He said we mustn’t talk about the school to other people. I have to be a nice boy and then everything will be okay.’

  ‘Mustn’t talk?’

  ‘We can talk but we have to say nice things. We’re a family. You don’t say bad things about your family.’

  ‘This doesn’t sound right, Tom. I should talk to him again.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘But Tom—’

  ‘Mr Cockrun helps us, Mum. He listens to me. Mr Cockrun is nice.’

  We walk in silence for a bit, me wondering if Mr Cockrun is some sort of hypnotist, and then I say, ‘So, how about this picnic? Nutella sandwiches?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘But you love Nutella sandwiches.’

  ‘No I don’t.’ Tom’s voice is suddenly manic. Like Lloyd Neilson. ‘I never eat them. They’re for babies.’

  ‘Oh, come on. They’re your favourite!’

  ‘Shut up!’

  I take a step back. What has happened to my son?

  ‘Tom,’ I say. ‘You need to apologise.’

  Tom puts his head down and mumbles, ‘Sorry.’

  I hear myself demand: ‘If you hate Nutella sandwiches, how come you ask for them in your lunchbox every other day?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You do. Oh, Tom. I know you’re growing up, but those Neilson boys … Anyway, look – shall I carry your rucksack?’

  I go to take his school bag,
but Tom whirls away from me.

  ‘No.’

  There’s a dark tone to his voice.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just don’t touch my bag.’ Tom stalks ahead.

  In two large strides I catch him, grabbing his school bag, skidding on loose stones.

  ‘Get off,’ Tom protests. ‘Get off me.’

  ‘Tom! I’m your mother. What’s going on? Let me see.’

  ‘No.’ Tom tries to pull away.

  I’m too quick, though. Ripping open the cord, I dig my hand into the black nylon and rummage around. ‘What’s in here? What are you trying to hide?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  My fingers close around something smooth and curved. ‘Tom. What’s this?’ I pull out a plastic bottle. It’s one of two brown bottles we got from the hospital after Tom’s seizure. Blood-thinning meds. ‘This is a medicine bottle. Your prescription medicine. Why on earth is it in your school bag? And why is it empty?’

  Tom watches me in silence.

  ‘What’s going on, Tom? Why did you bring this to school?’

  More silence.

  I’m scared now. ‘We’re not having any picnic food!’ I shout. ‘Nothing like that. Not unless you tell me what’s going on at that school.’ I grab his hand roughly and pull him down the path, repeating my threat over and over.

  But he won’t answer.

  ‘Is it one of those Neilson boys?’ I demand, as we reach our front door. ‘Is Pauly putting you up to things? Or Lloyd?’

  Silence.

  I try a different tactic.

  ‘Lloyd had a bruise near his ear. Or some kind of mark. Did you notice?’

  ‘His stepdad did it, probably. It’s nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? He got a mark like that from his stepdad and you think that’s nothing?’

  Tom seems about to say something, then thinks better of it, snapping his mouth closed.

  ‘What’s going on at that school, Tom?’ I demand.

  Tom becomes sullen again. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Tom doesn’t look at me. ‘Someone asked me to bring the medicine in.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone. They wanted to look at it, so I brought it in.’

  ‘It’s your medicine. No one else should have it – that’s dangerous. You must never, ever take medicine from home again. Ever. Promise me. Promise me!’