Don't Tell Teacher

by Suzy K Quinn

  ‘She has no excuse,’ I say. ‘Tom’s nearly nine years old. What rushing around does she have to do? It’s not as if he’s a toddler.’

  Fam laughs. ‘My nephew is nine and is always jumping on the sofas. Can’t sit still. Little boys are a lot of work. Just crazy.’

  ‘Your nephew wouldn’t misbehave at Steelfield School,’ I say. ‘The headmaster has a very effective process for keeping problem children in line.’

  ‘Process?’

  I hesitate. ‘He has a way with the children. That’s what I’m saying.’

  ‘Right,’ says Fam, fluffing my hair, not really understanding.

  ‘The problems with Elizabeth started when her father left,’ I say. ‘He never came to visit and she blamed me. And then he died and I think she blamed me for that too.’

  ‘Very sad, very sad,’ says Fam, snipping around my neck. ‘Shall we go a little shorter this time? You know? As we get older, short can be better.’

  ‘No,’ I snap. ‘I don’t want anything to change.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ says Fam. ‘No problem.’

  I think, reading his face, he has some issue with what I just said. But I can’t be sure.

  In recent years, I’ve become aware that I don’t feel things like other people. It can be useful, I suppose. I only wish it still worked on Elizabeth. But these days, she’s slipping further and further out of reach.

  Kate

  3.24 p.m.

  The roundabout glistens with cars, locked tight together, little metal boxes full of irritated mums and cooped-up kids. Usually I know better than to attempt this roundabout during the school run, but I’m on my way to the police station.

  Lloyd Neilson is being held there, following an arrest at school. Aged eleven, he is now of legal age to be taken into police custody.

  The police station is tantalisingly close – just across the verge of grass and wild flowers. I want to get out and run to it. But I can’t.

  The traffic inches forward and a half-space opens up. I throw my usual caution to the wind and shoot into it. I’m rewarded with a torrent of angry beeps, but today I couldn’t care less. Social work is no profession for cautious drivers, I’ve discovered. Cautiousness takes time.

  The traffic creeps around the roundabout.

  Come on, come on.

  I rarely check my watch at work any more because I’m always late.

  There. Shooting forward into another space, I receive more angry beeps. I put up a sorry hand, and hope they understand that I’m on my way to help a frightened eleven-year-old boy who is being treated like an adult by police.

  Finally, I can see the red-and-white striped barrier ahead – the one that should lift and let me into the police station car park.

  My phone rings. Tessa Warwick. It’s never a good idea to ignore Tessa. She’s like a bull, easily enraged and prone to charge. Reluctantly, I pick up.

  ‘Kate. Where are you?’ she demands. ‘I’ve just had a call from Pauly Neilson. He and his brother are home on their own. Lloyd isn’t there to reach the cupboards. They need someone to make supper.’

  ‘The baby isn’t home too, surely?’

  ‘No. The mother is off with her somewhere. God knows where.’

  ‘Leanne’s probably at her mum’s house. Ask Gary to give Jeannette Neilson a call. I’m on my way to the police station. Lloyd Neilson has been arrested and needs an appropriate adult.’

  ‘You’ll have to send Gary to the Neilson house then,’ Tessa decides. ‘Assuming you get held up at the police station for the usual four hours plus.’

  ‘Gary is a family support worker,’ I say. ‘He’s not trained to deal with that on his own. What if Leanne’s boyfriend turns up?’

  ‘Kate, sometimes you have to make these kinds of decisions. What other choice do you have?’

  I want to bang my head on the steering wheel. ‘Fine. Okay. I’ll ask Gary to stay with the Neilsons.’

  ‘And pray nothing happens while he’s there.’ Tessa hangs up.

  I approach the red and white barrier. ‘Hello?’ I shout into the intercom, attempting to text Gary at the same time. ‘I’m Kate Noble, Lloyd Neilson’s social worker and appropriate adult.’

  No one replies, but the barrier clicks open.

  I notice the little black windows of the basement police cells and wonder if Lloyd is down there, all fake bravado but secretly scared to death.

  By the time I’ve crossed the car park, I’ve texted Gary and calculated how many hours I’ll be working late this evening.

  Right now, I’ll be lucky to be home before midnight.

  Col won’t be happy.

  Inside the police station, I’m talked through the arrest, then shown down to an interview room where Lloyd Neilson is waiting – a skinny eleven-year-old boy with floppy black hair, who’s just been held in a police cell.

  His hands are shoved tight in his trouser pockets, one foot balancing over his knee.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ Lloyd asks.

  ‘She couldn’t come, Lloyd.’ I’m too tactful to add: Because we don’t know where she is.

  ‘Who took Joey home?’

  ‘Pauly did.’

  ‘Are they on their own, then?’

  ‘I’m sending someone over to be with them now.’

  ‘A man or a woman?’

  I pause. ‘A man.’

  Lloyd explodes, banging his fists on the table. He’s had bad experiences with men.

  ‘Look, let’s just get this police interview over and then we can leave,’ I say. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘Those police assaulted me,’ says Lloyd. ‘Fucking dickheads. I wish they were all dead. They say I stole from the school medicine cabinet. But I never.’

  It’s a game we play – me pretending I believe him, him telling me what I need to know.

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Nothing. I was just messing around at the back of the field.’

  ‘They wouldn’t arrest you for that,’ I say. ‘There must be more to it.’

  ‘The caretaker thought he saw me with something, didn’t he? Fucking army sergeant Jones. But he got it wrong.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘He tried to put his hands on me. So I went for him – self-defence. And then that fat fucker sat on top of me and called the police. When I get back to school, I’ll kill him. And that pervert policeman.’

  Lloyd was sexually abused by a neighbour when he was seven years old while his mother was absent. I imagine being sat on by the caretaker brought back some bad memories.

  ‘The police say the caretaker saw you with tablets.’

  ‘If I had tablets, where are they? Search the school, if you want. Search the office. You won’t find anything. Pervert Jones is lying.’

  ‘Did you hide them somewhere?’

  Lloyd raises an eyebrow at me. ‘If I did, I’d be stupid to tell you, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘The caretaker says your brother was around during the scuffle. They think you gave the tablets to Pauly—’

  ‘They already searched him!’ Lloyd shouts. ‘Ask him, if you don’t believe me. They never found nothing. They’re lying.’

  ‘Pauly plays with Tom Kinnock, doesn’t he?’ I say.

  Lloyd stiffens. ‘Who?’

  ‘Your brother’s friend.’

  ‘I don’t know no one called Tom.’

  ‘Well, there’s a Tom in your class, for a start,’ I say. ‘You told me you beat him up once.’

  ‘I don’t know any younger Toms, then.’

  ‘I’m surprised. You usually get to know your brother’s friends. It’s been a source of trouble before, hasn’t it?’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘That you’ve asked Pauly’s friends to carry things, hide things. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d got a younger friend of Pauly’s to look after tablets so you wouldn’t be caught with them.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  I decide to try another lin
e of questioning. ‘Listen, the police are going to ask you this. Did your mum ask you to get medicine for her?’

  ‘No.’ Lloyd’s eyes become shifty, roaming the bare room.

  ‘But it’s an obvious link, don’t you think? Your mum has a problem with prescription drugs, and you’re caught breaking into the medicine cabinet. I’m here to help you, Lloyd. And I can only do that if you tell me the truth.’

  ‘No comment.’

  It’s going to be a long night.

  Lizzie

  I sit up late into the evening holding the tablets, watching the packet turn from yellowy silver to grey shadow as the sun sinks in the sky.

  What are they? Where did they come from? What should I do? What should I do?

  The thoughts go around and around, unanswered, for hours.

  Eventually, I lock the tablets in the medicine box and try to sleep, but can’t. Thoughts continue to whirl.

  I should take the tablets to the police. I will. Tomorrow.

  Before I know it, the sun is coming up and it’s morning.

  I go through the motions, trying to get Tom ready, finding clothes, giving him meds.

  ‘Mum?’ Tom asks. ‘Mum? Are you okay?’

  I try for a smile. ‘Just a bit tired, love. Worrying about yesterday. Those tablets …’

  ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ Tom’s eyes are wide.

  ‘I have to, Tom. We need to get to the bottom of this. We always used to talk, didn’t we? About everything. We’re friends. All the stuff about your dad … when you told me the truth I could fix it. I couldn’t fix it until I knew.’

  ‘You can’t fix this.’

  Fear weaves around my stomach, a spider spinning a web. ‘Well, maybe … look, if you could just talk to me.’

  ‘I can’t. You don’t get it, Mum. I just can’t.’

  We walk to school in silence, me thinking, thinking about what on earth I’m going to do.

  We have to move schools.

  That goes without question.

  But how can we, without social services marking us as cause for concern?

  I squeeze Tom extra tight before he runs into the playground. ‘Look, be sensible today, okay? Play with the good kids.’

  On the way home, I stop on the stony path, looking through the wire fence onto the playing field.

  I can see the children through the school windows, moving between the assembly hall to their classrooms. Everything is so quiet. Not like a school at all.

  It starts to rain and soon I’m soaking wet, short hair sticking to my head.

  Is Tom with Pauly Neilson right now?

  I step back, meaning to go, but my canvas shoes find a puddle. Cold water seeps around my feet and I hear Olly’s voice, for the first time in a while: What stupid shoes.

  No, says a higher voice. You’re strong and you’re getting stronger.

  The big holes in the fence grin at me, mouths in the wire woven closed with mismatched silver chain.

  Who made those holes? Who?

  In a school so obsessed with security. A school that padlocks the gates. With CCTV cameras. Why are holes appearing?

  I will find answers.

  Lizzie

  Why won’t he stop crying? Why? Why?

  I clutch Tom to my chest, swaying him frantically from side to side.

  ‘I’ll take him out in the camper,’ says Olly, hobbling towards me.

  ‘You shouldn’t drive him around,’ I say. ‘Not with your leg the way it is.’

  ‘Don’t start that rubbish,’ Olly snaps. ‘I drove us up to Devon and back when you were pregnant. The doctor said it was fine.’

  ‘She said it was fine if you were comfortable braking,’ I say, over Tom’s escalating screams. ‘But when that van pulled out, you were in agony.’

  ‘You can’t keep me prisoner here,’ Olly growls, lurching forward. ‘Unable to walk, unable to drive. This is about control, isn’t it? You want to control me. You fucked up my leg. Now you want to fuck up my mind.’

  Olly’s mood changes dramatically when Tom cries.

  ‘Stop it. Just stop it.’ I put Tom in his bouncy chair. ‘He’ll fall asleep soon. He always does eventually. You’ll see.’

  ‘I’m putting him in the camper,’ says Olly, lifting the bouncy chair and carrying it towards the door. ‘He sleeps when we’re driving.’

  ‘No,’ I shout, following.

  My fists beat on Olly’s broad back, and he turns to me, eyes wild. ‘Don’t you ever do that again? Do you understand me?’ He puts the bouncy chair down, then gives me the look. The one that says he wants to slap me hard enough to make my ears ring. ‘Do you understand me? After everything you’ve done. Everything I put up with. I’m only with you because of Tom. I’m only with you because of this baby!’

  I’m frightened, and for a moment I freeze.

  That verbal lashing felt worse than any of the others. Not because it hurt, but because Olly hasn’t been this angry since before Tom was born. The baby calmed him down. But now it seems the old Olly is back.

  This was my fault, though. After all, I hit him. What did I expect?

  Olly scoops up Tom, chair and all, and storms down the stairs, his uneven walk pounding on wood. Bump, bump … bump, bump.

  ‘Don’t take my son,’ I scream down the stairwell, my words turning to shrieks. ‘Olly. Come back. Please!’

  A door downstairs opens, and I hear the murmurs of Stuart – our neighbour and my friend.

  And then Olly’s voice: ‘Get the fuck out of my way. Get out of my way.’

  I hear scuffles and run downstairs to find Olly and Stuart grappling in the hallway.

  The bouncy chair rests a few feet away and Tom is letting out low, frightened little moans.

  Oh God.

  Olly throws a vicious punch that knocks Stuart to the floor.

  ‘Olly!’ I scream. ‘Stop!’

  Olly turns then, seeing me on the stairs. ‘Go back inside.’ He takes Tom from the chair and storms out the front door.

  I run past Stuart who is clutching his jaw, and out onto the street.

  Olly is strapping Tom into the back of the camper van. ‘Back off!’ he shouts, sensing me approach. ‘Just back off. I’m warning you.’ He clicks the baby-seat straps into place, pulls to make sure they’re tight, then slides the camper van door shut.

  ‘You can’t take my son!’ I shout.

  Ignoring me, Olly stalks around the car with his jolting walk, climbing into the driver’s seat.

  I pull at the camper’s locked sliding door, crying, sobbing, beating the metal panel as I watch Tom behind the glass.

  Then the camper van starts up with its usual spluttering roar.

  ‘Don’t take him,’ I shout. ‘Don’t take him!’

  The van pulls out into traffic.

  I’m shaking now, cheeks soaked with tears.

  I feel a large, warm body beside me. It’s Stuart. He puts a heavy, muscular arm around my shoulder and I feel the familiarity of his great bulk.

  ‘Are you okay, love?’ Stuart is Scottish and huge. Most men wouldn’t want to tackle him in a fight. But Olly is the sort to act first and think later.

  I shake my head, unable to speak.

  ‘You should call the police.’ Stuart rubs his jaw and it makes a clicking sound.

  ‘I can’t do that. It’ll just make things worse. He’ll be back. And when he comes back, he’ll say sorry.’

  ‘So you’re happy to have your little baby son driven around by that man?’

  ‘He would never hurt Tom,’ I say. ‘He gets angry with me. But never Tom.’

  ‘Hey.’ Stuart squeezes my shoulder. ‘You’re a good mother. You don’t need that bastard. It can’t go on like this. I hear you fighting, morning, noon and night.’ He looks at me meaningfully. ‘Did he put his hands on you?’

  I look at the pavement.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Stuart looks up to the sky, grimacing. ‘I told you leopards don’t change their spots. I’ll
kill him.’ I burst into tears, and Stuart’s big arms come around me. ‘Hey. Don’t cry,’ he says, stroking my hair. ‘Why don’t you leave him? Make a fresh start.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Stuart slips his hand into mine and holds my fingers tight. ‘This is breaking my heart.’

  ‘Who’s going to want a woman with a baby?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You don’t. Not really.’

  ‘I know my own mind. And I know you pretty well, too.’ Stuart raises a thick, dark eyebrow, and I blush.

  There was a night. A regrettable night.

  Olly and I had been fighting. I suppose I was frightened. Trying to make a safe space for myself. Olly’s medication was making him especially paranoid and I ended up downstairs, crying in the communal hall.

  Stuart found me. I wanted to be found. Comforted by someone. Noticed.

  And somehow I ended up in Stuart’s flat.

  I’m not even sure how it happened, but he took me into the bedroom. We had sex on the bed and then again in the kitchen. Stuart lifted me, totally naked, onto the breakfast bar and we had sex in full view of the street, curtains open.

  I think it was thrilling for him, me being on display, so nearly caught out.

  ‘Please don’t talk about that,’ I whisper to Stuart. ‘If Olly finds out, he’ll kill me.’

  Kate

  1.01 p.m.

  It’s Friday. Tessa and I are meeting to discuss my workload. Because we don’t have time for lunch and a meeting, Tessa orders in Pizza Express: American hot, garlic dough balls and chocolate fudge cake for her, plain Margherita for me. And a bottle of red wine from the supermarket – something we’re not technically allowed in the workplace.

  I don’t drink – a source of annoyance for Tessa.

  ‘You eat like a sparrow,’ she says, pouring red wine into a balloon glass brought specially from home. ‘I thought Lent was months ago.’

  ‘I’m having a whole pizza,’ I point out.

  ‘A Margherita?’ Tessa scoffs. ‘That’s barely even a snack. And you won’t share any of this pud, I’ll bet. Or the wine. It’s Friday. Live a little.’

  I ignore the dig and say, ‘We’re here to discuss my caseload. Not whether I should drink wine.’