Don't Tell Teacher

by Suzy K Quinn

  I look at his pale face. There’s sweat on his forehead and his hands are cold too. Too cold.

  Suddenly Tom is unsteady on his feet, his legs bending like rubber, eyelids fluttering.

  ‘Tom!’ I cry, catching him in my arms.

  He is out cold, eyes rolled back in his head.

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ I scream, laying Tom on the bark shavings.

  Kate

  3.30 p.m.

  Mr Cockrun’s office is a neat, sterile room with a CCTV screen cycling through school-ground and corridor images.

  On one wall there’s a large picture of children playing, but it is unframed and unloved, faded and scuffed around mounds of Blu Tack at the corners. And generic too – I doubt Mr Cockrun has ever met or taught these children.

  There is also an extra desk. I wonder who it’s for. And Lizzie was right about the medicine cabinet – there’s one mounted to the wall.

  As we enter the office, Mr Cockrun swings around, offering a full smile. ‘Do have a seat.’

  Diagnosing Special Needs

  Helping Kids Concentrate

  The Pressure Principle

  Success in Education

  The books are arranged alphabetically, I notice.

  ‘So let’s talk about this medicine bottle,’ I say.

  Mr Cockrun sits opposite. ‘Didn’t you want to know about the incident with Tom Kinnock first?’ he asks.

  A politician’s answer. Side-stepping the question.

  ‘You can tell me about that first, if you like. What actually happened?’

  ‘Tom got into a scuffle with a girl in the year below. It was all dealt with in-house. Well handled, I felt. Although the mother has no doubt been blowing it out of proportion.’ His red lips set into a firm line.

  ‘A younger girl? Why?’

  ‘Children get into scuffles for all sorts of reasons. Especially boys with issues.’

  ‘And Tom was sent to see you?’

  Mr Cockrun hesitates. ‘Yes. Yes, he did come to my office.’

  ‘How about the girl? Did you talk to her?’

  ‘There was no need. She was fine. I spoke to her parents. Assured them that the whole issue was somewhat exaggerated. Tom’s mother was informed. Told to raise her game. We can’t have that sort of thing going on here. Good behaviour is paramount.’

  I make furious notes. ‘Is this the only incident you can think of?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So there have been no other incidents?’

  ‘Absolutely none.’

  ‘Mr Cockrun, Pauly Neilson ended up in hospital on the same day Tom had this scuffle. Is there any connection?’

  ‘Oh, that. Yes, that was something quite separate.’ He glances at the medicine cabinet – just a tiny, sideways twitch. But I notice.

  ‘Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? The same day.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so. But coincidences happen.’

  ‘So about the medicine bottle—’

  ‘You also wanted to know about the injection needles, didn’t you?’ Mr Cockrun says. ‘Why we keep them locked up.’

  ‘Well … yes. Why do you?’

  Mr Cockrun folds his fingers together. ‘Lloyd Neilson again.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘He seems to be your answer for everything.’

  ‘That’s because he usually is the answer for everything.’ Mr Cockrun stands and paces back and forth, hands spread like he’s giving a speech. ‘Look. A few months ago, things started going missing. Personal stuff belonging to the children. Money. And then medical items. Prescriptions would be given to the school office. Painkillers, antibiotics and so forth. And they’d vanish.’ He eyes me meaningfully. ‘Do you understand where I’m coming from?’

  ‘Yes. You’re saying Lloyd was stealing meds.’

  ‘We caught him red-handed. He seems to have a fascination with the stuff.’

  ‘What about injection needles?’

  ‘We keep them locked up so he can’t get to them. I hope that answers all your questions. As you can see, we’re just a hard-working school trying to meet government requirements while dealing with some very difficult children.’

  It makes sense, I suppose. Leanne has a prescription medication addiction. Children often imitate what they see at home. But I feel there’s more to this than the headmaster is telling me.

  ‘So has Lloyd ever got hold of injection needles at school?’

  ‘We’ve only caught him stealing tablets. The diabetics shall have their insulin!’

  ‘So the tablets the caretaker caught Lloyd with – were they taken from the school medicine cabinet?’

  ‘Unlikely. You can see we keep everything locked up now. But not impossible. You never know with Lloyd.’

  ‘And the medicine bottle at the back of the field?’ I ask, leaning closer.

  ‘My guess is Lloyd again,’ says Mr Cockrun. ‘Look, I know you’re going to say I blame Lloyd Neilson for everything. But it’s happened before. Lloyd has … persuaded kids to bring medicine in for him.’

  ‘So you think Tom Kinnock brought in medicine for Lloyd? The bottle in the school field had Olly Kinnock’s name on it – Tom’s father.’

  Mr Cockrun blinks. ‘I thought the father wasn’t on the scene.’

  ‘That’s what I thought too.’

  ‘Well.’ Mr Cockrun continues to pace. ‘Who can say how that bottle got there? Perhaps we’ll never know the truth. All I can tell you is we truly care here, Mrs Noble. We’re on the ball. No child left behind. You can see from our results that there aren’t any problems at this school. We’re one of the best in the country.’

  I laugh. ‘I work in the public sector, Mr Cockrun. I know first-hand how results can be … shall we say affected? Not tell the full story?’

  Mr Cockrun walks to the door. ‘And on that note let’s call it a day, Mrs Noble.’

  ‘Mr Cockrun—’

  ‘We’ve said everything we need to say and this situation has taken up too much of my energy.’ He opens the office door. ‘I wish you well, Mrs Noble. I hope you realise we’re just doing our best. You and I are probably more alike than you realise. I can see you’re ambitious. Hard-working. Someone who rises to a challenge.’

  ‘Yes. I am.’ Although sometimes, the tired, overworked me wishes I’d followed Tessa’s advice and buried Tom Kinnock’s file in some back drawer.

  Lizzie

  I’ve always felt safe in hospitals. I suppose that’s why I trained as a nurse – medicine seemed safe. Reassuring. But right now, I don’t feel safe at all. Tom is still unconscious and I’m terrified.

  What if he doesn’t wake up?

  I feel sick with worry. I can’t bear this.

  We’re in intensive care, a nurse seated next to Tom’s bed. I’m relieved that we’re getting close attention, but I’m still terrified.

  Tom will wake up. He will wake up. Oh God.

  The tears come, thick and heavy.

  Across the ward, I hear double doors bounce open and the determined click of the doctor’s shoes. After a mumbled chat with a nurse, the doctor heads our way.

  ‘Mrs Kinnock?’ The doctor is a short, brown-skinned man with a shiny bald head.

  I’m too exhausted to complain that he has my name wrong, so I just nod.

  The doctor holds out a chubby hand and says, ‘I’m Doctor

  Ramir. And this must be Thomas? Or does he prefer Tom?’

  ‘He likes Tom.’

  Doctor Ramir asks the nurse seated by Tom’s bed, ‘Has there been any movement? Any signs that he’s regaining consciousness?’

  ‘No,’ says the nurse. ‘We’re hopeful it won’t be too much longer.’

  ‘And how are you feeling, Mrs Kinnock?’ the doctor asks me.

  ‘Terrified.’

  ‘Of course. Well, try not to worry. I’m sure he’ll come round soon.’

  ‘The other doctor talked about the possibility of brain damage—’

  ‘Unlikely.’ The doctor’s reply is bris
k. ‘I’m concerned about two things right now. First, what’s caused him to suddenly lose consciousness. And second, the bump on Tom’s head.’

  ‘Bump on the head?’

  ‘The paramedic found a rather large lump. On Tom’s crown.’ The doctor puts his fingers to Tom’s scalp, frowning. ‘Here. You can feel it for yourself.’

  I put my hand on Tom’s head, feeling a large, egg-sized bump.

  Terror flies up my fingertips. A head injury …

  The doctor watches me.

  ‘It didn’t happen when he fell,’ I say. ‘I caught him.’

  ‘No, this didn’t happen today, Mrs Kinnock,’ says the doctor. ‘A scab has already formed.’

  ‘Oh my God. What?’

  ‘When Tom wakes up, I’d like this lump to be checked over by someone who knows about this sort of thing. Just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Doctor, if Tom has a bump and it didn’t happen when he passed out … how on earth did he get it?’

  ‘It’s hard for me to draw conclusions,’ says the doctor, scribbling on his clipboard. ‘The consultant will tell us more.’

  ‘Someone hurt him?’ Hot, heavy tears find my cheeks.

  ‘It could be an accident,’ says the doctor. ‘Tell me, is Tom a good boy at home?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Why would you ask?’ And then it hits me. My chest tightens. We learned to ask questions like this during our nurses’ training. ‘I didn’t hurt him,’ I say, eyes wide.

  There’s a gentle exhale of breath and a tiny murmur. My head whips around to see Tom’s eyelids flutter.

  Is he waking? He’s waking …

  Tom squints, trying to shield his eyes from the bright lights. Confusion swims in his sleep-crusted eyes. He is startled. Afraid. But he’s awake.

  The relief is incredible.

  ‘Tom.’ I take his hand in mine. ‘It’s okay. You’re in hospital again, love. Oh thank God.’

  ‘Hello, Tom,’ says the doctor.

  Tom blinks sleepily, gingerly touching the cannula in his hand.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ the doctor asks.

  ‘Sick,’ says Tom, his voice rough as pebbles. He looks at the cannula.

  ‘You passed out, Tom,’ says the doctor. ‘It tells us something still isn’t quite right. Maybe we can get some answers this time. Now, take things nice and slowly, but can you remember what happened before you fell down?’

  ‘We were in the play park,’ Tom croaks, rubbing his eyes. ‘I was with Granny.’

  ‘Is that the lady who was here earlier?’ the doctor asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘She followed the ambulance here. But the bright lights gave her a migraine, so she went home to rest.’

  ‘If she saw Tom before, it would be good to talk to her.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, that makes sense. I’m sure she’ll be back soon. But please understand. There are some difficulties in our family. How many days will Tom be kept in, do you think?’

  ‘Two, at least,’ says the doctor. ‘But we’ll move him to an open ward at some point. He’ll have his own TV and some toys to play with. More space too.’

  And less security.

  ‘We need to be transferred,’ I say, my voice reaching oddly high notes. ‘To the general hospital near our home.’

  ‘Mrs Kinnock—’

  ‘I’m Miss Riley. Please. You have to listen. We can’t stay here on an open ward. Tom’s grandmother is Olly’s mother. My ex-husband. Olly is … a violent man. There’s a restraining order against him. Margaret always means to help, but if she accidentally tells him we’re here …’

  The doctor glances at the nurse. ‘I suppose … let me see what I can do.’

  ‘And this bump on Tom’s head,’ I say. ‘We need to be sure everything is transferred – all the information, everything. Even the tiniest detail.’

  Without looking up, Doctor Ramir says, ‘Tom. Do you know what could have caused this bump on your head, then? Get into any fights or anything like that?’

  Tom doesn’t reply. He just looks frightened.

  ‘There’s a bump on your head, Tom,’ I say gently. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Tom.

  ‘Well, look.’ The doctor stands. ‘Let’s check everything over today. And hopefully in a few days, time we’ll have some answers and he can be back at school.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t want my son anywhere near that school right now. Not until we’ve found out more about this head injury. If it didn’t happen when he fell …’

  The doctor eyes me seriously. ‘I have to tell you, social services will take a very dim view of you keeping Tom off school. They’re involved with you already, aren’t they?’

  I look back at him, anger flooding my bloodstream. ‘Are you saying that I can’t even keep Tom off school now? I don’t have that choice as a parent?’

  ‘Parents have very few choices when it comes to education,’ says the doctor, looking down at his clipboard. ‘It’s a legal requirement.’

  I tuck the blanket tighter around Tom, smoothing the fabric under my fingers, trying and failing to calm myself.

  The doctor leaves.

  And I’m glad about that, because I was a few deep breaths away from screaming: Don’t you understand? Something is happening at that school!

  Kate

  5.46 p.m.

  ‘Will you get us fish and chips then?’ Lloyd asks. ‘Joey. Get off!’

  Joey is hanging onto Lloyd’s leg, giggling helplessly.

  I’m in the Neilsons’ kitchen and have just found animal droppings in the cereal cupboard, plus a chewed hole in a box of Crunchy Nut Corn Flakes.

  Pauly’s little face appears in the doorway, looking hopeful. ‘Fish and chips?’

  ‘Well, we can’t have cereal,’ says Lloyd. ‘There was vermin. That is unsuitable.’

  Vermin. Unsuitable. It’s astonishing how Lloyd has picked up the social services language, aged eleven.

  ‘Are you getting us fish and chips, Kate?’ Joey asks from Lloyd’s leg.

  ‘I can’t leave you alone.’

  ‘But Mum does it all the time.’

  ‘Well, she shouldn’t.’

  ‘You’re shit, Kate,’ says Joey simply.

  ‘You have to give us something,’ says Lloyd, volume rising. ‘Joey, get off!’ He shakes his little brother onto the carpeted kitchen floor.

  I’ve never seen carpet in a kitchen before. I now understand the hygienic power of lino like never before.

  ‘I can’t leave three young boys unsupervised.’

  ‘But we’re starving!’ Lloyd bellows.

  ‘You’ll have to wait until your mum gets home.’

  ‘And when will that be? She won’t be back today. I couldn’t get any meds for her.’

  My head flicks around. ‘What?’

  Lloyd, clearly realising he’s said the wrong thing, heads into the living room and throws himself onto a leather sofa.

  I follow him, finding Pauly with his nose inches from the giant flat-screen, watching zombies kill each other.

  ‘I’m glad you brought that up, Lloyd,’ I say. ‘That’s something we need to talk about. The tablets.’

  Lloyd feigns innocence. ‘What tablets? I was just joking.’

  ‘The tablets the caretaker said you had. Those tablets. The tablets the police couldn’t find. The ones your headmaster says you’ve stolen from the school before.’

  Lloyd’s expression contorts with rage. ‘Fucking Cockface. Lying fucking Cockface.’

  ‘Lloyd, just tell me the truth.’

  ‘I already told you. I never got those tablets from the medicine cabinet.’

  ‘So you did have tablets?’

  ‘I got given them by a kid in Pauly’s class.’

  ‘Lloyd!’ Pauly yells. ‘That’s my best mate.’ He hurls himself at his brother, all elbows and fists.

  Lloyd calmly picks Pauly up and throws him onto the sofa.

  ‘Are you saying …’ I pause,
choosing my words carefully. ‘You’re saying a child in Pauly’s class gives you his medicine? Prescription medicine?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And do you, by any chance, throw the empty bottles at the back of the school field?’

  ‘Have you been spying on me?’

  ‘Social workers know everything,’ I say.

  Lloyd snorts with laughter. ‘No they don’t. Half the time, they don’t even spell my name right.’

  ‘And that child,’ I say, knowing I’m on dangerous ground, professionally speaking. ‘Would that child in Pauly’s class be Tom Kinnock?’

  ‘She’s Tom’s social worker too, Lloyd,’ whispers Pauly. ‘He must have grassed you up.’

  Lloyd balls his fists. ‘I’ll kill him, the little shit.’

  ‘He didn’t say a word to me,’ I say. ‘I worked it out. Why would Tom Kinnock give his medicine to you?’

  ‘Because I ask him to.’

  ‘Ask? Do you mean threaten?’

  ‘I ask. It’s not my fault if kids are scared of me.’

  ‘So, what would happen if he didn’t give you this medicine?’

  ‘I’d … well, we’d have to have a talk, wouldn’t we?’

  I’m wide awake now, despite being extremely tired, and it’s hard not to rush out questions. ‘Have you ever met Tom Kinnock’s father? His name is Olly.’

  ‘No,’ says Lloyd.

  ‘You’re sure? He’s never come into the school or anything like that?’

  ‘Tom wants to see his dad,’ says Pauly. ‘He told me. But his mum won’t let him.’

  Lloyd’s eyes narrow. ‘Should you be asking me about other social worker kids? Isn’t that un-pro-fession-al?’

  He’s a much brighter boy than the teachers give him credit for.

  ‘Let’s talk about you, then,’ I say. ‘Why would you take medicine from this boy, Lloyd?’

  ‘The doctors won’t give our mum enough meds,’ Joey pipes up. ‘So Lloyd gets them for her. And sometimes he takes them too.’

  ‘Joey.’ Lloyd turns to him, fists clenched, then leaps on his younger brother.

  Not one to miss a fight, Pauly jumps into the punches, trying to defend little Joey from Lloyd’s hard fists.

  As tough as Pauly is, he’s no match for Lloyd, who easily throws him across the room, then sits on him and starts punching his face.