by J. A. Baker
‘There’s an ongoing incident at the school, Mrs Bowron. Do you have a number so we can contact Dane’s father?’
Nina’s head vibrates. Her skin burns hot then cold, perspiration coating her top lip. ‘Is he dead? Has he killed somebody? Oh God, what’s going on?’
No change in their faces, their eyes remaining impassive, giving nothing away. Consummate professionals, she thinks. She should trust them. They know what they’re doing. She speaks candidly, hoping to offload her worries, to let them know of Dane’s state of mind, how desperately angry he is. How his father caused it. How she caused it, her impulsive actions leading to this moment.
‘We’ve had a few troubles at home. Me and Dane’s father. They both left the house this morning really upset and angry, especially Dane. Whatever he’s done is my fault. You can blame me. He’s young – distressed and hurting. I’m the one at fault here. Me and his dad.’ She can’t stop the tears. They cascade now, a river of them tumbling down her face, dripping off her jaw onto her lap.
‘Dane hasn’t done anything wrong, Mrs Bowron. There is an incident at the school and your son’s class is caught up in it, but as far as we are aware, Dane didn’t instigate it.’
Relief and confusion meet and merge in her head, her ability to think clearly attenuating with every passing second. She has no idea what to do. What to say. ‘How do you know? What’s going on? How do you know that Dane didn’t start this thing?’ Shame washes over her. Listen to yourself, she thinks, throwing your own child to the wolves, trying to implicate him when they have already established that he is an innocent bystander.
Her fingers are cold. She clasps them in her lap, wringing her hands in desperation.
‘We can’t divulge too much information at this point but what we do know is that a firearm is present in the classroom and we’re doing all we can to defuse the situation and bring out all of the pupils unharmed.’
Nina stares at the officer. He has kind eyes, his demeanour softening as he speaks. She should offer them a hot drink, perhaps some biscuits but can’t summon up any energy, afraid she will drop to the floor if she attempts to stand. She almost laughs out loud at the absurdity of it all. She is indoctrinated to a certain way of thinking. Even in times of dire need, in the worst possible circumstances, she feels the need to offer beverages to try and make everything better, to ease the shock, like her nana making tea for everyone in the street after their houses had been bombed, their lives shattered and ruined. It’s what we do, she thinks numbly, a way of bringing people together. Tea and coffee – the universal glue of humanity.
‘There’s coffee,’ she says weakly, ‘in the kitchen. In the percolator if you want any…’ She isn’t able to say anything else. Her throat is constricted, her mind skewed, the process of talking, suddenly a gargantuan effort.
One of the officers leaves the snug and heads over to the kitchen worktop, pouring out three cups before striding back and placing one of them in Nina’s hand, carefully wrapping her fingers around the base. ‘There you go. I didn’t add any sugar.’ Her voice is gentle, considerate, this female officer who sits down next to her. This person doing their best to inform and prop up a woman whose son is in danger.
Nina takes a sip, allowing the heat to soothe her, to clear her thoughts. She takes a breath, formulating the words in her head before saying them out loud. ‘He got into trouble recently, at school.’ She looks up, observes their faces, searching for something – anything to show that they are interested in what she has to say. The other officer nods and waits for her to continue.
‘He went to one of his teacher’s houses and somehow got inside. I told him he was trespassing and could even be arrested for it. He seemed sorry afterwards.’ As sorry as Dane can ever be, she thinks sadly. As sorry as she has ever seen him be for any of his misdeeds and acts of defiance. It was a start at least. And now look what has happened. One step forward, a hundred steps back.
She swallows down her tears and rubs at her face with her free hand, a small amount of coffee splashing onto her lap. ‘Sorry. I’m a bit…’ She isn’t sure what she is, or how she feels or even what it was she was going to say.
‘Do you know what teacher it was?’ the male officer says, his authoritative tone present once more.
‘I, er.’ Nina takes a sip of the coffee, its strong tobacco flavour coating the back of her throat. ‘It was Mr Rose. He got inside Mr Rose’s house and even sneaked upstairs where his mother was sleeping.’ She looks up, renewed fear creeping up her spine. ‘I told him it was wrong and that he should never do anything like that again, especially when there is a frail old lady in the house.’ She dips her head and squeezes shut her eyes to stop any more tears from escaping. ‘He’s just immature, that’s all. Easily led and impressionable. He’ll change. I know he will. It’s just a matter of time.’
The officers exchange a knowing glance and her stomach plummets. ‘Is everything okay? Did I say something wrong?’
‘We really need you to get in touch with your husband, Mrs Bowron. We would rather he didn’t hear of this from another source.’
34
‘We’re trying to establish a motive. Our team need to negotiate with Mr Rose, to work out a way to get everybody out safely.’
Pat watches through bleary eyes as officers buzz about, taking over her office. A full lockdown situation. A teacher brandishing a firearm. A nightmare scenario.
Her head thuds, her mind slows down, all previous training preparing her for this situation abandoning her as shock sets in, a concrete slab that sits at the base of her stomach, rigid, heavy, unyielding.
‘We need to know everything about this man.’ The officer leans down, his large hands spread over the table. ‘Everything. Past history. Family. Work. Pupil disagreements. Everything.’
She swallows, nodding and riffling through papers on her desk, thinking of Dominic, the way he has plodded through life, his deep intellectual mind, his quiet ways. Her abrupt manner when she spoke with him recently. Flames sneak beneath her skin, white hot, fiery. She dabs at her face, rubbing at her eyes, trying to think of something to tell this man, anything that will help them understand what is going on inside her colleague’s head.
Nobody could have predicted this. Nobody. It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it? They sneak up on you, take you by surprise. She isn’t prepared for this, probably never will be. Regardless of training, regardless of how many practise runs she has experienced, nothing could ever prepare somebody for an event of this magnitude. It’s terrifying, mortifying.
The officer turns away, speaks into his radio in hushed tones, his words mumbled and indecipherable. The crackle rumbles through Pat’s head, making her squirm, pinpricks of terror and dread darting through her pores. He listens intently then utters a few more words and turns back to face her, searching for something she feels sure she cannot give. Dominic has ambled through life, through his career, upsetting nobody, keeping his head down, doing what needs to be done then going home at the end of the day. His presence is a whisper, his manner quiet and unobtrusive. His visit to her office was out of character. Was that a sign? If so, it was a subtle one. Too nuanced to be of any note. This current situation isn’t something she could have ever predicted. A slight change of character isn’t necessarily indicative of a tormented broken mind. People have bad days, they get tired, jaded. And then they go home, rest, regroup and come back the following day rejuvenated, ready to tackle whatever life throws their way. They don’t bring a rifle into school and point it into the faces of terrified children.
She thinks back to when they were younger, to the time they spent together in college, she and Dominic, both of them applying for and accepting job offers in the same school. All that time, all those years that have passed and yet his life has remained static, nothing changing while she left this place to further her career elsewhere only returning here decades later to take up a managerial post; older, wiser, married and with three children.
Dom
inic was still the same, she thinks sadly, his life still stuck in a familiar old groove, his life as a bachelor after Clara going missing, a route from which he never deviated. A clever man, he could have gone so much further up the ladder of success but chose to stay as a classroom teacher, working at the chalkface, his skills directed towards the pupils as he filled their heads full of knowledge. That is still a decent thing to do, but has it left him too rigid in his beliefs, his vision blinkered to the views of others? Is that what has happened here? Has a lack of experience and diversity in his life led to a lack of compassion and empathy towards others?
‘We have a report of a pupil breaking into Mr Rose’s house a few nights ago. Do you know anything about this?’
She shakes her head, shockwaves running through her. ‘No, nothing at all. This is the first I’ve heard of it.’
‘A parent has informed us that their child recently admitted to breaking into the house while Mr Rose and his mother were both inside. The pupil got upstairs into his mother’s bedroom while the old lady was asleep in bed.’ Other officers crowd around the desk, hemming her in as they hear this latest piece of information. She can feel the heat from their bodies, knows that this could be serious and yet is unable to conceal her confusion.
She clears her throat and has to project her voice to be heard. ‘I think this must be a mistake. Whoever said this is possibly playing some sort of twisted prank.’
The commanding officer locks his gaze with hers, his pupils dark pinpricks. ‘Well, if you could let us know your views on this matter, we’d be most grateful. We need to take every lead seriously and breaking and entering is a serious offence. This gives us a possible motivation.’
‘I realise that, officer. It’s just that the statement doesn’t quite add up. I’m not saying the pupil, whoever they are, didn’t break in, it’s just that they must be mistaken about Dominic’s mother being in bed. She can’t be.’ Pat inhales, her chest and throat tight, the room suddenly at an angle, her head fuzzy as she clears her throat and speaks again. ‘You see, Dominic Rose lives alone and has done for quite some time now because his mum has been dead for over forty years.’
35
Dominic doesn’t have time to react. A vice-like grip attaches itself to his ankles and he is down on the floor before he is able to do anything at all. He feels the rifle leave his grasp, hears the heavy metallic clatter as it skitters across the floor, Alexander’s fingers still tightly curled around his leg.
He gasps, winded, having landed awkwardly, his old bones incapable of taking the force. His glasses bounce off his nose and slide out of reach. Fingers outstretched, he rummages around to try and find them, his vision limited, seeing only a blur of outlines, his nails raking along the hard surface as he claws and snatches at thin air.
Behind him, he can hear the high-pitched crying and shrieking of pupils and knows that he has to get up, to take charge again before one of them decides to steal his weapon from him. It’s the only thing stopping him from being ambushed by a gang of terrified angry teenagers. He didn’t plan on this happening but it’s underway now and he has to finish what he has started.
It’s all gone horribly wrong, he can see that now, everything falling away from him, spiralling downwards. It’s out of control. He is out of control. Not that it matters anymore. His life is over. Like it ever really began. A life without Clara was no life at all.
He refuses to fall into his own trap – to be reeled in by those dark, dark memories that he has suppressed, keeping them hidden for so many years – he will not allow them to rise to the surface and consume him. He will fight against them, giving them no space in his head. Instead, he will focus on the present, shake off this boy, this inconsequential slip of a lad, and get back up. That rifle, his father’s old farming rifle, is his property. It belongs to him and nobody can take it from him. This is his chance to show them all who’s boss. Years and years of being ignored and browbeaten, kicked aside and forgotten. Year after year of loneliness and heartache and desperation; they all have taken their toll both at home and here at work. He has at long last grown teeth, found the courage to stand up to those who have wronged him. And not before time. Maybe his father was right. Maybe he is a weakling, a lesser man. But not anymore. The time has come for a drastic change, for him to prove to himself that his dad was wrong, and to start fighting back.
With a sudden roar, he rises, pressing himself up off the floor with his hands, his bones creaking and protesting as he throws himself forwards and grabs at young Alexander, the boy he thought would help steer Dane in a different direction. The boy he had such high hopes for. It didn’t happen. Instead, he was dragged along in the slipstream of Bowron’s bad behaviour and now look at him, at what he is doing, trying to stop Dominic from keeping order in his own classroom. He’s the teacher here, not this Alex lad, this inexperienced child who knows nothing about life or how to manage people. Dominic is the teacher, the adult, the one who holds the position of authority in this room.
He slips and lands short of grabbing back the firearm, Alex pulling it away and holding it aloft.
‘Stop it, sir. Just fucking well stop it!’ The lad’s voice is thick with tears. There was a time a plea like that would have worked, stopping Dominic, pulling him up short, tugging at his emotions, but not now. He has reached his breaking point. Besides, what good would it do at this late stage? He’s stepped over a line, an invisible boundary that for years he has tiptoed around but never crossed, and now he has advanced over it, there is no turning back. He must do what has to be done. Finish this thing once and for all.
In his peripheral vision, he sees a flicker of a movement and turns. Through the glass pane, the slither of light that isn’t obscured by the barricades he has constructed, he is aware of a sea of faces peering in and knows that time is against him. Soon they will come with their rules and regulations, a team of highly trained officers who will restrain him and hold him fast, cuffing him before throwing him in the back of a police van, the sort you see on the evening news, the sort that houses the most dangerous of criminals, and he can’t let that happen. Not yet. Not when he still has work to do here.
With one last burst of energy, he throws himself forward, feeling the welcoming shape of his father’s gun as he snatches it out of Alex’s hand; the warmth of the wood, the reassuring heft of it sending a dart of desire through him. This rifle can save him. It could also end everything. Maybe that isn’t such a bad thing. Life is looking rather bleak at the moment, as dark as he can ever remember, his carefully crafted little world unspooling. Everything unravelling at a rapid pace.
His mood oscillates wildly, ranging from childish giddiness to the darkest anger he has ever known as he tips his chin forward, his voice projecting across the room. He smiles, liking the way it sounds – authoritative, commanding. Powerful.
‘Over there!’ He waves the firearm at the young lad who responds by crossing his arms and shaking his head, eyes glassy with tears yet at the same time, so full of fire. Such bravery and courage and valour, thinks Dominic with sadness. And yet such foolishness. ‘I said, over there.’ He is hissing now, his voice dropping to a whisper. It resonates around the room, clipping bare walls, hitting the cold tiled floor, a weapon in its own right.
‘No. I’m not moving. You’ll have to shoot me.’ The boy’s response takes him by surprise. Gasps from behind him cause his skin to prickle; anger and shock and even a little bit of glee pulsing through him at the temerity of this boy, this once obedient and hardworking student who has suddenly developed a steely side, a rod of iron running through him as he defies his teacher.
‘Very well,’ Dominic says, rising to the challenge. ‘Whatever you say.’ He brings the rifle up to his line of sight, aims it at Alex, takes a shaky breath and pulls the trigger as a shadow propels itself towards him from the back of the classroom, hurtling straight into his line of vision, her screams cutting through the moment.
Joss stops moving, stares down at her abdom
en, at the spread of crimson that is pulsing through her white blouse. She places her hands over her chest, continues gazing down at her bloodied hands and drops to the floor.
36
Kate wonders how it ever came to this. Alexander, her boy, her gentle sensitive son locked in a classroom, brandishing a rifle. Where the hell did he get a rifle from?
Christ. She shivers, pulls at her skirt, straightening out creases. Her fingers are numb, thin slivers of ice. Beside her, Anthony sits, his spine stiff, eyes unmoving as he stares straight ahead. The police contacted him, insisting he come home immediately, said it was for the best that they both be taken somewhere close to the school, somewhere neutral, and now he is wearing the same mask he wore at his previous job when his life was at its lowest ebb, his emotions hidden, unreadable. Both of them sitting next to one another, together side by side. Both of them alone.
It all happened so quickly. Pupils outside the classroom alerted management, who alerted the police, who are now positioned outside the door, watching it all unfold.
She can’t bear to think about it – her boy doing such a thing. Her boy, his hand curled around the butt of a firearm, his fingers tugging at the trigger. There has to be a mistake. Alexander is a nice boy, a sensible boy. The sort of boy who always sees reason when others have lost their heads and succumbed to irrationality. This isn’t him. Besides, where in God’s name did he get a rifle from? They don’t possess such a thing. Maybe this is some kind of sick prank that has gone horribly wrong and now he doesn’t know how to pull back from it. There will be others involved. He wouldn’t do this alone. Not Alex. Not her baby, her thoughtful beautiful boy. It’s absurd.
