by C. P. Wilson
Fletcher, the consummate professional, smiles supportively.
“You’re doing very well, Miss Malone.”
“Call me Frankie, please.”
Fletcher’s smile broadens. Offering a hand, she waits a moment for Frankie to shift her coffee to her left hand before taking the young teacher’s coffee-warmed hand in a firm handshake. The formality of the moment makes them both laugh.
“I’m Kerry,” the nurse says, taking a seat to Frankie’s left.
Reaching out to place a gentle hand on Frankie’s forearm, Fletcher leans in as she speaks.
“Look, Frankie, you’re coping really well here, but don’t be reluctant to take a break and go home for a while. Sort all this out in your head.”
Fletcher nods at the door behind Frankie.
“Mr Black won’t know any different, and I promise I’ll contact you if anything changes.”
Frankie’s eyes widen as she considers the comfort of a shower, her own sofa and a good cry alone. Eventually she shakes her head.
“No, maybe later, perhaps if someone else comes to sit with him.”
Fletcher nods her understanding. With a gentle tap on Frankie’s shoulder, she takes her leave. “I’ll be around until ten tonight, so let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Kerry.”
The nurse turns to leave before looking back over her shoulder. “This place isn’t a good environment to process major events like the one you’ve experienced today. At the very least, take a short walk.”
Frankie nods once and watches the nurse leave before sitting back against the hard chair. A tentative sip at the coffee confirms Frankie’s expectation that it’ll be the standard hospital coffee. Weak, luke-warm but exactly the comfort she needs right at that moment.
Rising to her feet, Frankie stoops slightly to allow her to look between the slats of the blinds covering the window into Dougie’s room. Exactly as before, her mentor lies almost lost in the array of wires and monitors. He looks so still. So small.
It’s a hard slap to Frankie. To see Dougie in this state.
In Frankie’s pocket her phone vibrates, nagging at her to engage with a world she wants to ignore for the moment.
Her cup now empty, Frankie stands perfectly still, aside from busy hands picking small chunks from her foam cup, her hands working away at its structure as busily as her mind works over the day’s events.
Harry Jardine. The look on Dougie’s face as the blade went into him. The blood.
Self-preservation flits her thoughts elsewhere, to the past.
∞∞∞
As a young probationer teacher at Cambuscraig, Frankie hadn’t been filled with the confidence present, at least from her point of view, in most of her graduating peers. Frankie had been well-prepared, no doubt about that. The fledgling teacher had spent days prepping. She’d planned her lessons well, come in to the school building at the weekend to practice the practical experiments she would be instructing the class in. Frankie had practiced the experiment again and again, to work out all the potential kinks or flaws, the little adjustments needed that experience alone could teach you. Frankie had employed her creativity and developed some innovative ways the class could approach the consolidation work, the written part of the lessons. She had prepared for everything: everything except 2P1, her second-year class.
Her very first lesson, on the very first day of her first year as a probationer teacher. The moment she’d spent hours preparing for couldn’t have gone to utter shit in a more spectacular fashion than what unfolded over the fifty excruciating minutes the lesson lasted.
Broken beakers, spilled chemicals, kids eating chocolate in the lab. Small fires being lit on workbenches. Jason Montague squirting iodine in Molly Robson’s face. Two boys in the class eating most of the onion they were supposed to be taking cell samples from. Two girls simply leaving the room, disappearing off outside to have a cig. While Frankie used eye wash to remove the iodine from Molly’s eyes, Jason and two of his friends began fighting in the lab, knocking over an entire bench full of chemicals. Her lesson, so carefully planned and anticipated, resulted in a classroom as meticulously destroyed as the young probationer’s confidence. A vague memory of screeching at the class “Why are you doing this?” at the top of her voice lingered to this day somewhere in the basement of Frankie’s memories. The pupils, of course, had laughed their arses off at the young teacher’s pleading. She made fine sport for them.
Until Dougie came into the room.
She’d been introduced to Dougie Black, amongst a handful of other teachers, at the end of the previous term but hadn’t paid him much attention. He was a quiet, unassuming middle-aged man. Large in stature, but otherwise unremarkable.
Without a word, his eyes had taken in everything and everyone in the room. Pupils who had been throwing equipment, running around the classroom, shouting, shoving or throwing things at each other abruptly dropped what they were doing. Within moments the room was in silence, every pupil stood with their arms at their sides looking guiltily at the senior teacher. Just like that, the mayhem ceased. The monsters morphed back into children again.
Frankie felt her fear flee, only to be replaced by the dread of what this experienced teacher would have to say to her when it was over.
Dougie Black folded his arms across his chest. He spoke calmly and quietly. Several of the pupils leaned in to hear better, such was the placidity of his tone. “Get this place cleaned up. Jason, Billy, Monica, Jordan. Get out into the corridor, please, and wait for me. Do not speak.”
Jason had stepped forward, clearly determined to argue, received a hard glare from Dougie and immediately filed out of the room in silence with the others Dougie had named.
Stood at the front of the room, Dougie folded his arms across his chest, observing the kids around him. His eyes missed nothing as he watched the pupils reassemble the room and return quietly to their seats.
Frankie, having dried off Molly, fought to hold back tears. Watching Dougie Black’s calm confidence, observing him utterly tame the monsters without raising his voice or showing one sliver of anger left her feeling completely inadequate and in awe of his skills.
At that moment, Frankie knew for absolute certain that she wasn’t cut out for teaching. What Dougie did, she just didn’t have that… power, that presence within her. It was over. One disaster of a lesson, and it was done.
The moment lingered for far too long. Dougie standing, his eyes moving over the pupils, meeting each of their gazes, assessing them. He pulled two more kids out of class, nodded firmly once in Frankie’s direction and left as silently as he had entered.
Frankie, the remaining pupils, the very air itself, stayed still for many long moments until the school bell abruptly shattered the spell. The remains of Frankie’s class filed out sheepishly. Molly Robson alone stopped to speak before leaving.
“Thanks, Miss,” she blurted.
Finally alone, Frankie’s dams crumbled.
When the tears had finally dried, Frankie had begun collecting her things into her bag and the box she used to carry her equipment between rooms. She had the next period allocated as non-contact, which was a huge fucking blessing to her in her current state.
As she tided away the remainder of her things, Dougie entered the room once again. His expression was the same one he’d worn for the kids. Mildly interested. Taking in Frankie’s tear-streaked, red and puffy face, he cocked his head to the side, spaniel-like, assessing her. Frankie was a rabbit in his headlights.
Dougie nodded at the box she’d been packing. “Scared you off, have they?” he asked.
Frankie’s eyes filled with hot, stinging tears once again. Defiantly she fisted the tears from her eyes. Dougie smiled at her and the weeping began again.
He didn’t try to comfort her, he didn’t try to explain or fix or to manage her; Dougie Black merely moved to silently park himself beside her, so that they sat, backsides on the teacher’s desk, side by side. There they re
mained until Frankie had cried herself out. Dougie said nothing throughout. He offered no insights, words of comfort or wisdom. He just let the devastated young teacher cry.
When it was over, he stood over her.
“Who’s your mentor for the year?” he asked.
Through snot and tears, Frankie blurted, “Mr Armstrong.”
Dougie snorted his disapproval. “Fuck that.”
Two words, that was all he said, and then he had left her to stand alone in the empty room.
∞∞∞
Outside the ICU, Frankie keeps her vigil, slowly picking at the diminishing Styrofoam and her past, wondering if she’ll ever have the opportunity to repay Dougie Black.
Chapter Ten
“Rotate your hands, please.”
Staring at the beige wall several feet away, Harry Jardine turns his hands over so the palms are facing down to the floor. The medical examiner, Dr Ferguson, begins to repeat the process he performed on the palms a moment ago, this time picking and scraping at the back of Harry’s hands and fingers, carefully swiping along the lines of the knuckles before placing swabs and wooden picks into waiting evidence bags held out for him by his assistant. A photographer circles Harry, his camera flashing as he catalogues the fresh bruises on the teen’s face and neck.
Harry is aware of an angry-looking police officer dressed in a crumpled suit simmering nearby but his attention is drawn back to the doctor and his prodding as he feels the man begin picking at his cuticles, and around and underneath his fingernails. Harvesting blood and hair. Shining a light into his eyes. Taking more swabs from his arms and clothing.
On a normal day, Harry flinches dramatically if his fingernails come into contact with something. Wooden desk tops, paintwork, soft fruit skin, rubber: each sends an uncomfortable shiver along his spine and an electric itch through his teeth when his nails brush against or dig into them. A peculiar idiosyncrasy Harry has demonstrated from early childhood, and one his close family consider annoying. Today, Harry is distantly aware of the doctor scraping, scratching and picking at his nails, but cares less for the sensation than a shark does for the presence of its pilot fish.
Whilst Ferguson and his team collect their samples from his person, bag up his clothes, examine each scrape and tear on his skin, photograph his body, face, feet and hands, Harry’s mind’s-eye replays him images of other moments from his life. A wholly immersive cinematic treat from his neurones that prevents Harry from thinking about where he is or why.
Running with his dad, playing, laughing and arguing with his friends and cousins. At the movies with his cousin, swimming alone, playing COD long into the early hours. These memories rush before Harry Jardine’s awareness bringing him no comfort. They are simply there. He is merely a spectator to his own life. Harry’s mind is providing a distraction, an egress from what his life has abruptly become.
On some level, Harry is as aware of his own detachment as he is of the mental images he’s being presented with by his subconscious. Far off, his conscious mind acknowledges the actions of Ferguson and his team, as they tend to the boy with the body covered in dried blood and tears, but Harry Jardine does not fully register or really care about them. He remains disconnected, unreachable as they do their work.
“Open your mouth please,” Dr Ferguson instructs.
Ferguson pulls and pushes around inside Harry’s mouth, coating a swab in the boy’s cheek cells. Harry’s eyes remain fixed on the wall beyond the doctor; his conscious mind remains in its vacation place throughout.
In the little medical room at the heart of the Fettes HQ, a Stepford version of Harry Jardine, one mercifully barren of all emotion or fear or guilt, dresses dumbly in a gown and allows blood samples to be taken. He even nods in all the right places when the social worker steps in to check on him.
As the doctor and his assistant depart with their many samples, a stray thought skitters across Harry’s consciousness. Reflexively, despite his stupor, the boy grasps mentally after it, catching it in a tight fist. A torrent of images that cannot be real stagger and stun him. The stray thought, still in his closed fist, abruptly falls apart and slips through his fingers like the finest sand to disappear, mercifully, into the void.
In the room Harry screams once, and then, mercifully, he lets go.
Interlude
Twitter:
Link attached: Edinburgh Evening News—Reported serious assault in Cambuscraig High School—Retweeted 2315 times
@michelleeb: My sister in law @julieannestott works at the school and told me that a secretary from the office she knows saved Mr Black’s life after that assault at Cambuscraig. #WellProud #MrBlack
@flatapex: Just horrible what’s happened at Cambuscraig High. Hope the teacher recovers and the wee bastard who attacked him gets jailed. @Michelle_Mc84 @canerri
@PlainOld1
#MrBlack
@bantambookworm Word is the staff are being questioned about the teacher having inappropriate relationships wi’ pupils. Dirty pig. @sheilababylol @MachinSharronm1
@pamfox1966: Not a chance. #Mr Black is a gent.
@cheekypee27: #MrBlack was entirely brilliant when I was at school. Don’t believe this.
@wayneowbridge: Cannae tell these days, pal. There’s no smoke without fire.
@roxypenguin: I don’t believe what the news is saying about #MrBlack
@CElaineramsay: I can easily believe it. Half these ones that work wi’ kids only do it to get in their pants, eh?
@BradyBob: Been saying this from the off. Paedo bastard. @cherryred_head. Telt ye this guy is a beast.
-------view more replies.
Chapter Eleven
Releasing a series of satisfyingly loud pops and crunches from her arms and spine, Frankie stands, arms stretched up and out above and behind her head and forces the last of the tension from the muscles around those shifting bones. Several hours of sitting around is starting to take a toll.
Turning to look into Dougie’s room, Frankie feels two sharp vibrations in her pocket.
A banner flashes on her screen.
‘Message from John’
Pressing her thumb to the home button, Frankie feels a surge of satisfaction at the communication. She misses John, and wishes that she was at home, away from all the unending bleeps and the sanitary smells. At home, in a bath, with John. Somewhere she could breathe again.
John: Hey, love. How’s it going?”
Frankie: Fine, John. Just been in and out the room, keeping Dougie company.
John: You must be tired.
Frankie: Exhausted!
John: Is he conscious?
Frankie: No. He’s not likely to be anytime soon, they reckon.
John: Why don’t you come home, get a shower, rest up a bit?
Three little dots blip and dance in sequence along Frankie’s screen as John adds to his message. Frankie gives him a moment, but the dots disappear. Whatever John was composing, he hasn’t sent.
Frankie: I have to stay a while longer.
John: If you think that’s best.
Frankie closes her eyes for several seconds. Partly she is talking herself out of responding sharply to her husband’s obvious disapproval, mostly she just needs a moment to compose herself. Too many emotions today.
Frankie: I do, love. But I’ll see you soon, ok?
Frankie waits, phone in hand for several minutes before deciding that John isn’t going to reply. As she moves to tuck the phone back into her pocket, it vibrates twice startling her.
A smile crosses her lips, relief at her husband having chosen to not dig his heels in.
Checking the screen, Frankie’s smile fades as she reads the banner.
‘Message from Jan’
Frankie’s eyes narrow then widen suddenly as it occurs to her that she hasn’t even thought of how Jan is. The last she saw of the receptionist was when she had held her while she cried as Dougie had been taken away by the paramedics. Swiping at her phone’s screen, Frankie’s heart sinks as
she reads.
Jan: Just checking to see how you are. I’ve been at Fettes Police HQ being interviewed by a DI Stephens for the last couple of hours. Very uncomfortable. Let me know you’re okay and how Dougie is.
Frankie: I’m fine. Still at the hospital with Dougie. Jesus! That sounds horrible, can’t have been pleasant going over everything with them. Not looking forward to that.
Jan: Yeah, it was really hard, but it wasn’t just describing that happened today, they also asked me some horrible things about Dougie.
Frankie’s eyes flick to Dougie’s bed then back to her screen.
Frankie: What sort of questions?
Jan: What sort of man he is. Whether he had ever spoke inappropriately to me, or if I’d heard of him doing so with someone else in the school.
Frankie: Fuck! Seriously?
Jan: Yeah. They also asked if I’d ever seen him act or speak inappropriately with the pupils.
Frankie feels the hairs on her arms rise as she presses send on her reply.
Frankie: That’s awful. What did you tell them?
Jan: I told them Mr Black is a lovely man. That I’ve never seen or even heard rumours of him doing anything inappropriate in the school. I told them straight that the kids love Mr Black, he’s not that sort of man.
A tear makes its way down Frankie’s cheek. Thank God Jan is as straight-talking as they come.
