by C. P. Wilson
Harry: Okay, Jenna. I’ll give you some space, but will be here if you need me.
Jenna: God! You really are a total poof, Harry.
Harry watched Jenna’s icon switch from ‘active’ to ‘inactive’.
Forcing himself to brush off the exchange, Harry told himself that there must be some misunderstanding on her part and resolved to message her again tomorrow to clear things up.
Despite his attempts to view Jenna’s outburst as merely a mistake, Harry discovered that sleep eluded him. A deep sense that his world had loosened once again weighed down on Harry, preventing him from lapsing into true sleep. Deep into the early hours, Harry racked his brain, shrugged off his worry and searched for sleep. Again and again his mind would wander back to Jenna, rather than burrowing into the comfort of sleep.
Morning reached for him far too soon. Light, a slash from a crack in his curtains, crawled its way across the floor, chasing away sleep and illuminating his fears as the new day approached.
Finding that all the certainty in his world had diminished, Harry decided that he didn’t need to upset Drew that morning and rose with bleary eyes to begin his morning chores before the man woke.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Harry’s phone beeped. Checking the screen he discovered another message from Jenna. Visibly sagging, Harry dropped his PlayStation controller and retrieved the phone, expecting more of the same type of message he had been receiving in the intervening weeks since Jenna had decided he was the worst person in the world.
Harry had initially pleaded with her to explain her sudden shift in regard towards him. Jenna had responded with a torrent of abuse and ridicule. Deciding that the prospect of rekindling their friendship wasn’t an option anymore, Harry also wondered whether he truly wanted someone as nasty as Jenna had become in his life at all. Certainly he did not want to receive any more of her messages. Harry had considered blocking her, but the recent content of her messages left him fearful of the wider impact of her online abuse of him and feeling as though he needed to monitor what she was saying about him. Unable to ignore her messages, Harry simply stopped responding.
With a deep sigh, Harry opened the Messenger app.
Jenna: Hey, gay-boy. I see someone else has discovered what a piece of shit you are.
http://www.harryjardinesucks.com
Harry couldn’t help himself. Clicking on the link he found himself taken to a website with the header ‘Harry Jardine Sucks’. The main page held an introduction detailing how he was a closeted homosexual who preyed on young girls to disguise his homosexuality.
‘Why can’t Harry Jardine take pride in his sexuality instead of repressing it and preying on young kids?’ the writer enquired.
Tears streamed down Harry’s cheeks as a new variety of pain and humiliation arrived in his life. Wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands, Harry focused on a visitor counter at the right of the screen. Sitting at only eight, he felt marginally reassured that it was a relatively new site and so few people were aware of it.
Harry noticed a menu tab on the website. Selecting it, he found only one option. ‘Galleries’.
Clicking the link, he found the page filled with dozens of thumbnails, each a badly-Photo-shopped image of himself engaged in sex with men, old women and the occasional face-swapped dog.
Swearing loudly, Harry threw his phone across the room. Drew rushed into his bedroom as the phone landed.
“Watch the language,” he barked from the doorway, before noticing the phone at his feet. Harry watched as his step-father spotted the screen and bent down to retrieve it. Drew’s face changed from his usual bitter-angry expression to one of pure, simple joy.
“Well, well, well,” he mocked. "Looks like someone doesn’t like you very much, dickhead."
Harry ran at his step-father. Slapping the phone from his hand, he shoved Drew two-handed, toppling him backwards onto his arse. Following him out into the hall, Harry stood fists clenched and red-faced over Drew who was snickering.
“Get up, you prick,” he demanded.
Drew laughed loudly from the floor.
“Oh, I’m not gonnae fight ye, son,” he said jovially, shrinking Harry’s anger instantaneously.
Drew stood. Bobbing a nod at the phone lying on the carpet in Harry’s bedroom, he said, “I’d worry more about that website than standing here trying to be the big man with me, Harry-lad.”
Drew descended the stairs, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, leaving Harry to stand there feeling deflated and foolish. As Harry calmed, a notion occurred to him, sending him scuttling after his phone.
Opening Facebook, then Snapchat, Instagram, Twitter and several WhatsApp groups he was in, Harry found that the website link had been shared hundreds of times across all social media.
Flicking at his screen, he returned to the site to check the visitor counter. In the short minutes he had wasted confronting Drew, the counter had leapt to over three thousand visitors. Stood staring at the counter as it continued to rise, Harry searched his mind trying to figure out why anyone would do this to him, let alone someone who had been his best friend.
Harry Jardine closed his eyes tightly. Allowing his phone to drop from his hand, Harry retreated to a place in his mind where none of this was happening to him.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“See you tomorrow, Jane,” Dougie called after the departing third-year as she left his room.
“Thanks, sir,” she replied with a backward glance, disappearing down the nearby staircase.
Dougie glanced up to find Bill Storrie strolling along the corridor toward his classroom. Nodding a greeting, Dougie leaned against his doorframe to wait as Frankie Malone emerged from her classroom next door.
Already in her coat, with her bag over her shoulder, Frankie smiled as she passed her mentor.
“Good luck tonight,” Dougie said.
Frankie smiled nervously, crossing her fingers, before departing.
“Frankie’s quick out the door tonight,” Storrie observed as he reached Dougie’s room.
“Aye, she’s got a match on tonight.” Dougie strolled through to his room and began shuffling papers on his desk. Following him in, Storrie rested against a workbench, observing his friend.
"How’s your day been, Dougie?" he asked.
Dougie sighed. "It’s been fine, Bill. Don’t worry about me."
Storrie nodded. “Five years today. It’s gone fast, hasn’t it?”
“No,” Dougie replied flatly. “Not really.”
Deciding that Dougie was indeed fine and in no mood to talk, Storrie straightened himself, smoothing his suit jacket down.
“Just wanted to check in, y’know. See how you are.”
Dougie continued to silently gather and rearrange sheets of paper from his desk. Storrie took the hint and made for the door.
“Thanks for remembering,” Dougie called after him.
Smiling to himself, the head teacher continued from Dougie’s room and headed along the hall, passing a red-haired pupil headed in the opposite direction.
From his room Dougie heard Frankie’s door handle being tried and shaken in frustration. Someone, a kid, swore loudly, exasperated at Frankie’s absence.
“Language!” Dougie yelled, walking to his door to see who was at Frankie’s.
Finding Harry Jardine outside Frankie’s room, Dougie noted the boy’s red-rimmed eyes, puffy face and dishevelled hair.
The kid’s eyes were busy, and a desperation showed in his expression.
“Sorry, sir,” he offered quickly, his eyes darting to Frankie’s door then along the corridor.
Dougie waved him off. “It’s fine, Harry.”
Dougie watched as Harry turned to depart.
“C’mon in for a minute, son. Compose yourself for five minutes before you go.”
Harry turned to look at Dougie. After a moment’s considering, Harry’s face crumpled and the kid burst into tears. Holding his hands up to his face, as though to h
ide the emotion, or perhaps hold it in, Jardine scurried quickly into Dougie’s room.
Dougie pulled out a chair. “Have a seat, Harry,” he suggested.
Harry accepted the seat. Crouched over, hands still over his face, Harry wept quietly for a few moments. Pulling a chair over, Dougie seated himself facing the distraught fourth-year.
Placing a hand on Harry’s back, he patted him several times without asking any questions. When Harry’s tears subsided, he lifted his head up to smile apologetically at Dougie.
“Sorry, sir. I just wanted to talk to Ms Malone about something and when I found she wasn’t there…”
“It was the last straw,” Dougie finished for him.
Harry nodded.
“Don’t worry about it, Harry. We all need a cry from time to time.”
Harry wiped at his eyes and then his nose with the cuffs of his sweater, nodding his thanks.
“Look, if you need to talk, I’m happy to listen?”
Harry locked his eyes on Dougie’s, showing him the stress and pain residing in them.
“I’ve been talking to Ms Malone a few times now. No offense, sir, but I’d rather talk to her tomorrow.” Harry’s eyes fixed on the floor for a few moments as he decided something. “It’s a bit embarrassing.”
Dougie smiled warmly. “That’s no problem, Harry. Maybe see Ms Malone before registration?” he suggested. “She’s always in about half an hour early.”
Dougie stood. “You want some water or anything?”
Harry looked up at him guiltily. “I’ve been getting bullied, online, y’know? Ms Malone’s been helping me.”
“That’s good,” Dougie said. “Ms Malone will see you right. You’re doing the right thing talking to her, Harry.”
The kid stood to join Dougie. Watching him rise to his full height, Dougie noted how tall Harry had grown since he’d taught the lad in S1, broad too. It was difficult for Dougie to imagine a big laddie like him being physically intimidated by anyone, which, he supposed, was the worst part of online bullying. It didn’t matter how physically able the person was. Unlike good old-fashioned violent bullying, there was, in the teenaged mind, no escaping cyberbullying. It followed them everywhere they went. It was on every screen and in every room, it lived in their pockets. Unable or unwilling to disconnect from their varied social media, devices and apps, they simply had no refuge from its relentless presence.
Harry looked down at Dougie, wiping the last of his tears away.
“Thanks, sir,” he blurted, then took off along the hall and out of the science wing.
Staring along the corridor, Dougie Black smiled sadly to himself. Helping kids, that had always been the gift of his job. No matter how heavy the workload became, the kids made it a job worth doing. Whether it was showing them how to solve something they thought they weren’t able to, teaching them all about their world, or just being there when they were hurting or stressed, or grieving or lost. Those moments were what gave Dougie purpose. Those moments and that need were what kept him moving forward after Mary had died and grief had threatened to swallow him entirely.
After loss, and the swell of grief that follows, there is for each of us a time spent waiting.
Waiting for pain to pass, for wounds to heal and for torn love to fade to a dull throb. But it doesn’t, because it rarely does: we simply become accustomed to the pain.
So that time is spent, not waiting for the loss to subside, but finding the strength and the endurance required that we might add it to our burden and be able to move forward with a shadow of our former vigour.
Despite this we know that we will continue to live and to love and move onward. But that knowledge that we will continue sometimes seems the worst part of loss.
Dougie Black accepts that his life is a faded version of the world he existed in with Mary. Done is done and gone is gone. Life continues whether we will it to or not. He accepts that he’s half a person, and can never be whole again without her. Dougie Black also knows that he has purpose. The kids, co-workers, and of course Karen. These people matter, and he matters to them.
These kids need him and just as surely he needs them. When at his worst, these children, and the role he fills for them, fortify him. Kids like Harry Jardine give him his purpose and truly save him.
Feeling blessed to have his job and his life, Dougie Black gathers his coat and leaves his classroom, taking a mental note to check on Harry in the morning.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“… You lazy wee arsehole.”
Harry’s gummed eyes flickered and pulled at the lids; his mind began picking out the words.
“I said, move your arse, Harry,” Drew roared, his mouth an inch from Harry’s ear.
Disoriented from the abrupt awakening, Harry swung his legs over the edge of his bed and rubbed at his eyes. Drew shoved him roughly onto his back and climbed, one-kneed, onto Harry’s bed. Pinning Harry with his full weight, he slapped his step-son lightly, almost playfully, on the cheek.
“Been acting the big man recently, haven’t we, Harry-lad? Well, that website you’re the star of has certainly laid yer filthy secrets bare for every cunt tae see.”
Not quite fully awake, Harry began mouthing a response. A heavy open-handed slap across his mouth silenced the sixteen-year-old.
White-hot rage flared in Harry Jardine and he reared up under Drew, but his much heavier step-father had shifted his weight to compensate. Harry succeeded only in pinning himself more tightly under Drew.
Drew struck down at him again, a fist this time. He’d grown big, but Harry was still a child being struck by a full-grown man. The blow stunned Harry. Flashes and black spots danced before his eyes. In his element, Drew struck him again, a hammer fist to the temple. Harry lost consciousness for several seconds.
When the world seeped back into his senses once again, Drew was in full monologue.
“You should have had the good sense to just fuck off yourself when that useless father of yours died. You fucking ugly, fat-faced reminder of a waste of space. Fuck you and your dead dad. No wonder he spunked out such a fucking pervert. Your mother is lucky I fuck her at all after your spastic father had been in there.”
Primal urges crested in Harry’s soul in response to Drew’s cruel words, which struck far too close to Harry’s own deepest insecurities. In deep anger once more, Harry bucked his hips up and rotated his shoulders. The motion rocked Drew wildly, but he steadied himself almost instantly and punched Harry again, sending him spinning back onto blissful unconsciousness.
When Harry Jardine finally dragged himself back into consciousness, he rocketed to his feet, swinging wildly at nothing and no-one. Panting frantically, his heart threatening to explode, Harry’s eyes bulged and took in the room. Desperate for something to hurt, he threw a fist at the door, smashing through the thin plywood.
For thirty full minutes, Harry raged and railed and struck and smashed until all the anger in the world had channelled through him. Unspent, he stood sweating and heaving large lungfuls of air into his body.
A sense of where and when he was returned and Harry slumped onto the carpet, his legs crossed, his back arched over. Harry choked a sob and fought back the urge to cry.
Cursing himself. Cursing Drew and Jenna and his mother, Harry stoked his anger, shifting its coals and embers. Hate for each of them for what they’d done to him and what they were each still doing to him kept the anger smouldering. Harry fed it the oxygen it needed in the form of his pain, of which he had a near-unlimited supply.
Back off, Harry.
Harry Jardine sucks.
You’re an ugly little bastard, just like your father.
Can’t you just stay out of his way, Harry? Why do you have to anger him?
Harry brought their words, spoken over a lifetime, to the fore of his conscious mind and tossed them as fuel onto the hate-blaze developing inside.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed against his leg insistently.
With cold, prima
l, emotionless purpose he noted the Messenger logo and Jenna’s name then swiped the screen. An image of a tiny penis surrounded in ginger pubic hair appeared. Beneath was the message ‘Everyone’s gonna see this dick pic you sent me’.
Harry’s mind did not screech, ‘It isn’t me, I didn’t do that.’
It did not urge him to tears or to anger or to bemoan his life. Instead his brain slid a numb gossamer over his world, shielding Harry from the reality he existed in. Harry slipped into autopilot, retreating to his vacant place.
Unfeeling, an automaton, Harry Jardine rose to his feet, dressed himself in his school uniform and descended the stairs to the kitchen. Someplace else, unaware of his hands, Harry did not feel those hands collect a large kitchen knife and slide it into his schoolbag.
In a stupor, Jardine rode the bus to school, idly observing the sunlit fields of Inverleith Park. Harry’s eyes showed nothing of his soul as he entered the doors of Cambuscraig High School. Cruel words, vicious mocking and unending taunts swirled around his mind. Harry Jardine cowered from them in his vacant place as his body made its inexorable way to Mr Black’s Biology room. Where Jenna was. Where James Beath was. Where his subconscious drove him to strike out against every injury he had ever borne.
Harry shoved the door open, causing it to clatter against the wall and rebound towards him. Without volition, his hand shot out to catch it in its path. Harry let it go to close behind him and strode into the classroom. As the class, and Mr Black, turned to see who had entered, he fixed his eyes on Jenna and blew fresh oxygen onto the hateful embers that had been smouldering inside him. Shifting his eyes to Beath, Harry’s anger conflagrated, consuming entirely whatever shred of conscious control remained of him.
