by C. P. Wilson
As he approached the pair of teens who had become the focus of his agony, Mr Black stepped in front of him. Harry Jardine’s world turned to red.
Everyone’s did; and Dougie Black’s life dripped down the walls.
Part Three
The Present
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Almost tripping over a flagstone, Frankie recovers her footing, and continues her walk at pace towards the bus stop in Little France Crescent. Tears, tinted mascara-black dried and whipped away by the wind, have left streaks along her face. Frankie’s mind races. A slideshow of comments and accusations from social media speculating on Dougie and why he was attacked fill her thoughts. Almost all sense of who Dougie is to her is being buried under doubt and anger, and fear and hearsay.
Frankie Malone chokes a loud sob as she rounds the corner to find the woolly-hatted kid from the previous evening standing in the bus shelter. His earphones in, he is facing her, having obviously heard her sobbing and waiting to see who would follow the sound around the corner.
Recognising Frankie, he smiles, removes one earphone and holds out a cigarette for her. Frankie accepts gratefully. As they huddle closer to each other for him to light it for her, she asks, “Been here all night?”
He shrugs.
“I’m a night porter. Just finished my shift.” Giving her a few moments to enjoy the first puff of her cigarette, the kid sits back onto the shelter’s bench before asking, “You been visiting someone?”
“A… friend,” Frankie manages to choke out.
Frankie’s right cheek twitches, and she swallows another sob. Her hand begins to shake. The kid, to his credit, seems unfazed by the tear-streaked nervous wreck she has become.
“Must be someone in ICU if they’ve let you stay until this time,” he states. Frankie nods. The kid takes a long drag on his cigarette. “My dad was in the ICU in there,” he nods up towards the main building. “They did a great job looking after him.”
His eyes drift off into the middle distance. “Died after twelve hours. Car crash. Too much internal damage.”
Not knowing what to say, Frankie lets silence hang between them. The kid smokes some more before continuing.
“Spent most of the night flipping between being desperate for him to hang on, wishing he would hurry up and die, and feeling everything from guilty to abandoned to furious at him.”
He looks up at Frankie, a flash of embarrassment showing at his own rushed words. With another shrug he continues.
“That ICU room does fucking bad things to your brain,” he informs her.
Frankie nods her agreement as a number eight pulls in at the bus stop.
“It’s better in the daytime, but,” he says, stubbing his cigarette out with his foot, “and no matter how bad it feels to be there, you’ll be glad you were with them if they don’t make it.”
The kid’s face flushes red again, as he steps out of the shelter.
The bus doors swing open and the kid places a foot onto the step before turning back over his shoulder. “Hope your friend gets better,” he says, the doors closing behind him.
Frankie watches the bus swing back out into the road and move off. As it passes, she takes a deep breath to steady herself. Suddenly very aware of how quiet the area is, Frankie closes her eyes and breathes in the country air deeply, enjoying the absence of the beeps and whines that have been the soundtrack to her day and night since she entered the hospital. The kid was right: the ICU room had been filing her mind, driving her mad with the monotony of its machines and Dougie’s pressing presence.
Frankie abruptly ceases holding in her tears and just lets them flow freely. Little more than eighteen hours have passed since Dougie was attacked by Harry Jardine. At the mercy of events, Frankie realises at that moment that standing smoking in a bus shelter, having decided she was done with Dougie, is the first time she has taken a full breath into her body since blood and blackness had stained her world.
Frankie leans forward, bending at the waist, allowing a long, low scream to escape her lungs. A nearby dog whuffs at her before running off into the distance throwing her warning glances over its shoulder as it scurries away.
Frankie Malone breathes out the oppressive malevolence that has been growing so swiftly inside, relieving herself of the deep fear and throbbing pain she has been holding onto since her friend was slashed and stabbed and brutalised before her. Screaming out all of the terror of trying to patch Dougie’s wounds, the mind-numbing clinical sterility of the ICU room, and every dark thought she has had gestating for her mentor, Frankie Malone purges her mind of everything the last almost-day has forced her to endure.
Panting air back into her lungs, Frankie feels her thoughts clear and the ice in her guts melt. Lifting her head, she observes the beginnings of an orange-red glow dissolve up onto the horizon. For fifteen minutes, Frankie allows several buses to depart without her as she watches the clean, energising light fill the world once again. Slowly she pieces her soul together. Deciding that she will choose what she will and won’t believe about her friend, Frankie Malone makes the very simple choice to return to the hospital and the bedside of a man she knows in her heart has always been the good person she has known for more than a decade.
Turning to ascend the slow incline back up to the main building, Frankie feels her step grow lighter and her spirts warm with the rising sun. A number seven pulls up to the bus stop behind her. Distantly, Frankie hears passengers disembark.
“Frankie?” a man calls after her. Recognising his voice, Frankie Malone feels a second rush of gratitude and the final scraps of doubt flee her.
Turning to find Mr Storrie coming in her direction, she tosses aside their customary professional relationship and hurries towards her head teacher, catching him in a tight hug.
"You been here all night, Frankie?" Storrie asks.
Face pressed into his chest, Frankie nods; the tears are running along her cheeks once again.
“Christ,” Storrie swears. “I’m so sorry. The bloody media and the police have kept me busy. This is the first chance I’ve had to get here.” Storrie presses her gently back to regard her face. “I’m really sorry, Frankie. You shouldn’t have had to be here alone.”
Frankie shakes her head “It’s fine. You’re here now.”
A lifelong teacher, Storrie’s eyes take in Frankie’s face, assessing her instantly.
“You’ve seen the rumours, then.” It wasn’t a question.
Frankie wipes at her tears. “Yes,”
“It’s a load of shite,” Storrie states.
“I know,” Frankie replies, realising as she says it that she truly does know.
Storrie hands her a clean handkerchief from his picket.
Nodding at the main building he asks, “Want some company?”
Taking her time to clean the tears, and the detritus that had once been make-up from her face, Frankie nods.
Together, they make their way to the main doors, light filling the world once again behind them.
Interlude
BBC Scotland: Morning Bulletin
Catriona Shearer flattens out her warm smile, composing her face into an expression of concern.
“A high school teacher is reported to have been attacked by a sixteen-year-old pupil during school hours, late-morning, yesterday afternoon. Mr Douglas Black, a Biology teacher for almost forty years, was allegedly stabbed repeatedly in front of his class. The pupil, who cannot be named at this stage, is being questioned by police. Rumours have been circulating widely on social media questioning the nature of Mr Black’s relationship with the pupil who attacked him, as well as several other children.”
Catriona tightens her grip on her pen, clear disapproval breaking her professional distance.
“We now join our Edinburgh reporter, Mel Tanek, live from Edinburgh Royal Infirmary where Mr William Storrie has agreed to address the press.”
Mel Tanek, microphone in hand, stands with her back to a bank of mics and a lecte
rn erected outside the main entrance of the hospital. Stern-faced, she welcomes her viewers as the feed switches to her.
“We are live outside Edinburgh Royal Infirmary waiting for the head teacher of Cambuscraig High School to issue a statement regarding yesterday’s assault in the school. Mr Storrie, head teacher for almost…”
Mel spins around, reacting to the doors opening. Cameras begin flashing a blitzkrieg of light at the exhausted head teacher as he emerges from the building.
The camera pans away from Mel who continues to narrate as images of Mr Storrie approaching the lectern transmit.
“Mr Storrie has been head teacher at Cambuscraig for almost twenty years,” Mel continues.
As Storrie takes his place behind the lectern, he holds a hand up, beseeching quiet. It’s a gesture he has used many times during his career.
His face is creased with deep lines, his eyes dark and deep-set with lack of sleep and stress, but he appears determined and looks calm. As the journalists quieten, his gaze moves over each of them accusingly. Silence falls over those assembled, the cameras’ flashing and clicking the only sounds.
When it comes, Storrie’s experienced, authoritative voice is steady and clear.
“Yesterday, Mr Black was stabbed a number of times by a pupil in his classroom. Mr Black is currently stable, but in a very serious condition. The attack was witnessed by Mr Black’s fourth-year Biology class. As I’m sure you can appreciate, the pupils who were present, as well as the staff and the wider community of our school, are extremely distressed by the incident. Every single pupil and staff member in our school is being offered counselling.”
A hand shoots up from a journalist near to Storrie’s lectern. Storrie fires a malevolent look in his direction, allowing it to linger on the man, who responds by lowering his arm.
“Mr Black put himself in harm’s way to protect the children in his care. Without his actions, yesterday’s incident could have resulted in even worse consequences.”
Storrie’s dark gaze sweeps over the press, challenging them.
Tightening her grip on her microphone, Mel Tanek shifts her eyes so she doesn’t have to meet Storrie’s, but still appears to be looking at the head teacher.
“Mr Storrie,” she yells. “How do you respond to the allegations regarding Mr Black’s relationships with his pupils?”
Storrie lasers his eyes into Tanek, who straightens under his venomous glare, not shrinking an inch.
Storrie throws her a contemptuous sneer. Taking a breath, he visibly calms himself. His eyes never lose an ounce of their intensity.
“Douglas Black is an excellent teacher who has served his community for almost forty years. He has also been my friend for most of our lives. I will not stand here and give any airtime or credence to gossip from social media.”
Storrie’s head lowers, following a beat whilst he considers something. He looks back up, once again locking onto Tanek.
“If you wish to know the measure of Mr Black, ask any of the thousands of pupils he has supported throughout decades in the profession. Ask his friends, his colleagues. Ask the people who know and love him.”
Storrie leans slightly forward, addressing Tanek alone.
“These people will all tell you everything you need to know about the man lying inside that building.” Storrie juts his chin towards the main doors and swallows a hard lump of emotion. “Lying in that building,” he repeats, “dying because he couldn’t see a single one of the kids in his care hurt. Because his courage compelled him to intervene.”
Storrie whirls around. Brushing a hand in the air as the journalists fire questions at his back, he strides angrily back into the building.
Chapter Forty
Frankie looks up from her phone as Storrie enters the waiting room outside Dougie’s ICU suite. Red-faced and shuddering with adrenaline he raises a hand to Frankie, requesting a moment to compose himself. Eventually, he paces and breathes his way back to a semblance of calm. Frankie stands from her chair, joining Storrie at the window. Producing her phone for him, she shows him the loop they’re playing of his press appearance on the BBC app.
The banner Head Teacher Supports Mr Black is flashed in red across the bottom of the screen.
Storrie snort-laughs his derision. “Rotten bastards, so they are,” he informs her.
“You did great, boss,” she tells him, holding the phone up closer for his inspection.
Frankie scrolls the comments section at the foot of the video.
Storrie retrieves his reading glasses from his jacket pocket and leans in to view the screen as Frankie flicks through the comments, reading some aloud as the screen whizzes past.
Poor man’s done nothing wrong. Innocent until found guilty.
Should be more concerned with the teacher rather than made-up nonsense online.
No smoke without fire.
Well done to Mr Storrie for supporting his man.
The media are a disgrace.
Storrie’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “They’re so good at forming opinions and taking a stance, based on exactly nothing,” he observes. Last night’s doubt still fresh, Frankie mentally shrugs off a wave of guilt that threatens to roll over her and nods her agreement.
“People love to choose a side,” she offers.
“Fucking idiots,” Storrie barks. Leaning on the window sill with both hands, he scans the assembled press outside. “We’ve traded heroes for data and information and apps and rumours and spite,” he informs the window. "What’s on everyone’s screens are the only things on their minds. Some idiot sitting in their living room comments on a thread and it immediately becomes a narrative and then a fact. Screen… mind, it’s the same bastard thing now."
Frankie nods silently, allowing him to vent.
“I’m not going to let this happen to Dougie,” he says, calming.
“Me neither,” Frankie adds.
Shaking loose from his growing despair, Storrie turns to face Frankie. Smiling down at her, he tells the young teacher, “Dougie would be very grateful for you having stayed with him.”
Frankie’s eyes wander to rest on the door to Dougie’s suite.
“Why isn’t his family here?” she asks.
Storrie nods. Glancing at Dougie through the window into his room, he states, “He hasn’t told you about Karen? His daughter?”
Frankie shakes her head. “Other than knowing that she exists? No.”
Storrie closes his eyes, nodding to himself. Turning around to face Frankie, he places an arm around her, guiding her into the room. “C’mon, we’ll go sit with Dougie and I’ll tell you about Karen.”
∞∞∞
Settling into her seat, Frankie feels its now-familiar comfort support her back and sinks gratefully into the padding. Scanning around the room, she allows herself a wry smile, acknowledging how different the room feels in the daylight. The electronic noises ceased to grate, instead they reassure her with their consistent rhythm. Despite the loss of flesh, his pallor and the gauntness of his cheeks, Dougie too appears his old self to her eyes. No longer a stranger to her senses, no potential monster lurking beneath his skin, he has reverted to being who he has always seemed to her.
“What’s so funny?” Storrie asks, smiling at her.
Frankie shrugs. “Nothing, just feel good about being here again.”
“Dougie has always been strong where and when it counts,” Storrie tells her. “He’ll get through this.”
Frankie nods, non-committedly, watching silently as Storrie places his hand on Dougie’s right hand. Giving his friend’s lax hand a little squeeze, Storrie releases it and takes the other seat in the room and fixes his attention on Frankie.
“So… Karen,” he says.
“If that’s okay?” Frankie replies.
“Don’t see why not.” Storrie nods at Dougie. “He wouldn’t mind.”
Frankie settles deeper into her chair, inviting Storrie to begin.
“You know that Dougie and I have
been friends for a long time?”
Frankie indicates that she does.
“Well, we’ve known each other since primary school. Been through a lot together. At times, we’ve been closer than others, more often than not speaking every day. Many times over the years we’ve lost that daily contact for periods of time when life took over. Kids, work, weddings, family stuff… Deaths.”
Storrie shifts forward in his seat.
“Dougie and I got married the same year, within weeks of each other, actually. Dougie to Mary, and me to Barbara.”
Frankie smiles at Barbara’s name. Storrie’s wife, a warm and very personable person, is an active member of the local community and participates in a huge number of events and activities tied to the school and the wider community. As a result, Frankie has met Barbara Storrie many times.
Storrie acknowledges her smile before continuing.
“So we all got married. Barbara and I had our first child, and then two more. Mary and Dougie struggled to conceive. Not much in the way of IVF in those days,” he smiles.
“Anyway, for a few years Dougie and I had one of those phases where we didn’t see one another much. We didn’t work in the same school back then. Babs and I lost ourselves in the care of our children. The early years, the nappies, sleepless nights, the tantrums, starting school, taxiing them around from one activity to the next.”
Storrie smiles widely, warmed by memories of his grown children being infants.
“Well, Dougie and I were in different worlds for those years. On some level I think we avoided each other for a time. Nothing malicious, and mostly just circumstances, being busy parents, and all that. But I was very aware at times how full our lives had become, whilst Mary and Dougie were still patiently trying to conceive. I reckon we were a sore spot for them, that it had all come so easily to us.”
