Half The Lies You Tell Are True: An unsettling, dark psychological thriller.

by C. P. Wilson

  McCreadie startles as the classroom door slams open and Jardine enters.

  The camera dips down, leaving them with only a view of the floor for a moment, before tentatively rising again, at around waist height.

  McCreadie pauses the video. “You filmed it?” she asks, incredulous.

  Unwilling to look up at her, Mattie Gordon's voice assumes a whiney, defensive tone.

  “We always film those kind of activities. Mr Black picks one of us to film it so we can use it for other activities later, or for revision.”

  McCreadie’s eyes narrow as she reins in a minor surge of anger.

  “Yes, but you kept filming when Jardine came in.”

  Mattie’s silence does nothing to dampen McCreadie’s growing anger. Casting her eyes up towards Mrs Gordon, McCreadie finds a similar reaction emanating from Mrs Gordon, who is clearly disgusted with her son.

  Clicking the video again, McCreadie and Gilmour watch Harry Jardine enter the room. He fixes his eyes on the group of pupils, most notably on Jenna Hopkins. Jenna’s face is a mask of pure fear. James Beath steps in front of her protectively, but Jenna shoves her way past him again. Gilmour silently points out Jenna and James’ reactions to McCreadie.

  Mr Black greets Jardine, his expression shifting from puzzled concern to determined fear as Jardine raises the knife. Harry walks at pace in the direction of the pupils. At the speed he employs, Harry looks certain to reach the group of pupils until Mr Black flashes into his path. Without hesitation, Harry lunges and slashes and stabs at the veteran teacher.

  Mr Black stumbles forward, grabbing onto Harry with both hands on the boy’s shoulders. Mr Black takes an instant to cast a glance over his shoulder at the kids and then leans forward, driving Harry through the open door, out into the corridor.

  The last image of Mr Black shows him reaching to close the door behind them as Harry Jardine thrusts his knife into his teacher’s abdomen.

  The camera shakes around, losing any semblance of a clear picture as the kids rush past Mattie Gordon to reach the door. The final image the detectives see is of a group of children being ordered away from the door by James Beath, who is taking charge of the younger children.

  The video ends.

  Gilmour crosses the space between himself and Mattie.

  “Look at me, Mattie,” he orders. His voice invites no argument.

  The teenager brings his eyes up, but is unable to meet Gilmour’s.

  “Why didn’t you tell us about this yesterday?”

  Mattie’s eyes dart away once again, to his mother this time.

  “For God’s sake,” she snarls, stepping forward to speak for him. “He thought he’d get into trouble for filming it.” Mrs Gordon’s voice drips with disdain and sarcasm. She nudges her son again. “Tell them what you decided was the best way to deal with it,” she instructs him.

  Mattie Gordon, eyes lowered once again, speaks very quietly.

  “I posted it on YouTube this morning.”

  Gilmour’s guts fill with ice. “Why would you do that?”

  “I thought that if it was up there, then it would be out and I wouldn’t have to worry about having it to myself anymore.”

  Gilmour shakes his head. Retrieving his own phone, he opens the YouTube app and performs a quick search using the school name, Mr Black’s name and ‘teacher stabbed’ as search terms.

  The first item on the list is Mattie’s video. Noting the number of views, Gilmour glares at the teenager.

  McCreadie leans over his shoulder to view Gilmour’s phone.

  Five hundred thousand views and counting.

  Switching to his news apps and scrolling over several mainstream outlets, Gilmour feels the hairs on his arms raise.

  The video is being shared by every major outlet.

  “You absolute idiot,” he informs Mattie Gordon, before sprinting from the room to notify DI Stephens.

  Interlude

  Facebook

  The Scotsman (Web Edition)

  Edinburgh Teacher Dies Following Attack in School

  Sixty-four-year-old Biology teacher Douglas Black has died following a stabbing at Cambuscraig High School yesterday afternoon. Police Scotland have issued the following statement.

  “Mr Black was stabbed multiple times in his classroom yesterday afternoon and has unfortunately died from his many injuries. A witness has come forward with video evidence which clearly shows Mr Black choosing to put himself in front of the attacker, who seemed intent on harming children in his class.

  A sixteen-year-old pupil, who cannot be named at present, has been charged with Mr Black’s murder. We are not pursuing any other criminal enquiries in this case, particularly in relation to Mr Black, who died protecting his pupils.”

  Rumours circulating widely on social media questioning Mr Black’s conduct with his pupils appear to be unfounded and simply a cruel smear on a man who gave his life to protect others. Mr Black’s heroism appears to have been confirmed by the release of a video showing the attack.

  Mr Black is survived by his daughter, Karen.

  More on this story as details emerge.

  2197 comments: 782 shares

  - Caroline Vincent: RIP, Mr Black.

  - Shell Baker: Best teacher I ever had, so very sad.

  - Garry MacDonald: Not paedo then? I’m confused LOL.

  - Sumaira Wilson: Fuck off Garry, show some respect.

  - Michelle Ruedin: What a brave man. We should all wish to show such courage in the same circumstances.

   Sean Docherty: True words. Hero.

   Keith Nixon: I’d have done the same. Anyone would, no big deal.

   Livia Sbarbaro: RIP Mr Black. I was lucky to have you as a teacher.

   Marley: He’s Irish, eh? Gonna be a good wake.

  -------view more comments.

  Facebook

  Unilad:

  Video Link Attached (Graphic content):

  Hero-Teacher Fights Off Knife-Wielding Pupil

  1.3m views 100k shares

  - Chris Teal: Yeah, man. Better than UFC.

  - Gayle Karabelen: You’re a wank @ChrisTeal. That man saved those kids.

  - FruityFarts: That’s a true hero.

  - Mark O’Donnell: Kid was mental. See the size of that knife?

  - Scroobius Pip: Mr Black, legend.

  - Izatt: What about the wee dickhead filming the whole thing? Unbelievable.

  -------view more comments.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “Fucking idiots.”

  James throws his phone across the room to land on his bed. Jenna raises an eyebrow at him as he rants and paces.

  “Half of them are saying what a good man he was, and a hero. The other half are still talking about him being a paedo. It’s been a week now: anyone of them could view that video and see what Mr Black did for us, but they’re content to form half-opinions based on half-read headlines and comments from morons and trolls.” Exasperated, James stands. “I actually can’t believe how stupid people are.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about it, James. It’s just the internet.”

  James ceases his pacing and fixes an angry glare on his girlfriend. “I’m not having it, Jenna. I can’t have people talking that way about Mr Black.”

  Jenna rises from her seat. Taking James’ face in both hands, she considers her words before speaking.

  “I know, James. But what can we do? We can’t erase every thread or defend him over the entire web.”

  James nods.

  “The people who knew him know the truth.”

  “That’s the thing,” James breaks from her grip. “Kids in school who’ve known him for years, Christ, some of the pupils from his class that day are sitting wondering about him.”

  Jenna smiles sadly.

  “It’s the funeral tomorrow. Mr Storrie has arranged for the hearse to drive past school at break time tomorrow before it goes onto the service. All the senior pupils and Mr Black’s fourth-year class ar
e going to be at the front of the school as it… as he passes. There’s not much more we can do but go to the funeral and show our support.”

  James kicks at a piece of fluff on the carpet. Stopping mid-pace, he turns his face towards Jenna. A wide smile grows.

  “That’s it. That’s exactly what we’ll do,” he says.

  James strides to his desk and boots up his laptop.

  “What are you doing, James?” Jenna asks.

  "Wait and see," he replies over his shoulder.

  Jenna watches as James logs into his Facebook account.

  James clicks on ‘Events” and then ‘New Event’. In the title-space he types: ‘Mr Black’s Funeral’. Filling in the details, date, time, venue, James locates and then attaches a photo of Mr Black laughing with some of his pupils on a school trip to London.

  “James, everyone knows when and where the funeral is,” Jenna says softly.

  “It’s not about that,” he replies.

  Clicking on the ‘About’ section, James takes a deep breath. Clenching his knuckles, popping several finger bones, he sighs out his tension as he relaxes them onto the keyboard.

  Mr Black is being cremated at Warriston Crematorium tomorrow. Many of us will be there. Many will want to attend but have previous commitments - work, school, travel, kids.

  A number of us will be in two minds about whether to attend or not. The cameras will be there, no doubt. The journalists will yell questions and accusations. Some of you may even harbour lingering doubts as to the type of man Mr Black was.

  I want to remind you who Mr Black was to each of us.

  He was the teacher who was always available, no matter when we called for his help. He was the man who made time to chat, to teach, to listen. Mr Black would explain things in fifty different ways if needed until he found the right technique for getting a concept or method into our heads.

  Mr Black worked with us in his lunch hour, after school and during the holidays. He gave us lessons that challenged and entertained and educated us. He showed many of us things inside ourselves we were unaware of and triggered potential we may never have acknowledged without him.

  We’ve all read in recent days how much of his home life we knew nothing of. His wife and his daughter. That this man devoted so much of his time to us amidst the pain he experienced in his daily life is what makes him a hero. He gave us everything, especially at the end.

  I was in that classroom on that day. Mr Black did not hesitate to put himself between us and a knife. I saw the concern in his eyes as he shoved Harry Jardine from his room. The concern and the dread I saw in his eyes wasn’t for him, it was for us.

  Mr Black may be the reason some of us live today. He’s certainly the reason some of us know how to conduct ourselves or how to learn or care for others or to endure.

  Mr Black is ours. Fuck what anyone who isn’t us has to say about our teacher. We knew him. We were blessed to have him in our lives. We owe him our best.

  Please, every one of you who knew Mr Black. Who sat in his class, or benefited from his love. Each one of you who recall him fondly. Mr Back touched a lot of lives in his forty years’ teaching. Let’s show everyone how much this man meant to us.

  Please, please attend the passing of his funeral car outside Cambuscraig High School tomorrow at eleven a.m.

  Mr Black did so much for us, let’s be there for him this one time.

  #MrBlack

  James clicks ‘Post’ and sits back from his keyboard, truly spent. He closes his eyes and allows uncharacteristic tears to flow as Jenna folds her arms around him from behind.

  When the emotions subside, he and Jenna begin inviting and sharing the event on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, Messenger-groups, Snapchat and every Facebook group and post they can find connected to Cambuscraig High and Mr Black.

  Each time the teenagers check the share number it climbs steadily and then begins to leap.

  10 shares, 18 shares, 45, shares, 172 shares, 2,734 shares, 6,129 shares, 15,173 shares...

  Jenna flicks to her Twitter feed. #MrBlack has begun trending in the UK. She selects the hashtag and scans down the tweets.

  @scoots28mac: Will be there to support #MrBlack. Total Hero.

  @6979Aline: A good man, will be there to shown them he belongs to us. #MrBlack

  @maurabeckett1: #MrBlack. Tomorrow at eleven. Make him proud!

  @Manicmum6: Harry Jardine can burn for what he did. #MrBlack

  @LiJBanks: No-one will keep me from attending this funeral. #MrBlack.

  @Luciferswench: What has #MrBlack done to deserve this abuse?

  @Frankenfinger73: Never liked him as a teacher, but don’t believe the rumours. @champagnedemon: I’ll be there. #MrBlack

  @goanchickellie: Wouldn’t have been who I am today without this man. #MrBlack

  @RachCurwen: Not going near that funeral. It’ll be a zoo. Sending my thoughts from home. #MrBlack

  @jocatrobertson: RIP #Mr Black. Fuck the haters.

  @alysonread: Have you seen this @michelledan5? We should be there! #MrBlack.

  @Cat_Astrophe28: Such sad news. #MrBlack did so much for the community.

  Holding each other, they sit long into the night, eyes glued to the count, watching their event spread and share exponentially as Mr Black’s name and hashtag begin to go viral.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Frankie adjusts her jacket. Peering closer at her reflection, she picks some white fibres off the black beneath. A quick nod at herself in the mirror and Frankie Malone leaves the bathroom, emerging into the hall of the Science wing. Casting a glance along the corridor, Frankie quickly turns her head before she gets too good a look at the classroom doors at the end of the wing. Hers and Dougie’s rooms.

  Just being back in the building is taxing her resilience. Mr Storrie is arranging for the contents of her room to be moved to a smaller room at the other end of the wing. She doesn’t want to be in her old room again. She doesn’t want to be near that end of the wing.

  Looking along at the door to her new room, Frankie sighs. The room change will do for now, but she knows that she does not want to work in this wing, this building anymore. As much as Frankie Malone loves this school which has meant so much to her, it has become a place to dread, and one in which she cannot continue to work for long.

  Lisa Ferguson emerges from her room, coming along the corridor to stand alongside Frankie. Reaching out to offer a conciliatory rub of Frankie’s shoulder, she asks, “Want to go outside?”

  “Please,” Frankie replies. Her eyes drawn to her watch, Frankie checks the time. Realising that her years in a school environment have told her subconscious that something is out of synch, Frankie smiles slightly realising that the bell which normally rings at this time has remained silent. Doors begin to open and senior kids emerge from their classrooms.

  With none of the impetuousness, chatter or clamour that normally characterises a large group of teens, they walk in silence. Some hook arms. Others walk alone, heads slightly bowed. Eerily mute, everything about their demeanour, the very cadence of their strides screams of the hurt and shock they are feeling.

  For Frankie, who walks along the corridor in the midst of them offering nods and taps on shoulders, it is an oddly comforting sensation to be with so many teenagers and have them move so serenely.

  Reaching the main doors, Frankie and Lisa step to the side, allowing the pupils to file out into the main plaza and make their way to the roadside. Mr Storrie puts an arm around Frankie, pulling her in for a reassuring hug before releasing her. Both of them look out at the mass of pupils lining along the pavement of East Fettes Avenue.

  “I’ve never been so proud of the kids at my school,” Storrie whispers.

  Frankie nods her agreement.

  The pupils arrange themselves in rows four-deep. Storrie checks his watch, confirming that they have fifteen minutes until the car passes. Movement catches Frankie’s eye, drawing her attention to the pathway leading to the school from the rear of t
he building. Storrie moves forward, craning his neck left and right, scanning the faces of the large group of people headed towards the school.

  “Looks like James Beath’s event had the desired effect,” Frankie smiles.

  Storrie’s expression switches from shock to stoic and on to wonder as he examines the flow of people stream past the main entrance and out to take position along the pavement with the senior pupils. Climbing up onto a nearby bench, Frankie shields her eyes from the low sun as she gazes out over the sea of heads, trying to find an end to the people headed their way.

  “There must be thousands,” she tells Storrie, who is smiling broadly now.

  Behind them, the doors open and the remainder of the two thousand occupants of Cambuscraig High, led by their teachers, begin filing out into the plaza. Every year group, the teachers, the cleaning staff, the janitors, dining staff, all of them join the silent mass lining the lengthy roadside. Despite their number, the silence is maintained.

  Frankie and Storrie wander out amongst them, headed to the roadside immediately in front of the school. The people continue to come. Storrie scans the faces, recognising former pupils and teachers, local MSPs, business-owners. Faces young and old, ex-pupils with children and grandchildren of their own, several famous footballers who had attended the school. The mute horde just keeps growing.

  Wordlessly, Frankie and Storrie shake hands and nod greetings throughout the crowd. Storrie comforts several pupils who have begun to weep. To Frankie’s eyes it seems as though the entire half-mile length of East Fettes Avenue’s pavement is being occupied by people, all of who came here for Dougie.