Scot feels like he shouldn’t look, like there’s something wrong about this being made a public spectacle, but at the same time he can’t take his eyes off it. He now understands what his ma means when she says the shops were busy ‘like an execution’.
“This is what happens to boys who make disgusting noises,” Momo says. He draws the belt back over his shoulder, and, again, everybody breathes in, at which point a second super-fart all but rattles the windows.
Momo’s eyes nearly burst out his skull with a fury nobody has ever witnessed even from him before. He turns away from Harry to face the assembly, which is by now once again a sea of helplessly rocking weans, and stamps his right foot so hard against the polished boards it’s like a bomb going off. “Quiet!” he roars. “Quiet!”
But this time there’s just no holding back the tide. Momo’s face is now going purple. His fists are clenched, his knuckles white and his eyeballs about ready to explode from his shuddering heid. He leans back a wee bit and then jumps in the air—both feet actually leave the ground—while screaming, “I said…” The third word was meant to be ‘quiet’, but as his clumpy shoes crash back to earth and shake the floor, that’s not what emerges from his mouth. A top-plate of false teeth goes fleeing from between his lips and skites along the floorboards up one of the aisles between the rows of assembled weans.
A lassie screams and starts greeting. Maybe she thought Momo’s heid had burst, but no luck, he’s still alive. He’s got one hand clamped over his gub and goes galumphing down the hall with the other one outstretched to retrieve his fugitive falsers. Meanwhile, Harris steps from the side of the stage to the middle and yells, “Hail Queen of Heaven. One, two, three,” and starts singing, waving like fuck to the other teachers to join in.
Some of the less hysterical weans—mainly lassies—obediently take up the hymn and just about drown out the sound of folk creasing themselves as Momo goes lolloping away up the corridor like a wounded orang-utan.
Scot looks round at Jamesy, and has never seen him happier. They even both start singing, like it’s a song of triumph and not some dirge. Then more and more folk join in, singing it with a joy and enthusiasm Harris has never seen and can barely believe. But that’s because they know—while she doesn’t—that they’ve got their own version of the last line.
“Thrown on life’s surge, we claim thy care,” they all belt out, big, daft grins on their faces. “Save us from peril—and Mo-mo!”
Criminal Investigations
There is a crucial prelude to every interview, a silent exchange before the first word is spoken, which is often as instructive in getting to the truth as any of the verbal submissions that follow. That’s why Karen is always nervous in the minutes immediately before her first meeting with a suspect, regardless of how many dozens of times she’s done it in the past. No matter the hour, no matter how tired, no matter what other worries might threaten to cloud her vision, she has to get ready, get entirely focused for those first brief seconds when her eyes meet those of whoever is sitting on the far side of the table. It’s not as though the game is won and lost in that first exchange (a deficit can usually be recovered), but it certainly helps get a result if you can be the one to seize an early advantage.
If you’re ready, if you’re focused, you can see a lot in that first glance. You can see fear; of yourself, of someone else, or sometimes in its sheer essence. You can see anger. You can see defiance. Regret. Desperation. Bewilderment. Defeat. Resignation. Confidence. Complacency. You can see the person on the other side sizing you up, working out tactics. And if you read it fast enough, you can evaluate every word from then on in light of mis.
She’s been played by a few suspects—who hasn’t?—but not for a long time. It’s not about instinct and it can’t really be taught, other than by plain experience. In fact, it’s the one thing in this job of which you could say that, early on in your career, it’s possible to make too few mistakes. You screw up, you misread, you get taken, and you learn not to fall for the same shite twice. No amount of other cops’ stories can drive it home; only your own anger can galvanise you, can make you see the same pitfall when it inevitably comes around again.
But no amount of experience makes it easier. You can’t phone one in, even in what appears the simplest of cases, because somebody somewhere might be relying on you to do just that, and it might not be the person on the other side of the Formica.
She’s gathering herself, preparing as she makes the short walk from her temporary office to the room where DI Tom Fisher is already waiting with Noodsy and his brief. She can feel the tingle, the charge, and the voltage today is that bit higher because of who she’ll be talking to, the complicating element of their shared past. She hasn’t seen this guy in nearly two decades, but beyond that there are twelve years of memories, the sum of which she will have to consider and be wary of throughout everything that follows.
But, more than ever, that first look, that first second, is going to be key. Karen doesn’t know whether he’ll even recognise her: and if he does, she’ll need to be ready to interpret that, too. What will it be that he sees? Someone who knows who he once was, but not who he is now? A ray of hope? The benefit of the doubt? And if it is hope, then what is it that he hopes she sees in him? The wee boy she went to school with? A happy-go-lucky loser who wouldn’t hurt a fly?
She reaches the door, grasps the handle, opens it with her eyes fixed on the floor. She steps inside, closes it again, turns around and lifts her head so that they can both get a good, clear look at each other. Noodsy looks up expectantly, nervously anxious to see who he’s up against. She sees his eyes narrow, concentration in his face as he tries to place her. There is a brightening of his features, as though his initial impression is that wherever he knows her from must somehow make her more benign, maybe a cop who’s given him a fair shake before. It’s when she clears it up that she’ll really get the goods.
“Hello, James,” she says, smiling.
Then he gets it. The flicker of brightness fades. He physically sags before her eyes. He looks shattered. He looks resigned.
He looks guilty.
§
James and Francis find Colin talking to Scot near the edge of the football field, about as far as you can get from the big yins’ playground. It is afternoon playtime and James is delighted to have learnt that Francis hasn’t seen Colin’s killertine thing, which is why they’ve sought him out. While they were looking for him, James was also scouring the ground for something suitable to be chopped by the gadget, and has gathered a couple of dandelion stems.
Colin and Scot are talking about what happened at assembly, which everybody agrees was totally fantastic. James doesn’t feel quite as gleeful or comfortable talking about it as everybody else, though, mainly because he was terrified throughout most of it—especially when Momo came wandering through looking for someone to blame—and is still feeling more relief than anything else. He knows it’s one of those things that are much better to talk about later than they were to experience at the time, and he knows that in future he will forget the scary bits and remember only the farts and Memo’s teeth coming out. Right now, it’s still a wee bit too close, and he’d rather just see the magic trick again.
“Colin, Colin, can you show Francis the killertine? He’s no seen it. Look, I’ve got these, they’ll be great for choppin.”
Colin looks pleased to have a new person to impress, and reaches into his jacket pocket. He then tries the pocket on the other side, then his inside breast pocket, then back to the first one again. “Where is it?” he asks. “It’s no there. It was there just…Aw flip, I hope I’ve no lost it.”
“Did you leave it in your desk, mibbae?” Scot asks.
“Naw, I never took it into class. I wouldnae, in case Clarke took it off us. Sugar. I hope I’ve no dropped it somewhere.”
“C’mon, we’ll all look,” James volunteers. “Where did you have it last? Who did you show it to?”
“I’ve no
showed it to anybody since morning playtime,” Colin answers. “Remember?”
“Aye. It was over by the fence near the big yins’.”
“Aw, wait, did I…? I think I showed it to Gary again at lunchtime.”
“We’ll split up,” James suggests. He really wants to see this trick again and can only imagine how sad Colin will be if it really is lost. Plus he’ll be in big bother off his ma. James’s ma never lets him take stuff into school in case it goes missing or gets broken.
James hares off towards where they were standing this morning, which is round the far side of the Infant Building from where he left Colin and Scot. The killertine was bright red, so it should be easy to see, but on the other hand, it would also be more likely to have been spotted and lifted by someone, especially if it was lying out during lunchtime. Maybe it has been handed in to one of the teachers, but if Colin’s unlucky, someone’s got it and will be giving it ‘finders keepers, losers weepers’.
There is more space in the playground with the wee ones being away at the Church Hall, but James still has to negotiate carefully through two competing football matches, one re-enactment of Saturday’s Starsty and Hutch, several games of tig and at least four whirling sets of skipping ropes. He reaches the site of this morning’s display and examines the area patiently, pulling aside a few clumps of long weeds next to the exposed concrete bases of the railings. Then, a good bit further along the fencing he spots Robbie, squatting down on his honkers, his back to the playground and his attention focused entirely on whatever is cradled in his lap. James runs over to get a closer look and sees that Robbie’s secretive and defensive stance is on account of him having the killertine clutched in his hands.
“That’s Colin’s,” James states.
Robbie looks up, startled, and quickly stuffs the killertine into a pocket. “Naw it’s no,” he says.
“Aye it is.”
“It’s mine. I’ve got wan as well.”
“Have ye chook. You never had it this mornin.”
“I bought it at dinnertime wi ma dinner money.”
“Why’d you put it in your pocket, then?”
“Fuck off.” With which Robbie gets up and briskly walks away.
James takes off at higher speed in the other direction to report his discovery.
“Robbie’s got it,” he informs Colin, having rounded up Scot and Francis on the way. “I saw him.”
“Did he find it?” Colin asks, a little anxious because Robbie is the type who would claim finders keepers even when he knew whose it was.
Robbie, however, has played it carelessly, as far as James can see. “Naw. He says it’s a different wan an he bought it at dinnertime wi his dinner money, but he was tryin tae hide it soon as he saw me.”
“His dinner money?” Scot says, laughing. “But Robbie’s on free dinners. He doesnae have any dinner money. And do they sell magic tricks at school dinners noo? Or do ye get wan free if you manage tae eat a whole plate ay that watery custard?”
James laughs, but Colin doesn’t join in. It’s his thing that’s gone missing, right enough, so James supposes if it was his, he wouldn’t be seeing the funny side either.
§
They can’t find Robbie, despite scouring more of the playground than they did during the hunt for the killertine itself. Colin is feeling almost relieved. He is furious that Robbie has stolen the magic trick and obviously he wants it back, but he can see this turning into something dangerous. It’s easy for the others—they’re just along for the ride, and they want to see Robbie get into trouble or whatever—but Colin is very apprehensive of having to face him down. Robbie’s not big and stocky like Richie, or Paddy Beattie in the other Primary Three class, but in a way he’s scarier because there’s this nasti-ness about him that never seems to be at rest. Nobody likes him much, but nobody has ever made a point of becoming his enemy, and not just because he’s got those mental big brothers. He’s seen arguments and scuffles break out a hundred times, felt the fear when someone like Richie flies into a rage, but that’s all in the heat of the moment. Robbie looks a bit like a rodent, and when he gives you the bad eye, it’s stone cold.
That said, he wants his killertine back, and Robbie won’t get away with it when everybody knows it’s his.
Then the bell goes, and Colin realises that Robbie will have to make his way to the lines along with everyone else. He feels nervous because he now knows there’s no avoiding it: once he gets there, the others will be expecting him to do something, and the prospect of that reminds him of just about every fight he has seen breaking out.
Robbie sees the group approaching and turns away to face the wall, where he is breaking wee stones off the roughcast with the sole of his shoe.
Colin’s stomach tightens and he now understands why people talk about you shiting yourself when they mean you’re scared. He doesn’t know what he should say, but he knows the moment is upon him; and furthermore, Clarke or Cook or Harris or whoever will be along to take in the lines soon. This thought reminds him that adult intervention is not far away, and provides both impetus and assurance.
“Gie’s my magic trick back,” he says. “I know you’ve got it.”
Robbie turns around, his face all pinched. “Have I fuck got it. I don’t know what you’re on aboot.”
“Come aff it. Jamesy saw you wi it. It’s mine’s. C’mon, just gie’s it back.” Colin keeps his voice low and steady rather than challenging, trying to talk him round like it’s no big deal, which it won’t be if he gives it back.
“Jamesy’s a fuckin liar. He never saw me wi it. Any bets he’s fuckin got it an he’s just blamin me.”
“I did see him wi it,” Jamesy protests. “He’s got it in his pocket, I saw.”
Colin sees Robbie place a hand protectively over his jacket in response to this, and finds himself reaching towards the same spot.
“Gie us it,” he says.
“Get tae fuck,” responds Robbie, turning away in a half-pirouette.
Instinctively, Colin steps around, extending a hand towards the retreating pocket. “Gie us it,” he repeats, then sees a blinding flash and feels a sudden jolt to his nose. The pain has barely registered before he feels an explosion of something cripplingly greater between his legs, and drops automatically to his knees, clutching his newly toed balls.
“I says get tae fuck,” Robbie hisses, slipping away towards the back of the line.
Colin’s eyes are watering but he is not crying. It’s weird. He remembers crying as soon as Clarke skelped him that time for carrying on in class, even though it wasn’t very sore, but right now, despite his cheek hurting and his balls being in pure agony, he doesn’t howl because he is still in a state of shock. It’s coming, though. Jamesy and Scot help him to his feet insistently. He wants to stay down and feels the crying coming on, but they haul him up, warning that the teachers will appear to take in the lines at any second.
“I’m fuckin grassin,” Colin says, sniffing. He seldom says swearie-words because he’s terrified of getting caught or shopped and his mum finding out, but he is raging now. “He’s…he’s in trouble.” In his shaken and sorry state he found himself about to say, “He’s reported,” but that’s pure ancient, Primary Two stuff, and a slagging if anyone picks up on it.
“Don’t be daft,” Scot warns. “You’ll just end up in bother as well.”
“But he hit us,” Colin protests.
“Teachers don’t care aboot that,” adds James. “They don’t listen. If they think it’s a fight, you baith get intae trouble.”
“But it wasnae a fight. I never hit—”
“Teachers never listen,” James insists, with a wounded look that Colin finds troubling.
Before Colin can make any response, Harris appears, and everybody straightens out into their lines. At this point, looking at her stern face as she doles out a warning to one of the Primary Fives, he admits to himself that Scot and Jamesy are right, to the point where he starts worrying that Joanne sa
w something and will grass to Harris that there was a fight. He keeps his head down and hopes Harris won’t notice and enquire about his tears. He feels relief as she calls the lines in and he hobbles past her unaccosted. However, his anger has only increased, because it just isn’t right that Robbie should get away with this. And while the others are right about teachers when it comes to things like fights, which they can’t be bothered getting to the bottom of, he suspects they might look differently on something as serious as stealing. Hitting happens all the time; full fights often enough, too. But theft, that’s rare, and therefore must be regarded as a bigger deal. Plus Robbie was lying. They’re always being told lying about it is worse than whatever bad thing you’ve done. If you’re big enough to do it, you should be big enough to own up to it, too: that’s what Miss Clarke said herself. Lying is one of the Commandments, and so is stealing. So Jamesy is wrong, because this time the teacher would listen.
They all take their seats and wait for Clarke to come into the class. Colin has his hand up as she closes the door. She walks to her desk. He is sure she noticed, but sometimes she pretends not to see you and makes you wait so she knows it’s important. Joanne’s hand is up all the time, but Clarke knows if she makes her wait long enough, Joanne will give up or even forget what it was she was going to say. Colin, however, will not give up, and definitely won’t forget.
Clarke picks up her chalk and walks towards the blackboard. For a moment, Colin fears she is going to start writing something they have to copy, which will require him to put his hand down until later. It’s another successful tactic in seeing off Joanne. But before she writes anything, she looks at him and says: “Yes, Colin, what is it?”
“Miss, Robert’s stole my magic trick and he won’t give me it back.”
“Miss, no, I never, he’s lying,” shouts Robbie, without putting his hand up or waiting to be asked.
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