Stand by Me

by S. D. Robertson

  Mike looked over at Lisa, who was lying in a foetal position under the quilt, facing away from him on the far side of the bed. At least she was there. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Hopefully that meant he hadn’t said or done anything too stupid last night. Because God, he’d been furious at her.

  Now, with the alcohol no longer raging through his veins, he felt stupid more than angry. He’d been a drunken pig. He could even understand why Lisa had done what she did. What a disaster of an evening. Not exactly the romantic night out he’d planned. He’d got carried away on the booze, as usual, and … oh no.

  Mike leapt up from the bed and ran to the toilet to be sick. After he was done, his throat sore and dry, he washed his face in the sink and swilled his mouth out with some water before taking a drink. He could see in the mirror that his shirt was ruined. It looked like it had been soaked in blood. He considered shoving it in the dustbin, but since it had been a gift from Lisa, he dropped it into the washing basket instead. Better to let her make the decision to throw it away.

  ‘Lisa?’ he whispered, returning to the bedroom.

  There was no answer, so he slipped on his dressing gown and tiptoed out of there, gently closing the door behind him. Leaving Lisa to sleep was a good idea, especially if he wanted things between them to be okay again any time soon.

  Mike was surprised to find two used tumblers resting in the kitchen sink. They both smelled of Baileys, which turned his stomach in its current state. Had he and Lisa had a drink together when he’d got back? He racked his brains, but there was nothing there.

  After swallowing a couple of painkillers to ease the thumping headache that had developed since he rose, Mike headed to the lounge and sprawled on the couch. He felt horrendous. And once he was horizontal, he couldn’t even muster the energy to get back up to turn on the TV. This was why he preferred to leave devices in standby, so you could turn them on with the remote, but Lisa was far too energy conscious for that. And these days, thanks to him no longer having a job, it was also a matter of saving money, so it wasn’t even like he could argue against it.

  As awful as Mike felt, he didn’t think he’d be able to fall back to sleep. He was wrong.

  ‘What am I going to do with you, Liam?’

  The boy continued to stare out of the window, as if he was alone in the room and hadn’t been asked a question. So Mike walked over to it and shut the blinds; cut off the view of the school playground.

  ‘I asked you a question, Liam. It’s polite to answer.’

  ‘Go screw yourself.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You heard.’

  Mike could feel himself getting riled by this boy again. He’d been sent to his office countless times before. The head was currently away at a conference, so there was no passing him along on this occasion. As the primary school’s deputy head teacher, the buck stopped with him today.

  Liam Hornby was easily the school’s most troublesome pupil. He was in Year Six now, which at least meant he’d no longer be their problem by the end of the school year. But it was only October, which meant months more of this nonsense ahead. He’d joined the school halfway through Year Five, after his parents had moved to the area, and he’d been a pain in the neck from the word go. But despite numerous incidents with other pupils and staff members in that time, he’d never quite done enough to allow them to get rid of him, like he knew just how far he could push the boundaries.

  Liam’s parents were much the same. When contacted, one or both of them would come into school eventually; often after cancelling a couple of times first. Then they’d be apologetic, pledging to take their son to task, but Mike could tell it was an act. Behind the facade, they didn’t care. You developed an intuition for these things after years of teaching. They said and did what was required to keep Liam at school. They knew exactly how disruptive their son was but did nothing about it. Why? No clue. They seemed normal enough. They lived in one of the nicer parts of the catchment area and both had jobs. Some people didn’t deserve to have kids. Had they taught him the foul language, Mike wondered, or was it something he’d picked up from being allowed to watch the wrong things on TV?

  ‘Language like that is unacceptable, Liam. I won’t tolerate it.’ Mike tried to maintain a poker face; to hide his shock at what the kid had just said to him.

  ‘Dunno what you mean. Can’t prove it.’

  Mike took a deep breath and fought to stay calm as he looked across his desk at Liam, who was tall for his age and overweight, making him quite an imposing presence for an eleven-year-old. Maybe this time they’d be able to get rid of him. A temporary exclusion was on the cards at the very least. ‘Well, I can prove the reason you’re here,’ he said. ‘Half the school witnessed you attacking poor Joshua with the stinging nettles at break time. He’s in so much pain he’s had to go home. Why would you do something so nasty to him? Where did you even get the nettles from?’

  Liam looked up at him with dead, psycho eyes and a grin to match. ‘What’s a stinging nettle? I just chased him with some leaves. It was a game. A bit of fun.’

  ‘Don’t give me that, Liam. You knew exactly what you were doing. I asked you where the nettles came from. Well?’

  The only answer he received was a shrug, accompanied by a smug look of defiance. For some reason it really got under Mike’s skin. He felt himself getting angry. It wasn’t the first time this kid had wound him up in this way. His blatant lack of respect was infuriating. And yet Mike knew it was his job to stay calm, or at least to appear that way. Liam was trying to goad him and if he realised he was succeeding, it would only make him worse.

  Joshua Banks, the boy who’d been attacked, was no angel. He’d been in Mike’s office on several occasions too, although he was much easier to handle than Liam. At least he was able to acknowledge when he’d done something wrong. Mike had no idea how the attack had come to pass. Joshua, who’d suffered nettle stings all over his arms, face and torso, had been too distressed to explain. And there was zero chance of getting a confession out of Liam.

  Mike couldn’t get over the nastiness of the incident, which he was convinced was premeditated. Since he was unaware of any nettles growing in the school grounds, he could only assume that Liam had brought them with him from outside, presumably hidden in his bag. Wearing gloves to handle them, he’d also made a point of shoving the plants inside Joshua’s T-shirt.

  ‘What do we have to do to get through to you?’ he asked, as calmly as he could manage. ‘Why are you so determined to cause trouble at every opportunity? It’s not for my good that you come to school, Liam. It’s for your own. You’re the one—’

  Mike stopped mid-sentence when he saw Liam, the little shit, leaning back in his chair and yawning. What the hell was the point?

  ‘You’re a—’

  It was the sound of his desk phone ringing that stopped him this time, although he was glad of the interruption. He’d almost said something he would have later regretted.

  ‘Hello?’

  It was Beth in the school office on the line, wanting to know if he had the key for the safe. He did and, although she offered to come and get it, he said that he would take it through to her instead. He liked the idea of getting a moment away from Liam. It seemed like a good way to cool down; to put things into perspective.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ he told the boy. ‘And don’t touch anything. I’ll be back to deal with you in a moment.’

  It was a stupid move, leaving him alone in his office like that. Mike was already thinking so as he headed back there a couple of minutes later. But it didn’t prepare him for what he found – what happened and the terrible path it led him down – when he opened that door.

  Mike woke with a start, a gasp for air, jolting upright on the couch as his eyes sprang open. His muscles were clenched and his body covered in sweat, eyes darting wildly around the room as he took in where he was – and where he wasn’t.

  A dream, thank God. An awful memory: the start o
f his downfall, his undoing, haunting him as it so often did.

  He lowered himself back on to the sofa and, as his hands kneaded the soft cushions, he took a series of slow, deep breaths. He focused on one spot of the swirling pattern in the ceiling above him, which had been wallpapered then painted white to hide the cracks. He stared upwards trailing the curves of the embossed lines with his eyes. And he fought to wipe his mind clean of all other thoughts. He fought to forget, or at least to compartmentalise, this recalled moment. But God it was vivid – so raw, so fresh – like he’d just lived it again.

  This was the booze getting its revenge from the night before; so too the feeling of panic in his chest. But gradually it passed. It always passed eventually, he told himself.

  And then he carried on. He stood up and walked through to the kitchen. He boiled the kettle and made two cups of tea, which he placed on a small tray and carried upstairs to the bedroom, where he could hear that his wife was awake and moving around.

  It was time to face the music: to do his best to smooth things over with Lisa again.

  CHAPTER 8

  THEN

  Friday, 6 September 1991

  ‘Hi, Mum, I’m home,’ Elliot called.

  ‘In the kitchen, love,’ Wendy replied casually, as if that was where she’d been the whole time. In truth she’d just raced down the stairs of their small dormer bungalow, so that Elliot didn’t know she’d been watching through her bedroom window for him to get back.

  Her heart had swollen with pride when she’d finally spotted him down the road, making his way home from his first day at secondary school. Her little boy looked so grown up in his new King George’s uniform: a maroon blazer with the boys’ school’s own crest, plus a green-and-grey striped tie, white shirt, grey V-neck jumper and black trousers. It was uncanny how much he looked like her late husband.

  As Elliot closed the front door behind him and removed his shoes, Wendy picked up where she’d left off in the kitchen, preparing their tea. Right Said Fred were banging on about how sexy they were on the radio and she found herself singing along in her deepest voice.

  ‘Muuum! Please don’t. That’s gross.’

  ‘What?’ She grinned, taking in the sight of her pride and joy, whose crisp smartness from this morning had taken on the ruffled look that a day at school inevitably delivered. ‘It’s a big hit. Might even knock Brian Adams off the top spot at last.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  She stretched her arms out wide. ‘Come on then. Where’s my hug?’

  She ruffled his curls as she took him in her arms, squeezing him tight. He smelled like school, whatever scent that was: books, pencils and ink, perhaps, with a soupçon of sweaty socks thrown in for good measure.

  ‘So, spill the beans,’ she said, planting a kiss on his forehead before letting him go. ‘How was it?’

  ‘It was fine.’

  ‘Fine? Is that all you’ve got? I’m going to need a lot more information than that about my boy’s first day at secondary school. Let me get you a cup of tea and a biscuit. Then I want you to tell me everything.’

  Although he sighed and made out it was a pain to have to recount the day’s events, Wendy knew it was only an act. Unlike a lot of kids, from what other parents said, Elliot had never been one to shy away from sharing such things with her. Communication was one of the strongest things about their relationship. It had been just the two of them for so long that talking through their respective days and confiding in each other was second nature.

  There were limits, of course. As grown up as Elliot could seem, Wendy would never bother him with work issues or financial concerns, of which there were unfortunately a few as a single parent. And although she was intrigued by the new friendship he’d formed over the summer with Lisa, who was absolutely lovely, she knew better than to pull his leg about her being his girlfriend or even to suggest there was anything romantic between them.

  Lisa had a funny habit of calling him El for short, which he’d told Wendy he didn’t mind, although he feared it made him sound like a girl. She’d told him to say something if it bothered him, but she suspected he never had, for fear of offending his new pal. Wendy actually found it rather sweet, just like she did their whole friendship. And how funny that Lisa lived in Christopher’s old house. Wendy had worried how Elliot would cope when his old friend had moved away, but it had worked out perfectly. Lisa had spent almost as much time at their home in recent weeks as Christopher used to. She’d even stayed for lunch or tea several times and, honestly, Wendy found her far more polite and chatty than her predecessor.

  ‘So let’s start with the bus journey,’ she said. ‘How was that? Did you sit with Lisa?’

  ‘Yeah, it was fine. We sat next to each other on the way there and then on the way home we were on the back row downstairs with a couple of others.’

  ‘Boys from your class?’

  He shook his head and scratched his nose. ‘No, I was the only one from my year. They were some new friends of Lisa’s from Queen Anne’s: Charlotte and Joanne.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice. What were they like?’

  ‘Um, one had blonde hair and the other one had brown.’ He giggled. ‘I’m not sure which was which, actually. I didn’t say much to them. I felt a bit shy.’

  ‘Oh, go on with you. What’s there to be shy about? Look how well you get on with Lisa and you two only met a few weeks ago. Plus I’m sure there’ll be lots more boys on the bus when everyone else starts next week.’

  Elliot shrugged. ‘I guess.’

  He explained that the bus hadn’t been particularly full, since it was just first years and sixth formers on the first day, to help the new starters settle in.

  ‘What’s the Queen Anne’s uniform like?’ Wendy asked. ‘I’ve not seen Lisa in it yet. Is it green, their blazer?’

  ‘Yes. Well, emerald they call it, apparently, with a matching jumper and socks and a white blouse.’

  ‘What about the skirt?’

  ‘Um, that’s green tartan, a bit like a kilt. Pleated.’

  His last comment made Wendy smile to herself. Not many boys Elliot’s age – or older, for that matter – would notice whether a skirt was pleated or not. That came from having a mother who loved fashion and, lacking the budget to buy the kinds of clothes she wanted to wear, had learned to make them herself.

  Wendy’s late mother, a heavy smoker who had died a few years earlier from lung cancer, had been a seamstress. She’d taught her the tricks of the trade, as well as the importance of always being nicely turned out and applying make-up well, so as to make the best of oneself. ‘You don’t have to be rich to look good,’ had been her motto, which Wendy had adopted for herself.

  Elliot was only too familiar with the sight and sound of Wendy working her sewing machine in the lounge late at night. On occasion, he’d even helped her decide on which pattern or material to use. Her hobby provided them with a little extra income here and there, as friends and neighbours would sometimes ask her to alter clothes for them. However, she wasn’t always good at accepting payment, especially from those she knew well; it felt mean to charge them for doing something she enjoyed.

  In the kitchen Elliot had moved on to telling Wendy about the structure of his first day at school. The morning and early afternoon had been dedicated to meeting teachers and getting to know the other pupils in his form, followed by a couple of hours of sport.

  Rugby try-outs, to be precise, which she knew Elliot – who’d never been much of a sportsman – had been dreading.

  ‘And?’ Wendy asked.

  Elliot screwed up his face. ‘Let’s just say I don’t think my Saturdays will be occupied by rugby matches any time soon.’

  ‘What about getting changed?’

  He’d confessed to Wendy beforehand that doing this in front of the other boys was something he’d been concerned about, having been teased a few times at primary school for being overweight. She knew Elliot was a little bigger than he ought to be, but she loved to fee
d him up and thought he was perfect as he was. ‘It’s just puppy fat,’ she often told him, although the truth was that Gary, his dad, had been on the cuddly side too; she found it hard to discourage anything in her son that reminded her of him.

  ‘It was okay,’ Elliot said, answering her question. ‘I didn’t much like the look of the communal showers, but there was no time for anyone to use them today. The teachers were around most of the time too, so no one was being nasty.’

  The boys were probably all still scoping each other out at this early stage, Wendy thought, hoping the situation wouldn’t change. ‘And the rugby?’

  ‘I wasn’t very good. I kept dropping the ball and I was one of the slowest runners. I got put into a group called Gentleman’s Rugby, which is basically a nice way of saying we’re the rubbish ones.’

  Wendy stifled a laugh at this. ‘Oh well. There’s much more to life than rugby. But you made some new friends?’

  Elliot ran his middle finger in circles around the rim of his tea mug. ‘Kind of. The boy who sits next to me in our form room seems nice.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Neil Walsh. He lives down the road from school, close enough to walk.’

  ‘Super. What’s he like?’

  Elliot shrugged. ‘I dunno. Friendly.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘They’re fine.’ Changing the subject, which Wendy took to mean she’d probed enough about his day, he added: ‘It sounds like Lisa’s going to make the hockey team.’

  ‘Really? How come?’

  ‘She said she scored a couple of goals today. She used to play at primary school.’