by T. M. Logan
Draper’s office was on the executive corridor, which was home to the head teacher and his senior management team.
Draper was both younger and more senior than I was. Since hitting my midthirties, there seemed to be an increasing number of people who fell into this category, in all walks of life.
He glanced at me as I walked in, indicated a chair in front of his desk with a quick nod. He was a short man with sandy, slicked-back hair and a smile that never reached his eyes.
“Joe. Hi. Have a seat.”
“I was told you were looking for me, Carl.”
“Yup. Won’t be a second.” He continued typing, eyes on his monitor.
I sat down in one of the high-backed chairs in front of his desk. The wall behind him was covered with framed certificates, sporting awards, and newspaper clippings in which his grinning face was the common feature. Shaking hands with local councilors, standing next to trophy-laden captains of the school’s numerous sports teams, giving the thumbs-up with successful eleventh grade pupils on GCSE results day. And grinning, always grinning.
He finished typing, clicked on his mouse a couple of times, then leaned forward in his chair. He clasped his hands together on the desk in front of him.
“So. Feeling better, Joe?”
“Yes, much. Thanks.”
“Good. That’s good. Migraine, was it?”
“Food poisoning.”
“Ah. The old Delhi belly. Nasty. You’re OK now, though?”
“Yes. I’m OK.”
This is ridiculous. Here I am, my marriage on the critical list, getting pulled in by the police, and I’ve got to justify one day off sick. Hasn’t he got better things to do with his time?
“Spent most of yesterday laid up, did you?”
“Most of it.”
“At home?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t go out at all?”
So someone did spot me out of the house. I could bluff him, say they were mistaken, or I could just admit it.
The latter seemed a better option.
“Felt a bit better in the afternoon. Went to pick my son up from school.”
He nodded slowly, fixing me with what he probably thought was a penetrating stare. “And how old is your son now?”
“He just turned four in the summer. He’s in reception at Saint Hilda’s.”
“It’s a good school. Good record.”
“He seems to enjoy it.”
Draper leaned back in his chair, hands clasped in his lap. “Joe, do you know about my role at our school?”
“You cover pastoral issues, disciplinary, staff development … other things.”
“Other things. Yes. Do you know why I’ve asked to see you today?”
“No, not really.”
“You know I also deal with the PR side of things? The reputation of the school?”
In fact, I didn’t. I knew he did next to no actual teaching of real live pupils.
“Of course. Reputation is important.”
“You know the importance the head attaches to reputation, don’t you, Joe? Reputation is linked to parental choice, getting the right parents is linked to pupil achievement, which in turn is linked to the school’s reputation.” He made a circling gesture in the air with his index finger. “It’s a virtuous circle.”
“Sure.”
“Or a vicious circle, depending on your point of view.”
“Right.”
“Reputation is really important to him, Joe. I mean super important.”
“I understand. But I don’t see how me being off sick can affect the school’s reputation. I think on the whole my sickness record is good.”
“Are you a fan of social media, Joe?”
“A fan? I use it like everyone else, I suppose.”
“Do you go on Facebook much, for example?”
“I’m on it from time to time, yes. Not that often.”
He nodded. “Biggest social network in the world, you know. More than 1.2 billion users, which equates to every fifth person on the planet. Amazing stat, isn’t it? Have you looked at it recently?”
“Yesterday morning I had a quick look, I think.”
The stuff Ben had posted on my Facebook account was too cryptic, too obscure, to mean much to anyone else. Draper couldn’t be referring to that. Could he?
“Have you been on Facebook this morning?”
“Don’t really have time to look at it in the mornings.”
“Last night?”
“No.”
“Because, as I said, the head is a big believer in the power of reputation, of leading by example. The importance of staff setting the very highest example for our young people to follow.”
“Of course.”
“Which is why I wanted to see you this morning.”
“I’m sorry, Carl, I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
He had two widescreen monitors side by side on his desk, and he turned one toward me.
“I’m talking about this, Joe.” He indicated the screen. “Recognize anyone?”
Facebook. A picture of me.
A picture of me being escorted into a police station by two detectives.
37
The picture showed me walking into Kilburn Police Station on Salisbury Road, flanked by Naylor and Redford. My face was etched with worry. DS Redford had one hand touching my elbow and was indicating the way with her other hand. I didn’t even remember her doing it at the time, but now, looking at the picture, it added a whole new perspective: as if I were being escorted into the station against my will.
Something was not right with the picture.
There. It was subtle. You had to look twice to be sure. Handcuffs.
Leaning forward, I squinted at the screen.
I was handcuffed to DS Redford. My left wrist, her right.
Someone had Photoshopped the image to add handcuffs where there had been none in reality. They had done a good job of it too. They even looked real to me, and I knew they were fake. It was skillful, subtle work. And damning.
Jesus Christ.
Next to it, a picture of me standing outside the station after the interview, on the pavement, looking shell-shocked, stunned, as if I didn’t know where I was or what day it was. The pictures looked like they had been taken from across the street. Each picture had a date and time stamp on the bottom right-hand corner, showing they had been taken an hour and ten minutes apart, yesterday morning.
I looked at the text.
* * *
Ollie Fulton shared David Bramley’s photo—13 hours ago Gotcha! Look who’s been arrested Joe Lynch! Looks like a few months/years/decades off work might be needed from Haddon Park Academy Lol #IFoughtTheLaw ;-)
* * *
It had eighty-nine likes and forty-one comments.
It was the Facebook account of someone I didn’t know. Ollie Fulton. One of Draper’s friends, presumably.
“Who’s David Bramley?” I said, trying to keep my voice level.
“These pictures,” Draper continued, ignoring my question, “were shared on Facebook a number of times yesterday afternoon. They were then shared by half a dozen of our students, and, well, it pretty much went viral at that point. On a school-wide scale, at least.”
Now I understood the behavior of the smirking boy with the untucked shirt: he’d seen the picture of me going into the police station, handcuffed. Probably everyone in school had seen it. Circulated and shared on social media like so much celebrity tittle-tattle.
“Viral, as in it spread like smallpox,” I said, trying to keep the nerves out of my voice.
“Well, you know, pretty much every student in school has a Facebook account. Even though they’re supposed to be thirteen to qualify, there’s no actual check to verify that. They’re all on it, and their parents too, which makes this place one massive connected network of three thousand–plus people. You know what Facebook’s like: most of the things they’re posting and sharing are cat video
s, selfies, and shots of what they’re having for tea. Pretty dull. So a picture of a teacher at their school getting arrested is bound to get a lot of interest and spread pretty fast. Which is exactly what happened.”
“I wasn’t arrested,” I said, my jaw tight.
“You’re handcuffed,” he replied, pointing to the screen.
“No, that’s been Photoshopped onto the picture.”
“Really?” He sounded skeptical.
“Yes. It’s been added digitally to the picture after it was taken.”
He leaned in to look at the picture again. “Looks real enough to me.”
“That’s the point of Photoshop. To make it look real.”
“You know what I mean, though. Arrested or interviewed or helping the police with their inquiries, or whatever words they use. The distinction gets lost in translation almost immediately. All those people on Facebook see is a teacher from their school getting pulled in by the cops, wearing handcuffs, and given a grilling.”
“It wasn’t a grilling. It was a conversation.”
“Doesn’t really matter, does it, Joe? People will make their own assumptions.”
David Bramley—whom I’d never heard of—had tagged Haddon Park in the picture, so it would have appeared on the school’s Facebook page, for pupils and parents to see. As well as the countless other Facebook accounts it had been shared on since yesterday afternoon. And commented on. And liked.
“Why haven’t you untagged the school in his caption? You could at least stop it from appearing on the Haddon Park account if you did that.”
“It’s next on my list for today, Joe. After seeing you.”
“Who’s Ollie Fulton anyway?” I managed to say.
“One of my Facebook friends, used to work with his father. What were you talking to the police about, Joe?”
“A friend of mine’s missing. Ben Delaney. They thought I might be able to help find him.”
“They took you to the police station for that?”
“It’s where they work,” I said.
“How long did they hold you for?”
“They didn’t hold me. I wasn’t arrested. They asked for my help, that’s all.”
“Help with their inquiries?”
“Yes.”
“And you told them what?”
“That I didn’t know where he was, but he wasn’t missing.”
Draper pulled a face like I’d said something stupid. “I’m not sure that makes sense, Joe.”
“What I mean is, I saw him yesterday morning, so he isn’t missing. He’s been in touch with me. He’s just messing everyone around.”
“Presumably the police would take a pretty dim view of that.”
“They’re not the only ones. His wife’s tearing her hair out.”
“So how long were you in the police station for?” he continued.
“Not sure exactly. An hour, maybe.”
“And then they just let you go?”
“I told you, I wasn’t arrested; I was just answering some questions, trying to help them track him down.”
“Something doesn’t add up, Joe.”
Tell me about it, I thought.
“I’m as much in the dark as everyone else,” I said.
Draper looked thoughtful for a moment, rubbing his chin. “This Delaney person, does he have any children?”
“A daughter, Alice. She’s fourteen.”
“That’s it. Alice.” He tapped his computer keyboard. “Here we go. I knew the surname rang a bell—she’s in tenth grade. Something of a star pupil, by the looks of it. Predictions A-star, A-star, A-star across the board.”
“She’s a bright kid.”
He sat back in his chair again, lacing his fingers together over his small potbelly.
“So is there anything else I should know, Joe? Anything else you want to tell me?”
“About what?”
“About this … situation we find ourselves in.”
I briefly considered telling him about Ben and Mel’s affair but quickly dismissed the idea. It would be another stick to beat me with, another way to humiliate me. And it was none of his damn business anyway.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else that the police were talking to you about? That might be related to Mr. Delaney’s disappearing act?”
I got the uncomfortable feeling that he knew more than he was letting on. Or maybe he was just fishing. It was impossible to tell with him.
“It was just what I told you. They’re looking for Ben, talking to all his friends. Trying to establish his movements in the last few days. His wife’s out of her mind with worry.”
“Poor woman,” Draper said without much conviction.
“Just so we’re clear on this point, Carl—for the record—the police are not accusing me of anything. They didn’t arrest me, I’m not involved, I didn’t do anything. People need to know that.”
“Understood.”
“Good. As long as that’s clear.”
“To a large degree, it’s not actually important what they pulled you in for. What is important is that we can’t afford for the school’s reputation to be besmirched. I also understand from the deputy head that two detectives were here yesterday afternoon. Came here, Joe, to the school. To ask about you. Seems awfully involved just for a missing person, doesn’t it?”
“They’re being methodical.”
“You know how the head feels about having police on-site. It’s the sort of visit that makes the rumor mill grind that little bit faster.”
Naylor. So much for his assurance that he’d be discreet.
“Sorry about that,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’d no idea they were going to come here.”
“So, in light of all this”—he gestured at the computer monitor—“I’ve talked to the head this morning. He’s really rather exercised about the whole thing.”
He let it hang there for a minute, seeming to relish the moment.
“And?” I said finally.
“And as of now, you’re suspended from teaching duties until further notice.”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. “You’re suspending me?”
“That’s right. Effective immediately.”
“On the basis of a picture on Facebook?”
“On the basis of you being embroiled in a police investigation.”
“Embroiled? What does that mean?”
“You’re part of a police investigation. The school has to be seen to have acted responsibly if this leaks to the media. Which, as we both know, is pretty much inevitable in this day and age.”
What he was saying finally registered with me. “You’re actually serious, aren’t you?”
“Deadly serious. There will also be an internal investigation overseen by the chair of governors, as per school regs.”
“Whatever happened to being innocent until proven guilty?”
“This is not a court of law, Joe.” He spread his hands wide as if indicating the world around us. “This is the court of public opinion, which is much more fickle and likely to judge by appearances.”
“A kangaroo court, you mean.”
“It’s reality. It’s how the world is, how people are.”
“The rule of the mob, more like.”
“The decision has been taken.”
“You can’t do this.”
“I’m doing it. With the head’s full sanction.”
I felt the blood pounding in my head, and I swallowed hard on a dry throat. “This is crazy. It’s not fair. It’s wrong.”
“Don’t worry, you’ve got enough years of service here, so you’ll be on full pay. At least for the time being.”
“The pay’s not the point. People will assume there’s no smoke without fire.” I was suddenly furious at the unfairness of it all, shaking with anger. “It’s my reputation we’re talking about here.”
“No.” He p
ointed a stubby index finger at me. “It’s the school’s reputation we’re talking about. And as we both know, no teacher here is bigger than the school. No one is more important than the school. You seem to have forgotten that.”
I shook my head. “I haven’t forgotten anything. I haven’t forgotten the nine years of good service I’ve given this place.”
“Every so often we have to take one for the team, my friend. Today just happens to be your turn.”
I thought for a moment how satisfying it would be to lean over his desk, grab the front of his shirt, and pound my fist into his smug, self-satisfied face. See if he’d like to “take one for the team.” I looked away from him and put my clenched fists on my knees, trying to get my emotions back in check.
“How long am I suspended for?”
“Until this has run its course. Until your business with the police is resolved.”
“I haven’t got any business with the police! They just wanted to talk to me!”
Draper sat back in his chair. “Shouting at me won’t help your cause.”
I took a couple of deep breaths, feeling my heart thumping against my rib cage.
“How do you expect me to react? This is complete bullshit.”
“Using inappropriate language won’t help you either.”
“Right. Whatever. I’ve got to talk to my union rep.”
“Of course. Have him call Jane and we’ll get an appointment in the diary.”
“Are we finished?”
“I think so.” He gave me a thin smile. “For now, at least.”
I stood up and headed for the door.
“Oh, and by the way, Joe?”
“What?”
“Would you do something for me?”
“Do I have a choice?”
He had already returned his attention to the computer monitor on his desk. “Stay off school property while you’re suspended. There’s a good chap.”
I slammed his office door on the way out.
38
It seemed as if everyone in school was staring at me as I walked, head down, back to my car. Registration was over, and a thousand kids were heading to their first lesson of the day, in pairs and threes, in groups, in packs, and I found myself right in the middle of them. Every pupil I passed gave me a look of recognition. Before, I had just been a member of the teaching staff, known to some, semi-anonymous to the rest. Now I was that teacher who got arrested on Facebook, and it seemed everyone knew me. My progress through the crowd of navy blazers was accompanied by whispered conversations and pictures snapped as I passed by.
