In Loco Parentis

by Nigel Bird

  We’re like an emergency team the way we cope. I take the mop, the kids follow with the paper towels and before long the boards are dry.

  Five minutes to the bell and I just need to get the kids sorted.

  Everyone who’s dry has to sit and read a book quietly on the carpet. They don’t, of course, but they stay on the carpet and that’s all that matters.

  I give the wet ones their PE kits to change into.

  Aurora and Max get straight to it. Pull on their shorts and tee-shirts no problem.

  Don, though, needs my help. He just stands there with his top stuck beneath his ears.

  “I’ll do that,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice smooth. Be as comforting as his mum might have been if life had turned out differently.

  I peel it off, careful not to cause pain. As it comes up I see his stomach, not an ounce of spare fat on it. It comes up to his ribs, all sticking out like a cartoon xylophone, and clears his head.

  When he turns, muttering something to his peg, I see the mess on his back. Five or six straight red lines crossing over him like he’s been attacked by an enormous cat.

  An image comes into my mind. It’s me as a kid running round my garden, Dad chasing me around with a horse whip, his face a furious red. The image disappears before the memory of the pain.

  Don slips his tee-shirt over his head.

  The bell goes. This time it saves nobody.

  X-Files

  I don’t go straight out, just sit with my head in my hands.

  Feels like there’s a lump inside me, not in my throat, but filling my stomach. It’s a black hole. A cloud of darkness. I want tears to come, to release the pressure building in my head, only they don’t. I need a cigarette.

  I leave the mop and what’s left of the mess just as it is. Go through Mildred’s immaculate room and into the staff block.

  At the bottom of the stairs I stop. I know I should go up. Report the incident to Alistair. Only something’s in the way. A barrier I can’t see and can’t cross.

  Instead I turn left into the office.

  There’s an idea floating around, but it’s not yet crystallised into words.

  I open the drawer in the old, metal filing cabinet, the one that says Reception, Class 1 and Class 2.

  Sue’s behind her desk unpicking the thread from the glove-puppets she’s making with the little ones. Need to be ready for Christmas, but it’s not looking good.

  “Any file in particular?” she asks.

  “Just checking out a couple of birthdays.”

  I pick out three, making sure Don’s is one of them.

  There’s not much time – I need a smoke and don’t want anyone else asking.

  With my pen I write a couple of things on my hand – three birthdays and Don’s address. It’s only then that I realise what I’m intending to do.

  surveillance

  My Nissan Micra is perfect for the job. An average car parked in the middle of a line of other average cars.

  The nights a drawing in. 8 o’clock and the light’s passed away for the day. I leave the window open for my smoke to escape and to let the scents of autumn in – leaves rotting and wood-smoke and rain.

  Before leaving, I called Mike for his advice.

  There’s not much too it according to him, other than a need for patience. A good book, top music, a couple of bags of crisps, drink and a spliff is what he recommended.

  I have them all.

  Sadly, Crime and Punishment will have to wait. I’m tired and my eyes can’t beat the lack of light. Besides, the way my head’s fizzing I’d be better off with the Beano or the Dandy.

  Joy Division play on from the cassette deck. Helps me settle knowing they’ve been through it all before me.

  The other thing Mike told me was to take a few days. Find routines, form a plan and stick to it. When I was ready, I’d need to take the necessary precautions – hood, gloves, a pair of expendable shoes.

  I see Don’s dad coming around the corner from the back of the swimming baths and all that advice goes out of the window.

  Two hours of being cooped up waiting and I need some energy release.

  He’s walking away from the Finchley Road, up from the traffic and the peeping eyes. Shoulders square and dipping, he’s all pose. Flicks his cigarette butt to the floor and pulls out a pack from his back pocket.

  Ignoring the chill to the air, he’s only in jeans and Tee-shirt. The top of his trousers falls half way down his arse to show off designer boxers. Can’t afford breakfast for his kid, but when it comes to fashion the pennies aren’t a problem.

  The sight of those pants brings my simmering blood to the boil.

  I’ve no plan and no expendable shoes, just my usual hood.

  I pick up the steering lock, the one I bought from the AA. Sometimes get it out when a driver gives me stick in a traffic jam. When they see me coming holding it, they usually shut up pretty fast, more’s the pity.

  I close the door real quiet, the kind of soft click you make when there’s someone asleep in the back.

  My boots don’t make a sound as I head after him, unless it’s just the sea of blood in my ears that’s blocking everything out.

  Hood up and striding now, I watch him suck the fire from his lighter into his new cigarette. The smell travels over to my nose, a sweet resin alerts my buds and I wish I’d smoked the joint I was saving.

  He must have heard me. Turns around, lip curled like he’s about to growl.

  I’ve already raised the bar, fast and smooth.

  He puts his arm up and his body falls back. “What the?”

  I’m swinging, putting everything I’ve got into the one blow, a lifetime of shit unplugged.

  There’s a smash, or at least I think there’s a smash, but the follow-through’s like I’ve missed him altogether.

  Then I look down.

  Christ.

  His head’s changed shape, like a stress ball after a bad day at the office.

  One side of his face has given up trying, the other looks just the way he looked when last I saw him dropping off his son.

  The anger’s gone. I know it’s disappeared. Means I can’t do what I have to do.

  There’s a pool of blood growing like a treacle spill. I need to get right out of there.

  And it all changes.

  Two lovers walk around the corner. She’s looking deep into his eyes when I see them.

  Her high heels are clacking and her perfume smells of class.

  She’s the kind of girl only money can get, and he’s got money all right. Everything about him’s clean, from the finger-nails, to the shave to the collar of his shirt.

  They stop a yard or so from the body that’s blocking the pavement.

  three-minute-hero

  Poor bloke’s one of those ‘tough on the causes of crime’ types, the kind of ‘have-a-go-hero’ the papers talk about. He peels his girl’s arm from round him and heads over to me.

  She tries to stop him. Reaches out, but her feet are rooted to the spot and she’s too late. “He might be dangerous,” she says. There’s no scream, just calm.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” he says as he closes in. He speaks with the authority of wealth and of the deep-voiced, as if he’s talking to a naughty employee.

  There’s not time to think. His legs are long. He’s a tall man who probably works out every day. Might even be into martial arts.

  The bar swings again. I hear the air shift out of its way. The gentleman doesn’t follow suit. Instead, he greets the bar with his face.

  His head turns to the side.

  Teeth spill out of his mouth and fly across the road. His body crumples like he’s made of straw.

  Behind him his girl puts her hands over her mouth. The red of her nails exactly matches the colour of her lips.

  She watches her beau hit the floor. Sees his head bounce from the pavement same as me, like we’re at the same movie show.

  It’s the last I take in.
>
  I’ve turned.

  My legs are pumping, running like they’ve never run before.

  I’m away past the football pitch, across four lanes of traffic and pushing my way through the crowd outside the Swiss Cottage like a crazy marathon runner, eyes for the path ahead only.

  By the time my lungs pack up, I’m heading out to Kilburn.

  I turn down a quiet street, fall against some railings and look at the lock I’ve been carrying like a relay baton.

  The stains on the end of the metal prongs remind me that everything’s sorted. Don’s dad will never be teaching him his life lessons ever again.

  Sleepless In N7

  “You’re white as a sheet, man,” Wolf say s when I finally get home.

  It’s 2 in the morning.

  I sit down and tell him what’s gone on. He understands. Sits through the whole story without judging.

  The steering lock ended up at the bottom of a skip just off the Kilburn High Road under piles of brick and plaster board.

  Once that had been taken care of, I headed for the tube. Got off to collect the car. Didn’t want anyone taking my number – the link between me and the victims would be all too obvious.

  As I stepped up the escalator on the way out of Swiss Cottage station, my eyes were drawn away from the ads for shows and against abortions to the police line checking everyone going in.

  Good job I was going the other way.

  I walked quickly to build up some body heat, past the Freud clinic and across to where I’d left the car.

  Some bugger had robbed it.

  On the pavement where my car should have been, cubes of glass like enormous sugar crystals catching the orange light from the street-lamp.

  And so I walked home.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have used the steering lock as a weapon?” Wolf says as he pours the milk into my tea.

  “That’ll teach me.”

  We both laugh. I feel some release.

  “She phoned.”

  “What?” It takes a second to realise who he’s talking about.

  “Emma.”

  It’s like he’s revealing a story in a series of cliff-hangers. “Well?”

  “Well what?” I definitely preferred it before he got onto his new medication.

  “Was there a message?”

  “She loves you,” he says, “And you know that can’t be bad.” Then he sings the rest of the song in the style of Louis Armstrong.

  early morning call

  I’m dreaming about Preston. Being a kid again. Mum’s putting out the washing and the sun’s bright.

  There’s a ball at my feet. I kick it against the wall, hear the high pitched ring of its bounce and kick it again.

  The phone goes inside the house. Mum just carries on pegging.

  I go over to tell her, start pulling at her skirt.

  She tells me to go and answer it.

  I run in. Get to the phone and play with the curly wire. Before I get it I know who it is. I have the power to see to the other end of the line. Dr India’s there at his desk, a scowl on his face, his fingers drumming at the file that lies before him. It’s my file. Seems it might be better not to answer, but the ringing persists.

  Waking up, the phone’s still ringing. This time it’s the one beside my bed.

  God knows what time it is, but being woken on this particular night is all I need seeing as I didn’t get to bed until past 3.

  Why the hell would Dr India be phoning me in the middle of the night?

  I pick up. Put the handset to my ear.

  “Hello,” I say, aware that it sounds like I’m about to slit my throat.

  Nobody answers.

  There’s a sound at the end. Running water, I think. And whispers.

  I hear a toilet flush, a door close and a man’s voice. “Put the phone down.”

  The line goes dead.

  Have they found me already? Was it the girl with the nails and the lips letting me know?

  I dial 1471 for the number.

  It’s withheld.

  Probably Emma. Emma trying to let me know it’s OK. Emma doing what she can to soothe my fevered brow.

  Except the soothing lasts only till I remember what I’ve done.

  Guilt expands in my belly like couscous. It hurts. A physical pain that’s dull and intense at the same time. I hold my gut and rock, the motion helping, just not enough.

  I picture the man’s teeth flying from his mouth. The thump of the bar.

  A groan escapes my mouth. It’s like it came from somewhere else.

  I close my eyes. Try to sleep. Feel my bladder needing relief. I go to pee and know that there’s no more sleep coming my way tonight.

  bad news

  Sal looks worried as I go into the smoking room.

  “Alistair wants to see you. Said it was important.” She’s clutching her handbag like she’s expecting someone to try and mug her.

  “Any ideas?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  I need a smoke to calm my nerves. Soon as I light it I know it’s a mistake. I put it out. The only thing I’ve achieved is to make myself stink of fags.

  Walking up the steps, I feel like I’m ninety-nine years old. If it’s what ageing is like, I don’t want any part of it.

  Alistair’s got company. I hear their voices but not what they’re saying.

  I turn the corner and see a man in uniform standing in the corner. His arms are folded and, with his hat on, he practically touches the ceiling. I’d jump out of my skin if could summon the energy.

  Looks like the game’s up. At least they’ll give me peace when they’re done. Get myself some sleep. I’ll tell them everything. No point pretending.

  Alistair’s in his usual spot.

  In front of him, there’s a middle-aged woman half sitting, half standing, one buttock on the edge of his desk. Her skirt’s in the style of a tent and her enormous calves look to be at home there. It’s probably the first time I’ve seen a lady’s legs in tights and not felt some urge or other. Like her body, her face has the effect of a cold shower on me. It’s exactly what I need.

  “Joe, sit down,” Alistair tells me and gestures to my usual seat in front of him.

  He looks up. “This is detective Moira Scott.” He looks to the corner. “And this is Constable Thin.”

  “James,” says Thin.

  “Hi,” is the best I can think of.

  “Bad news, I’m afraid.” There’s a grey hue to Alistair’s face – I hate to think what mine looks like. “Don’s father was killed last night.”

  “Murdered,” Moira Scott says. She has nice teeth.

  “And Don’s not going to be in for the rest of the week.”

  “He’ll be with Social Work until they find him a foster-home,” Moira tells me. “We’re hoping he’ll find a place near here. Keep him in the catchment.”

  “Absolutely,” I nod. “What the boy needs is consistency at a time like this.”

  “And don’t worry, Joe. He’ll be better off this way.”

  James clears his throat and speaks. “If it was just about Mr Coll, we’d probably be cheering the guy who did it on.”

  “But it’s not,” Moira says.

  “Silly bugger had to take out a TV presenter, didn’t he?” James shakes his head. “Which means we can’t leave a single stone unturned.”

  “Or a single sheet of paper blank.” Moira steps away from the desk. “We wanted to tell you ourselves. If you hear anything on the grapevine, give us a call, eh?”

  She passes over her card and winks. I don’t know how she’s done it, but for that moment she’s completely beautiful and I want her.

  I watch her backside swing as she gets to the steps. She only just fits. The moment of wanting fades.

  PC Thin follows her down. Stoops to avoid knocking his helmet off.

  My head finds rest in my hands.

  “It must be tough on you,” Alistair says.

  He walks round his desk and
puts his arm around me, not knowing the half of it.

  evening news

  The lift’s broken at Hampstead Tube.

  I’d count the steps if I could be bothered.

  Smells like tar and body odour all the way down. I step in time with the rest. There are commuters who’ve finished their days and earned twice as much as me and kids from the private school where they’ve had to pay my hourly rate just to get into the classes.

  I don’t mean to resent them, those kids in the striped jackets and ties. It’s just not fair the way it works. The way they’re half-way up the ladder without really lifting a finger.

  At least I got myself a paper.

  Man in the stall outside the station passed it over, the fingers that poked through his fingerless gloves covered in newsprint. Even before I took it he was off with his sales pitch. “Standard. Evenin’ Santa,” like he’s talking in some kind of code.

  I made the headline. ‘STARS IN HIS EYES’ and the by-line ‘Hero Fights For Life’.

  As I walk down I press the paper between my elbow and my chest. It’s as if I can keep it all to myself. Stop it from leaking out to the world.

  The train pulls in as I get to the platform. I step in through the sliding doors without breaking stride.

  It’s one of the old ones, this. The red and blue check of the seats invite me to sit, so I do.

  The man opposite watches me settle. Chews his gum and looks me up and down. Gives me the creeps. I stare back, straight through his pebble glasses and keep up my stare till he submits and puts his nose back in his book.

  If he looks at me again I’m saying something.

  Unfolding the paper, I try to look casual. Read the story. They’ve got it all wrong. I look over at the girl at the end with the same news. Want to tell her it’s nonsense. Let her know how it really played out.

  '“Rupert stepped in without a care,” it says. “Of course he knew he was at risk but he’s the kind of man who helps if he can,” said Theresa, 23 year old model and partner of the celebrity presenter. “He’s my have-a-go hero.”’

  No way she said that. Who in their right mind...

  “Police are looking for,” and I look across at the man, hoping he’ll give me an excuse to stop reading, but I reckon he got the message. “A man of 30 years old,” (damn), “5 foot 8,” (Jesus), “chunky,” (thanks), “and of mixed race” (huh?).