‘No, but we do ask that you notify security or reception of any guests you plan to entertain on the campus, particularly if they stay over. Again, we are answerable for the security of our charges and we do try to ensure we take that duty of care seriously. Without, of course, compromising your own independence or privacy.’
Of course. Robyn breathed in and decided, for her own best interests, to change the subject. ‘So what form does the research take?’
‘Come along, I’ll show you around the school. As we have discussed, the children here are special. Every one of them is extraordinarily intellectually gifted. Many have been extricated from environments where their behaviour was disruptive or problematic. It’s sadly still the case that many educationalists consider an appropriate peer group for children with an adult’s intellect to be other children of average ability. Add to that a lack of differentiation appropriate to the child’s capabilities and you have a recipe for trouble and disruptive patterns of behaviour. These children have all experienced problems of uneven development. Many have a drive to perfectionism and adult expectations. They are intensely sensitive and have often been alienated for most of their young lives. A good number have experienced difficult relationships with adults.’
‘Surely this is an environment that demands specialised educationalists?’
‘You may well think so,’ Hamilton gestured her into a red brick building that reminded her of an old railway station house. The wooden doors were set with panels of wire-reinforced glass. Beyond was warm air fuggy with the riot of school smells, a faint tint of antiseptic, paint, crayon and people. The occasional scrape of a chair leg or table, the muffled chorus of a class speaking in unison. ‘But we have found it’s more important to have a faculty made up of sympathetic role models who can form bonds with the children.’
The entrance area was brightly lit and scattered with bean bags and books. A small girl, perhaps ten or eleven years old, stood up when they entered and wandered over to them. Fair and pale-skinned, she was dressed in a Hello Kitty t-shirt and jeans. She was holding a Kindle. ‘Hello, Larry.’ She turned to Robyn. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Robyn Shaw is our new member of staff. Robyn, meet Tatum. She joined us last year from our sister facility in Toronto.’
‘Hi Robyn.’
‘Hi Tatum. Sorry, I couldn’t place the accent for a second.’
‘No need to be sorry. Unless, of course, you were mistaking me for an American.’
‘No, no. No fear of that.’
Hamilton glanced at his watch. ‘Shouldn’t you be in class?’
‘Sort of. David was getting a bit tangential and I thought I’d be better off reading it up for myself.’
‘What are you studying?’ Robyn heard raised voices, a childish whine of protest and a man’s bark in response.
Tatum rolled her eyes. ‘Hear that? He’s such a martinet. History. We’re on the second world war.’ She cocked her head and asked Robyn, ‘Do you think Hitler was truly a fool? It’s just that we seem to have such a need to demonise our enemies and yet he won power democratically and went on to build a potent and effective military force.’
Robyn considered the question. ‘He transformed the German economy, too. But I don’t think it’s about foolishness or intellect as much as ideology and the effect of absolute power.’
‘Corrupting absolutely.’
‘Something like that. His legacy is still one of the most shameful deeds in history.’
‘The Jews.’
‘Yes. And gays, gypsies, Poles. Intellectuals. Anyone who didn’t fit with his warped view of a eugenically perfect world.’
‘Quite.’ Hamilton beamed and held out an arm to shepherd Robyn. ‘Now, we’d best get a move on.’
Tatum held out her hand. ‘It was nice to meet you, Robyn.’
‘Likewise. I’m sure we’ll meet again.’
Hamilton’s hand was against Robyn’s back. ‘Come on, come on. We’ll introduce you to David Thorpe, the man Tatum slanders as a martinet.’
Hamilton’s knock on the classroom door was answered with a shouted ‘Enter’ and he pushed it open and waved Robyn through. She constructed a smile, realising all eyes would be on her. Sure enough, Thorpe had stopped talking and turned to face her. A dozen kids were looking at her with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion on their faces. Robyn was hit by a number of realisations, her smile faltering as she took everything in. There were no desks or tables, the kids were sitting slumped in chairs or draped over chair backs. One of them was fumbling with her hands in her lap and grinning. The group was mixed ages, some kids as old as perhaps sixteen or so. The boy who had killed the sparrows on the common was there. He was staring at her.
She tried to swallow but her mouth was too dry. She struggled to focus on Thorpe. She stepped toward him with her hand held out. From behind her came Hamilton’s voice, muffled as if he were speaking from a distance. ‘…New member of our faculty, Ms Robyn Shaw.’
‘Robyn Shaw. Nice to meet you. David Thorpe.’ Beyond the prominent nose and rosy cheeks was a rock-climber’s wiry athleticism. He was tall, a little shabby in his plaid shirt and jeans. A man who didn’t care for appearances. He smiled and it was like the sun coming out to light the craggy face. He took her hand. Cool skin.
‘Who’s she going to be teaching?’ A voice from the class.
Thorpe turned to the questioner. ‘Sorry Martin?’
Robyn took back her hand and turned to the class. Martin was the sparrow boy. ‘I asked who she was going to be teaching.’
Hamilton spoke up. ‘Robyn specialises in English language and literature. She will teach two classes.’
Martin was probably older than he looked, he had the wiry look of the under-grown. Tousle-headed, freckled and pale, his voice was high pitched and clear, a glassy edge to it. He wore a brown jumper. ‘What is your view of Shakespeare’s appropriation of Boccaccio’s work in All’s Well That Ends Well?’
It was as if her lips had been sutured shut. She fought to open her mouth, for a moment actually felt the tug of stitches tying her lips before they burst open in an explosion of pain. She yelped, her hand flew to her mouth but there was no blood when she pulled it away. Hamilton stared at her.
She composed herself as quickly as she could, turned to face the children. Martin and a few others were grinning. ‘Shakespeare was a magpie, the Noel Gallagher of his time. It wasn’t just Boccaccio. Look for magpies next time, not just sparrows. There’s more treasure that way.’
A younger child to the left of the group gawped out of the window, the light on his slack face. ‘Sparrows!’ He trilled.
The effort left her drained and struggling to hold back the tears, but it wiped the smile off Martin’s face and for that, at least, Robyn was exultant. She followed Hamilton out of the classroom. Outside in the corridor, he rounded on her. ‘What on earth was all that about?’
‘I’m sorry.’ She held a hand up to her cheek and assumed a rueful expression. ‘I think I just swallowed a filling.’
His asperity turned to bafflement. She smiled bravely. ‘It’s okay, I’m sure there’s a dentist in town. I’ll try and book an early appointment. So how many classes are there?’
Hamilton frowned and passed his hand over his brow. ‘Five. There are five classes. You will give us a sixth.’ He inclined his head and extended his arm. ‘Come, I’ll show it you.’
Mariam switched off the engine of her Ford in the car park of the Kings Arms and basked for a second in the watery winter sun magnified by the windscreen. The folder of sample material Buddy had sent in to 3shoof contained instructions for contacting him, a call to a mobile number at ten in the morning of each day. Buddy, the owner of the scared-sounding voice she had reassured that morning, was waiting for her in that pub. And so were his secrets.
She had returned from her first day at work fatigued but exhilarated and called Robyn who was sitting by her funky Scandinavian fire and reading. Yes, Robyn was fine. There’d been anoth
er weird incident with that kid, the bird kid, but nothing she couldn’t handle. Mariam had poured herself a drink and slouched into the living room to curl up on the sofa with Buddy’s sample files and her laptop. She was woken by her landlord, Australian boy made good Frank arriving late after a boozy night with his metal trader buddies. In his twenties, possessed of all the loyal, dippy optimism of a Labrador puppy, Frank was shit-faced. She spent a couple of minutes politely trying to talk sense with him, but it was a pointless exercise. She left him and crawled up to bed where she was instantly asleep again. Waking at six, lying in her bed and staring at the faint orange corona of the streetlight on her curtain, she had played out how she would handle meeting the American whistleblower.
Now, about to come face to face with that fearful, strained voice, she wasn’t so sure. It all started to feel too real and dangerous. She was no coward, but she couldn’t help remembering that long drive to Damascus; the taut nylon cable ties slicing into her wrists. She shuddered and slid out of her car, handbag on her shoulder and the sunshine making her squint while her breath came in puffs. There was rime on the fence to the side of her, steaming off where the sun fell.
The door creaked open and Mariam blinked to adjust to the dim interior. Stale beer and frying, those most British smells. It was too early for the pub to be busy. The quick glance up from the figure in the corner told her all she needed to know. She walked up to him and slung her bag on the settle. ‘What can I get you? A coffee?’
He tilted his chin at a coffee cup on the table. ‘Coffee’s gross here.’
‘Well, you’d hardly go to Starbucks for a beer. Scotch?’
He was ghostly pale and his lank hair was damp with perspiration. Short, maybe 160cm and skinny, Buddy’s eyes swam behind deep-lensed glasses. He was spotty, a large nose and thin face with a downturned, pessimist’s mouth. His fingernails were dirty; a thing Mariam could never forgive in a man.
‘Fine.’
She went to the bar. The barman was cleaning his taps. ‘What’ll it be, love?’
‘Two large scotches on the rocks, please.’
‘Coming up. I’ll bring ‘em over. Your pal’s a bit jumpy.’
‘He’s American. They can be strange.’
‘Right enough.’
She returned to Buddy and pulled up a stool. ‘So you’ve got the information with you?’
‘Yes I do.’
‘I read your letter to Adel. Why do you want to do this?’
‘To stop the killing. The experiments. It’s inhuman.’
‘My editorial director thinks you might be an entrapment operation. What do you think of that?’
His laugh was a dry bark. The barman came over with two glasses. ‘Here we are.’
‘Thanks. Cheers.’
Buddy fished his ice out of the glass and looked for somewhere to put it. It dripped on the table. ‘Here,’ Mariam reached out her hand. ‘I’ll take it.’
He handed the ice to her and she took it up behind the bar and popped it into the sink. She smelled her hand, pulled a face and reached over to rinse it. Wiping herself dry on her jeans, she turned to see Buddy lean back and pull his hand out of her bag. She ambled over to her stool. ‘Something you make a habit of?’
‘It’s a memory key. It’s got the stuff on it.’
He gripped his empty glass in both hands. He seemed totally helpless, Mariam would have wanted to hug him if it wasn’t for the fingernails and hair. ‘What will you do now?’
‘Go back to my unit. I’m on leave, I got three days left. We’re going back to the Middle East.’
‘Where?’
He flashed a glance at her that said idiot. ‘Lebanon. Again.’
‘What if I need to follow up on this, talk to you?’
‘Here. My normal cell. Don’t use it ‘less you have to.’
Mariam left a missed call. ‘There. That’s mine if you need anything.’
‘Thanks.’
Mariam stood, lifting her bag. ‘Good luck,’ she held out her hand, remembering the grubby nails too late. His grip was limp and she strode over to the bar trying not to wipe her hands on her jeans. She handed a twenty over to the barman. ‘Could I get a receipt please?’
She rubbed her palm on a beer mat, smiled her thanks to the barman and pocketed the receipt and change. She waved at Buddy and pushed against the door. She breathed in the cool air and basked in the weak sunshine, glancing around as casually as she could. Delving into her bag, she pulled out a little bottle of hand sanitiser and rubbed it in. Reassured, she pulled her keys out and dived into the sunlit and pleasantly warm little Ford.
That was it. Over in seconds. She couldn’t believe how simple it was. Her heart was beating fit to bust as she reversed out to make her way back to the 3shoof offices. Whatever was on that key, she was dying to see it now.
The little apartment with its open plan living room and funky Swedish style fire was the best bit about Robyn’s new job at the Institute, without a doubt. She sat by the dancing flames reflecting mesmerically on the carmine stillness of her wine. If it weren’t for her little sanctuary, she would have fled. She had certainly been tempted that afternoon. The memory of her embarrassment made her squirm; immersed in that odd waking nightmare then breaking out of it to confront the knowing eyes of the children who weren’t quite children. Robyn had duly followed Hamilton around the school, out into one of the two temporary classrooms one of which, sure enough, was to be hers. A gift, a prize.
Hamilton had been expansive at the end of their tour, there was no need for her to go overdoing it, they’d maybe set up one class starting next week. She could use the time this week settling in and preparing. Clearly the children were going to require sessions that stretched and engaged them, this wasn’t going to be teaching the rudiments of grammar and sentence construction. Two of them had written full length novels and put them up on Amazon. He would have the links sent to her, yes, of course he would.
Robyn tried to suppress the vivid memory of pain and tearing sutures, the gout of blood from her shredded lips and yet she was constantly torn back to the incident. What had put that conviction in her mind? She was loth to ascribe the whole episode to the boy Martin, but she saw him drawing sparrows out of the air to kill them and surely she hadn’t imagined the vortex of compulsion to go to her own death at his hands. She had wanted to submit to him like the little birds. To yield and give herself up to him. If he could make that happen to her, he could do it again. He had thrown down his challenge. The question he flung at her was meant to show he already knew more than she. His challenge was sealed by silencing her. Sewing her up.
Robyn laughed quietly, shook her head and sipped her wine. She was going potty. A kid controlling her mind. Now that was a new one. She thought she’d encountered every oddness a classroom could throw up, especially in her work with the NGO. The lush little town of Zahlé high up in the Lebanese mountains was her third placement with them. The first in desperate Bethlehem, the second in the Jordanian city of Irbid, even more impoverished than Bethlehem. Kids who pitched up for school wearing the family coat, their brothers coming the next day because it was their turn to wear the tatty, shiny-cuffed jacket they shared.
Parting from Hamilton, Robyn had decided to go down into the town and invest the afternoon in a shopping trip. She bought a pair of brown leather boots and a leather jacket to match them, money for once seemed no object and she splurged gaily, new tops, a neat tartan skirt that was probably too young for her and a formal outfit that was possibly too old. She bought some Chelsea boots and three pairs of nice, sensible classroom-friendly flats. For good measure she topped up on undies at Marksies.
The boxes and bags were still scattered around the living room. She surveyed them fondly, the sharp edges of perception nicely dulled by two heady glasses of warm merlot. The flat still smelled slightly of the chicken pie she’d cooked with home-made mashed potatoes and peas. At least, it had said home-made on the packet.
She used to c
ook properly for herself. She’d have to get back into that when she settled. Sitting here on the cushion by the fire, she was already starting to feel the possibility that she might indeed settle here. She sipped her wine and banished the vague disquiet from her mind, pushing sutures and sparrows alike down into the Void.
Robyn was walking down the promenade alongside the Berdawni River, the water cascading at the bottom of the wall supporting the restaurants and coffee shops which overlooked the babbling torrent. Zahlé was famous for its night-time entertainment, coming alive at dusk with noisy families eating, men drinking cloudy glasses of watered Arak and women their wine, tables groaning with food, salads and fried pastry fatayer; parsley-strewn dishes of grilled meats and fish, fresh fruit and creamy desserts.
As the light faded, the strings of lanterns started to twinkle in the trees, washing the close-packed tables with light. The murkiness intensified, the sky turning to impenetrable gloom, darkness oppressed her and swirling mists of shadow curled along the pavement, sliding up the legs of chairs and reaching out for her own legs as she started to pace more quickly. The lights stuttered, grew uncertain in the unreal night which curled and drifted, cloaked and choked. It was reaching out for her, bearing down on her.
She glanced around. The lights behind her were being snuffed out by the wall of shadow. She ran from it but the lights ahead of her were consumed. She stood under a single dim light and waited, moaning, for it to fade. It snuffed out with a ‘plink’ and the darkness fell.
She slammed awake, screaming.
FOUR
So many secrets
Mariam sat at her desk in the open plan 3shoof office, engrossed in her screen. At her hand was a bunch of scrawled stickies, a manual scratchpad of the folders and files she had been through so she didn’t forget them and miss one. It was eight o’clock and the office dark. The last person out had switched off the lights, missing Mariam hunched behind her laptop. She hadn’t minded, the halogen Anglepoise on her desk gave her plenty of light to scratch her notes.
Birdkill Page 4
