by Simon Lelic
‘You’re not cold, surely,’ Travis said. ‘It is difficult to remember the sensation of feeling cold, do you not find?’
The hall had already been cleared, cleaned. The furniture she had heard scraping on the freshly shined floor was of a different kind from the chairs she was used to seeing in the room. The desks that the workmen were setting up in rows folded in on themselves so that they also formed a seat. They did not look like they would stack but they did. They were piled ten high at the back of the hall, though the stacks were diminishing as the workmen surrounded them and plucked at them and bore three units at a time to the opposite side of the room.
‘Exams,’ Travis said. ‘We are two weeks behind as it is.’
Lucia looked across the hall for the rope. It was gone. All the ropes on all the climbing frames were gone. ‘Will they not find it difficult to concentrate?’ Lucia said. ‘Being in here?’
The headmaster acted as though he had not heard. He raised his voice to a workman, told him not to space the desks so tightly together. He tutted and turned back to Lucia. ‘You were telling me what you had uncovered, Inspector. You were telling me what your questioning had revealed.’
‘You asked,’ Lucia replied. ‘That’s as far as we had got.’
‘It is classified then. You feel I cannot be trusted.’
‘No. Not at all. The investigation is still ongoing.’
The headmaster raised one eyebrow. ‘That surprises me, Inspector. I was under the impression that your enquiries were now complete.’
‘Then you were misinformed, Mr Travis. They are not.’
‘Well,’ said Travis. ‘I shall know next time to talk to you directly. I shall know not to put my faith in the chain of command.’
‘The chain of command?’
‘I spoke to your superior, Inspector. I spoke to DCI Cole. He telephoned me, in fact. He informed me that your investigation was drawing to a close.’
‘He telephoned you? How considerate of him.’
‘Indeed,’ the headmaster said. ‘He seems a considerate man.’
Lucia looked about her. She watched a stack of desks wobble as one of the workmen tugged at the column next to it. It was going to fall and it fell and Lucia flinched at the noise even though she was braced for it. She turned to the headmaster, expecting an outburst, but the headmaster was focused on her.
‘We will be having a memorial service,’ Travis said. ‘On Monday, at ten o’clock. Not in here. Outside. There is an area of the playing field that seems suitable. Perhaps you would be kind enough to join us.’
‘Thank you,’ Lucia said. ‘I won’t.’
‘You have an investigation to complete.’
She nodded. ‘That’s right.’
The headmaster smiled. He appeared to contemplate. ‘Tell me, Inspector,’ he said at last. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘What I mean to say,’ the headmaster went on, ‘is that it seems as though you have something on your mind.’
Lucia held his eye. She spoke before she could reconsider. ‘Elliot Samson,’ she said. She watched for some reaction but there was none. ‘He was a pupil here, is that right?’
‘He is a pupil here, Inspector. He was and he is.’
‘Of course. And you know what happened to him, I assume?’
‘Naturally I know.’
‘Perhaps you could tell me. Perhaps you could tell me your understanding of events.’
There was another noise, another stack felled. Neither the headmaster nor Lucia paid notice.
‘He was attacked. He was attacked and he was injured. He is in hospital. From what I understand, he is making a full recovery.’
‘He won’t speak. Did you know that? His injuries are healed but he won’t speak.’
‘Forgive me, Inspector. I did not know that you had been charged with investigating the Samson incident as well. You have your plate full. Certainly it explains the delay.’
‘I’m not,’ said Lucia. ‘I haven’t been.’
‘Then it is connected to the shooting? What happened to Elliot Samson is connected somehow to the shooting?’
‘No. Not officially.’
‘But unofficially.’
‘I am curious, Mr Travis, that’s all.’
‘I see.’ The headmaster nodded. His expression was earnest, his manner perplexed. Lucia imagined herself as a pupil, in his office, explaining some indiscretion that could not be explained. ‘And about what, precisely, are you curious?’
‘Well,’ Lucia said. ‘For one thing, I am curious as to your response. As to the school’s response.’
‘The assembly, Inspector. Our ill-fated assembly. I informed you of the topic of that assembly, did I not?’
‘You did, Mr Travis. I wondered, however, what else you had done. What else the school had done.’
‘What else would you have me do? Elliot Samson is a pupil here but that is where our involvement stops. If it had occurred within the grounds, then perhaps—’
‘It happened on the street. On the street outside your school. And it involved your pupils.’
‘You do not know that, Inspector. No one knows that. The Samson boy, as you point out, is not speaking. And unfortunately, there were no witnesses. None that came forward.’
‘None that came forward,’ Lucia echoed. ‘You are sure about that?’
‘You would know better than I, Inspector,’ the headmaster said. ‘But yes, as far as I am aware there were no witnesses. Unless of course your own investigations have uncovered one?’
‘No,’ said Lucia. ‘Not as such.’
Lucia was the only person in London still seated at a desk who did not have to be. She thought about this for a moment. She thought about going to the pub, not doing it, more the concept: going to the pub. She thought about the last time she had gone to the pub in the manner the phrase implied, not as an event she would dither over and dress up for and look forward to. Be let down by.
She thought about calling her father but doubted she had the right number. It was a better excuse than others she had used. She could call her mother. She should call her mother. But the thought of doing so made her feel tired. It made her feel more alone, somehow, than she already felt.
That was unfair. Probably she was being unfair. She was tired already and she was tense and she could hardly blame someone to whom she had not spoken in a month. Talking might help, she told herself. It should help.
She picked up the phone and dialled.
‘Mum. Hi.’
‘Lucia. It’s you. I was thinking it would be your father. This is just the sort of time he would phone.’
‘It’s late. I’m sorry. I thought you’d be up.’
‘I am up. But that’s not the point. The point is, he wouldn’t care if I were up or not. He’d just call and expect me to answer.’
‘I’ll call back. I’ll call you in the morning.’
‘No, no, no. It’s you. You’re not him. You can call any time, you know that. My, but it is late. What’s happened? Has something happened?’
‘No, nothing’s happened. I’m fine. I just called because, well. It’s been a while, that’s all.’
‘Has it? I suppose it has. But the phone rings these days and it’s like someone’s jumped out at me from behind the sofa. Because when he’s desperate he doesn’t let up. He doesn’t give me a moment’s rest.’
‘You know why he does it, Mum. You shouldn’t encourage him.’
‘I have to give him something just so he’ll leave me in peace. If I didn’t, he’d end up on my sofa. Or I’d end up on the sofa, more likely, and he’d take over my bed. And then he’d never go. I’d never get rid of him.’
‘You can’t afford it, Mum. And you shouldn’t encourage him.’
‘He has a plan, though. He tells me he has a plan. The debt – he says there are no debts. He’s starting at zero, he says, but he’s looking up now and he just needs something to get him started. A step up.’
‘I’m his stepladder. That’s what he says to me. We had thirteen years of marriage and still that’s all I am to him. Ironmongery. ’
‘He hasn’t got a plan, Mum. He never has a plan.’
‘Talking of marriage, darling, how’s David? Is he there? Let me speak to him.’
‘Mum. I told you about David.’
‘What? What did you tell me?’
‘David and I broke up. I told you that.’
‘No! When? You didn’t tell me. You never tell me these things.’
‘I told you. I did.’
‘You didn’t tell me. What happened? You work too hard, Lucia. You do. The thing with men is, they need to feel wanted. They need attention. They’re like poinsettias.’ ‘It wasn’t that, Mum. It wasn’t anything like that.’ ‘Or maybe it’s just our lot, Lucia. We’re hamsters, that’s what we are. They mate once in a while, you know, but they never commit. They cope, though, just like us. We’re copers, Lucia. You call yourself a May but really you’re a Christie. And Christies cope. We have to.’
Half an hour later, Lucia was still at her desk. She had a report to write. Her hands, though, remained clasped in front of her keyboard. Her eyes focused on the creases on her knuckles.
The sound of voices in the stairwell startled her. Her first instinct was to turn off her lamp, to pretend that she was not there. She forced her fingers on to the keys instead and frowned at her monitor as though it reflected something more involving than an empty page and a blinking cursor. She typed her name, spelled it wrong. She shut down Word and opened a browser window. Her fingers danced in the air for a moment. She typed Samuel Szajkowski into Google and tapped the return key. As the voices grew louder, she studied the results, clicked on a link, hit the back button, clicked on another.
‘Give me five minutes,’ someone was saying. ‘Just fucking two minutes then. Two minutes is all I need.’
She had known it would be him. There had been no possibility that it was not going to be him.
‘Settle down you lot. It looks like someone’s home.’
Lucia picked up the phone again, realised they would have heard her talking if she had genuinely been using it and put it down. There was an emergency exit behind her. She considered it. She actually considered it.
‘Lulu!’ His tie was loose and his shirt had escaped his straining belt line. His cheeks were the fat-scarred dappled red of uncooked hamburgers and even from twenty paces she knew that his breath would smell like an ashtray overflowing with beer.
Behind him there was Charlie and there was Rob and there was Harry.
‘Walter.’
‘Lulu!’ he said again. ‘You’ve been waiting up for me!’
‘How was court?’ Lucia said. She spoke to Harry, who trailed his drinking buddies across the office. Harry hesitated and lost his chance to answer.
‘Waste of time,’ Walter said. ‘Fucking magistrates.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘Two dykes and a faggot, that’s what happened. But what can you do?’ Walter edged closer, rested a buttock on the corner of Lucia’s desk. His wallet strained to escape the well-shined fabric of his seat pocket. ‘Talking of dykes,’ Walter said and he grinned at his tag-along audience. ‘What are you doing here, Lulu? You know the weekend’s started, don’t you? You know Cole isn’t here for you to impress.’
‘Your flies are undone, Walter. Did you know your flies are undone?’
Walter grinned. He did not even look down. ‘Why are you looking at my flies, Lulu?’
‘Hey Walter.’ It was Harry. ‘I’m thirsty. Just get your damn paperwork and let’s go, can we?’
‘The pub’ll still be there, Harry. Don’t rush me. I’m chatting with Lulu here.’ Walter turned back to Lucia. He slid along the desk, rounded the corner. His thigh was inches from Lucia’s mouse hand. She tried to resist withdrawing it but could not. She leant back in her chair and folded her arms.
‘Would you look at that?’ Walter said. ‘My fly is undone. Lulu here’s been undressing me with her eyes.’
Charlie laughed. Rob laughed.
‘You couldn’t do me a favour, could you darling? You couldn’t reach over here and zip the little fella back in?’
‘I wouldn’t worry, Walter. If it happened to fall out, I doubt anyone would notice.’
Charlie laughed. Rob laughed. Harry smiled.
Walter slid closer. His leg touched Lucia’s, pressed against it. She could feel the sole of his shoe against her shin and the flesh of his calf against her knee. She could smell the beer now. She could smell his curdling sweat.
‘You need a shower, Walter. And you need to get your leg away from mine.’
‘Two minutes, you said. Let’s go, Walter, come on.’
‘You hear that. Now she wants me fully undressed. She wants to see me naked.’ He leered at Lucia. ‘I’ll take a shower, Lulu. Just as long as you bring the soap.’
‘Move your leg, Walter.’
‘How would you like me to move it? Up?’ He slid his leg up. ‘Or down?’ He slid it down.
‘Move your leg. Move your fucking leg.’
‘Come on, Walter. Let’s go.’
‘Harry’s right, Walter. It’s last orders. It’s virtually last orders.’
Walter pressed his leg a little harder against Lucia’s. He leant towards her. ‘How about a goodnight kiss?’ He puckered. He shut his eyes, then he opened them again. ‘No tongues, mind,’ he said. ‘Not this time.’ Lucia looked at Harry. Harry was watching over the shoulders of his companions, his hand gripping a chair, his eyes fixed on Walter.
Lucia stood. ‘I need some coffee,’ she said. She tucked her hair behind her ear and walked the long way around her desk, past Charlie and past Rob and past Harry and she did not look at any of them. She listened to Walter’s cackle and she heard Rob and Charlie snigger and she hoped that none of them could see her shaking.
.
The boys are idiots. They’re all of them idiots. And like I know you’re not supposed to say this, you’re not supposed to speak disapproving of the dead and that but Donovan, Donovan Stanley, he was the biggest idiot of them all.
He wasn’t the tallest. He wasn’t the strongest. He was the quickest, though. His mouth, I mean, his tongue. He was the quickest. He was the meanest too. He’d say things you couldn’t believe and then he’d be saying something else and you’d be there wondering whether you had even heard him right, whether that first thing he’d said had even been said at all. Do you know what I mean?
He was quite good looking. Normally I don’t like black hair but I liked it on him. It looked good with his eyes. They were blue, like my little brother’s, although my little brother’s, they’re changing now, they’re going brown. Samantha reckons I fancied him but I never did. I was going out with Scott, Scott Davis, at the time so I wouldn’t of told anyone even if I had of done. Which I didn’t. And anyway, he wasn’t interested in girls. He wasn’t gay, God, but he wasn’t interested in girls as, you know, girlfriends. He’d shag them, I know people who’ve shagged him, and maybe he’d shag them once or twice but that was as far as it went. I never shagged him. I hope you don’t think I would of because I wouldn’t of no way.
He was fifteen, same as me. Imagine getting shot at fifteen. Imagine, like, dying. And that girl, Sarah, wasn’t she eleven? I didn’t know her. I didn’t know the black kid either. I only knew Donovan and not that well. He was the oldest of the three of them but he was young enough though, wasn’t he? He acted like he was eighteen or something, said he drove his cousin’s car, hung out with his cousin in the pub but I don’t know if he really did. Imagine dying before you’re old enough to learn to drive. Imagine dying before they’ll serve you in a pub.
Some kids, though, they’ll be glad he’s dead. I shouldn’t say that either, should I, but it’s true. Donovan and the others, they picked on the younger kids mostly, just whoever happened to get in their way. Although one time they b
eat up this sixth-former. Jason his name was, Jason Bailey. Jason and that, they’re playing football and Donovan fouls him, hacks his legs away or something, and Jason calls Donovan a cheat, an effing cheat. Donovan, he was a cheat, he was always fouling someone or mouthing off at them or whatever but you don’t go calling him a cheat, no one ever called him that. They used crash helmets, I heard. Donovan and his mates. You know, motorcycle helmets.
He’d never done anything to a teacher though, not before Bumfluff – Mr Szajkowski – not that I’d heard.
Jesus, that sounds weird. What do I call him now? He’s not a teacher any more, is he? He’s not even Bumfluff any more. God, that’s so weird. It’s weird just thinking about it. The whole thing I mean. It feels like some film, like you know when you watch a film and you’re half asleep and messed-up things start happening and you don’t know if it’s in the film or in your head or what. It feels like that. Except I know it’s not in my head and it’s not in a film and it actually really happened.
Donovan started on Bumfluff right from day one. I’m gonna call him Bumfluff, I think. Is that okay, if I call him Bumfluff?
So it was the first history class of term, double history, and we know Miss Evans has left so we know we’re getting a new teacher. So Bumfluff walks in and everyone goes quiet because you never know the first time, do you, you never know what a teacher’s gonna be like. So Bumfluff walks in and everyone’s quiet and Bumfluff smiles and says, hello everyone, my name’s Mr Szajkowski. And Donovan laughs. He had this way of laughing when he wasn’t really laughing. He’d kind of press his lips together and sort of hiss and blow a raspberry at the same time. Look, like this. Well, not like that. I can’t really do it. Donovan could though and when he did you knew he was about to say something funny. Something funny or something nasty. Usually both.
I’m gonna swear now, just to warn you. Not me, I’m just gonna tell you what Donovan said. Is that okay?
Shitewhatsir? says Donovan. Shitecoughski? And in the middle he does this little cough, which really means k’off. You know, fuck off. Anyway, we all know what he means and everyone starts sniggering and one of Donovan’s mates, Nigel I think, he does a little cough too and then the sniggering turns to laughing. Bumfluff tries to talk over it but everyone knows by then that this teacher, this tatty little bloke with his proper toff accent, he hasn’t got a chance against Donovan.
