Simon Lelic

by A Thousand Cuts (v5)

  May I have a word? Just for a moment?

  A word? says Travis. He checks his watch. He glances towards the door.

  It’s just, I have a problem. I was hoping . . . I thought perhaps . . . I was hoping that you could help.

  Travis sighs. I can’t see from where I’m standing but I can just picture him rolling his eyes. A problem, he says. But of course you do. I would hardly have expected anything else.

  Samuel hesitates. For a moment he doesn’t say anything.

  Well, Mr Szajkowski? Please, don’t keep me in suspense.

  I’m . . . I’m having a spot of trouble. With the children.

  Again the headmaster sighs. Trouble, he says. What sort of trouble, Mr Szajkowski? With which children?

  And Samuel, the silly sod, he thinks he shouldn’t name names. It’s not important who, I don’t expect . . .

  If it’s not important, Mr Szajkowski, then why do you feel so obligated to bring it to my attention? I’m rather busy, as you can imagine.

  And for a moment Samuel doesn’t know what to say. He looks across the headmaster’s shoulder and he catches my eye. I nod at him. I nod twice.

  They defecated in my briefcase.

  This from Samuel. He just comes out with it, just like that.

  They did what?

  They defecated. In my briefcase.

  Who defecated in your briefcase?

  I didn’t see anyone do it. But I found it. I still have it, in fact.

  You kept it?

  No, no, no. I didn’t keep it. Christina Hobbs, she took it. She wrapped it up.

  Mr Szajkowski. The headmaster’s pinching the bridge of his nose now. Mr Szajkowski. Perhaps you would do me the courtesy of starting your story at the customary point of departure.

  Which throws Samuel completely.

  The beginning. Begin, if you would, at the beginning.

  So Samuel does. He tells Travis about the coughing and the swearing and that certain classes of his have become unteachable. He tells Travis that he has been tripped, shoved, abused, hounded, spat at. He tells Travis that his bicycle has been vandalised, his seat stolen, his tyres knifed. He tells Travis about the graffiti he has seen, the notes he has discovered in his pigeonhole, the text messages he has received. He tells Travis again what the kids deposited in his briefcase. And then he drops into a chair like he’s physically exhausted and the headmaster’s left standing there looking down at him.

  How old are you, Mr Szajkowski?

  Samuel looks up. I’m twenty-seven. I was twenty-seven just last week.

  Well, congratulations. Did you have a party? Was there a cake?

  I’m sorry, I’m not sure I—

  Never mind. You’re twenty-seven. A fair age. Not a mature age but an adult one. You are an adult, Mr Szajkowski?

  Yes. Yes, I am an adult.

  I am pleased to hear it. And your tormentors. How old are they?

  They’re year eleven, mainly. Year ten.

  Fifteen then. Sixteen perhaps. Fourteen possibly.

  That’s right. Yes. I would say that’s right.

  Do you not see a discrepancy somewhere, Mr Szajkowski? Do you not sense something awry?

  Samuel nods, he’s saying, yes, Headmaster, I do. But they defecated—

  In your briefcase. Yes, Mr Szajkowski, you mentioned it. What of it?

  Samuel is regretting having sat down, I can tell. The headmaster’s a tall man anyway and now he’s looming right over him.

  What of it? Travis says again. What would you have me do? Perhaps I should summon the culprits to my office, make them apologise to you, make them promise in future to play nice. Perhaps, Mr Szajkowski, you would like me to ask them to stop picking on you. Perhaps you think that might help.

  No, says Samuel. Of course not. There won’t be any need for—

  Or perhaps, Mr Szajkowski - now here’s an idea - perhaps, Mr Szajkowski, you might consider for a moment your function as an employee of this establishment. You are a teacher, Mr Szajkowski. I have reminded you of that fact before but perhaps you have forgotten it. You are a teacher, which means you teach and you lead and you maintain order. You maintain order, Mr Szajkowski. You effect discipline. You do not allow yourself to become intimidated by a fifteen-year-old boy who in twelve months’ time will either be queuing for his dole money or stealing other people’s. Do not look so surprised, Mr Szajkowski. You do not name names but you do not have to. I see everything that happens within this institution. I am omniscient. Donovan Stanley is a reprobate. He will be with us only for a few months more. During that time I will not waste time or attention or resources on something as sordid and inconsequential as that boy’s shit.

  And then he leaves. He doesn’t look back at Samuel and he doesn’t look over at me.

  I’m standing there. I’ve got a teaspoon in my hand and I’m just standing there. I look at Samuel. I’m watching him. I feel like I should say something but I don’t know what. What can I say?

  In the end I don’t say anything. Samuel doesn’t give me the chance. He stands up and he picks up his bag and he packs away his books and he’s across the room and without so much as a glance he’s out the door and he’s gone.

  And that, Inspector, was that. That was that and nothing changed. I mean, I assumed that Travis would do something. I told myself that his little speech was for Samuel’s benefit. You know, a sergeant major ball-busting one of his troops. But he did nothing. He actually meant what he said. He did nothing and nothing changed.

  No, that’s not quite right. Things did change. Things got worse. At the time I didn’t think it would be possible, but it was, it most definitely was. You heard about the football match, didn’t you?

  ‘It’s a joke. That’s what it is. It’s a joke report.’

  She said nothing. So far she had said nothing.

  ‘Come on, Lucia. Put me out of my misery. Show me the real one. This is hilarious, real comedy stuff, but give me the actual report, the one that says what we all need it to say.’

  She could have. The DCI did not know it but she could have. It was at home, on her computer, in the recycle bin. It was in a pile on the side of her desk, sentenced but not yet shredded. It was on the memory stick in her pocket.

  ‘You know the one I mean. The one that says this was a tragedy, that Szajkowski was a lunatic, that guns are a menace to our society.’

  She shifted. She sighed. She shifted back.

  ‘Something about social services maybe, something they should’ve could’ve might’ve done.’

  She was still. She held herself still.

  ‘The one that’s not going to cost me my reputation. The one that’s not going to cost you your job.’

  There was a fly on his shoulder. She could tell he could not feel it but it was there.

  ‘I’m going to do you a favour, Lucia.’ He raised his arm, showed her the folder. The fly leapt free and the folder followed, arching and then tipping into the bin. ‘You’re early. It’s your saving grace. I gave you until lunchtime if you remember. I don’t need it until lunchtime.’

  ‘You have it now.’

  ‘My lips are itching, Lucia. My whole jaw: it’s itching. It’s tingling. It’s like I can tell there’s bad weather coming, you know, like those guys with their hips in those films. Except the bad weather isn’t bad weather. It’s a shit storm. That’s what’s coming: a shit storm.’

  ‘Toothpaste,’ Lucia said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Try toothpaste. On your cold sores. I read about it.’

  ‘What kind of toothpaste?’

  ‘I don’t know. It didn’t say.’

  ‘There are all kinds of toothpaste.’

  ‘There are. I didn’t think about that. But it didn’t say.’

  ‘I use whitening toothpaste. My wife buys whitening toothpaste. ’

  ‘I wouldn’t use that. Or maybe you could. It didn’t say.’

  The chief inspector watched Lucia for a moment. His eyes did not leave he
r as his fingers wandered across his desk. They found what they were seeking and Cole broke eye contact long enough to pick up a pen and scribble a note on a scrap of paper. He folded the note and tucked it into his breast pocket.

  ‘All I’m asking,’ Lucia said, ‘is that you let me talk to them. This doesn’t commit us. It doesn’t have to go anywhere if we decide it shouldn’t.’

  ‘Lucia. I have to make a presentation at three. That’s in what. Six hours. Five and a half. The super is going to be there. The commissioner is going to be there. The home secretary might even drop by. Believe me: it commits us.’

  ‘So tell them there’s been a delay. Don’t tell them anything. Stall.’

  The DCI grinned. He grinned and then he winced, raised his fingertips to his jawline. He regarded Lucia as though she were the source of his pain. ‘Stall,’ he said. ‘You want me to stall the home secretary.’

  Lucia shrugged. ‘Just long enough so I can talk to the CPS. Present the evidence. Convince them that there’s a case.’

  Cole laughed but this time made no attempt to smile. ‘What evidence, Inspector? What case?’

  ‘You’ve seen the transcripts. You’ve read what these people have said. Grant, the economics teacher. The secretary - the headmaster’s secretary. The kids. You know what happened at that football match.’

  Cole tugged at his tie even though it was already loose. He leant forwards on to his elbows and as he did so a slice of sunlight speared his eyes. ‘Shut that damn blind,’ he said.

  Lucia moved to the window and did as he had asked. The chief inspector’s desk fell into shadow.

  ‘This bastard sun. This bastard heat. This stuff only ever happens when it’s hot. We can’t handle it. This country. When it snows, we freeze up. When it gets hot, we boil over.’

  ‘Just let me talk to them. Let me see what they say.’

  ‘I know what they’ll say, Inspector. I can tell you what they’ll say. They’ll say there is no case. They’ll say there is no evidence. They’ll say they won’t go to court and risk their reputation, their career, their conscience by bringing a prosecution against a school.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘I do, Inspector. I do know that. You’ve been working in this department for what, eighteen months? I’ve been here eighteen years. So don’t tell me what I do and do not know.’

  Lucia’s hand was in her pocket, she realised. The memory stick was in her grip. She let go, removed her hand. ‘The school could have stopped it,’ she said. ‘The school should have stopped it.’

  ‘The school is the victim, Lucia. The school is three dead kids and one dead teacher. The school is the grieving parents on pages one to twelve of the Mail. The school - and this is quite important, you might want to make a note - the school is the bastard government.’

  ‘The school is an employer. That’s all it is. It’s accountable. The school is accountable.’

  ‘Who the fuck are you, Lucia? Who the fuck are you to decide who’s accountable?’

  ‘That’s my job. Isn’t it? I thought that was my job.’

  ‘Your job is to pick up the pieces. To tidy them away. Not to chuck them about the room just because your hormones are bubbling over and you’re looking for someone to get mad at.’

  Lucia folded her arms. She unfolded them, put her hands on her hips. She glared at Cole. Cole glared back.

  ‘So?’ he said.

  ‘So? So what?’

  ‘So are you going to rewrite it? Are you going to do this department, me, yourself a favour?’

  ‘No,’ Lucia said. ‘I’m not going to rewrite it.’

  Cole looked at the file in the bin. He shook his head. ‘I’m going to ask you one more time, Lucia. I’m only going to ask you one more time.’

  ‘The answer’s no,’ Lucia said. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Then open that door, would you?’

  ‘You want me to leave?’

  ‘I didn’t tell you to leave. I told you to open that door.’

  Lucia crossed the office and reached for the handle of the door. She looked at Cole.

  ‘Open it.’

  She did.

  ‘Walter!’ Cole hollered. ‘You out there? Walter!’

  Lucia was only half concealed by the doorframe. Everyone in the office outside turned towards her. Walter was in his chair, one foot on his desk. He shuffled upright when he heard the chief. He spotted Lucia. He grinned.

  ‘Walter! Get in here. Get your chubby arse in here. Walter! Is he coming?’

  Lucia nodded. She watched Walter cross the room. He winked at her as he passed. His elbow trailed. It brushed against her breast and Lucia recoiled. She shut the door and leant against it. She wrapped her arms across her chest.

  ‘What’s up, Guv?’

  ‘What’s on the board? What have you got on?’

  ‘Nothing much. Me and Harry, we were gonna—’

  ‘Don’t. Whatever you were going to do, cancel it.’

  ‘No problemo. What’s up?’ Walter started to tuck in his shirt where it had come loose. Lucia watched his back, watched him reach below his beltline, watched his trousers ride up from his ankles and reveal his mismatched socks. She looked away, made eye contact with the chief inspector. Her glance rebounded. It settled on a stain on the carpet inches in front of her toes.

  ‘Lucia here has presented me with a problem. She’s presented this department with a problem.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I need someone to fix that problem. I need you to fix that problem.’ Cole threw out a foot and toppled the waste-paper basket. Lucia’s report spilled on to the floor. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Pick it up. Pick it up, read it, rewrite it. If you can’t tell for yourself what needs changing, ask Lucia here to give you some pointers.’

  Walter stooped. He shuffled the pages together. He glanced at Lucia before he rose, his teeth showing, his eyes crawling across the bare flesh below her knees. Lucia turned her head away.

  ‘No problemo,’ Walter said again. ‘How long have I got?’

  ‘Get it back to me by one. And Walter, don’t try to impress me. I don’t want anything fancy, do you hear me? You know the sort of thing I need.’

  ‘Aye aye, Guv.’

  ‘And you.’ The chief inspector looked at Lucia. ‘You, take the day off. Take the week off if you want. You blew it. I gave you a chance and you blew it. Now the both of you: get the fuck out of my office.’

  She went to the school. She could not think of anywhere she wanted to be so she went there. It was, she knew, the day of the memorial service. They would be starting at ten, Travis had said. A quarter of an hour ago.

  The car park was full and the playground was full and the only space she found on the road outside she could not get into. In the end, she parked two streets away. The air conditioning in her Golf was broken and when she stepped on to the pavement she realised her blouse was clinging to her back. She walked slowly to the school. At the gates, she tidied herself. She blew at her brow. There were signs and she followed them, away from the main entrance and down the side of the building on to the playing field.

  A man with sunglasses and no hair stopped her. He asked her who she was. She asked him the same.

  ‘Security, madam.’

  ‘Security for whom?’

  The man looked over his shoulder, towards the stage. On the platform there were the headmaster and Christina Hobbs and a fat man with a beard who looked shorter than he did on television.

  ‘Busy day for him.’

  ‘Sorry, madam?’

  Lucia showed him her identification and he let her pass.

  She found a tree and stood next to it. Another goon in a suit watched her for a while before dipping his head and raising a finger to his earpiece. Lucia locked her hands in front of her.

  Travis was speaking. He was thanking everyone for coming, thanking his honoured guest, thanking the families of those Szajkowski had murdered, even thanking the reporters, who had been penned in their own sect
ion, away from the audience proper. Lucia was standing to the rear and to the left of the main seating area. She could not see the front row but she gathered from the headmaster’s bearing that this is where they were sitting: Sarah’s parents, Felix’s parents, Veronica Staples’s husband, her children. Donovan’s parents? Lucia doubted it.

  Now Travis was praying. Lucia had been scanning the audience, the rows of children and their mothers and fathers. She had not heard him start. She had not noticed that the heads in front of her were bowed. She dropped her chin but did not close her eyes. She tuned out the words. It was not the prayer that she did not wish to hear, rather the voice that was uttering it.

  When the prayer was over someone clapped. Others joined in but not many. The applause died of its embarrassment and the audience stood. It stood but remained in ranks. Then the headmaster left the stage and the crowd began to disperse.

  Lucia lingered. The children walked quickly away but the adults moved slowly, as though any semblance of speed might be construed as disrespect. It was some time before the field emptied. Lucia heard cars starting up, she heard what had been muttered conversation gain volume, she heard children freed from the bounds of decorum echoing in the building behind her. She made sure there was no one within sight who might recognise her and she stepped out from under the tree.

  For a moment she could not work out why something felt wrong. The shade: it had spread from where she had been standing. The ground was one tone, the sky above no longer blue. She saw clouds: proper clouds, colourless but not uniform like the haze that descended late in the day. The sun was gone, not just masked, not like lamplight softened by a veil - it was gone. No corner of the sky was brighter than any other.

  ‘Could be a storm.’ It was the goon, the first one. He was beside her, gazing up. He was still wearing his sunglasses.

  Lucia looked where he was looking. She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Not yet.’

  No, no. I understand. It’s your job, Inspector. You’re only doing your job.

  I’m sorry about my wife.

  Yes, I know, but still. It wasn’t helpful. It’s not helpful. She forgets, I think, that she is not the only person who is suffering. She forgets that I loved Sarah too. I’m her father. Regardless of what Sarah’s birth certificate says, I’m her father and I always will be.