Simon Lelic

by A Thousand Cuts (v5)

  Lucia bobbed her head. She waited. Still Elliot’s father did not move.

  ‘It will die down eventually,’ Lucia said. ‘If they can’t find an angle, if they can’t find a link. They’ll move on to something else.’

  ‘Yes. I expect they will.’

  ‘But if I can help. In the meantime. I don’t know what exactly. But you know where I am.’

  ‘Thanks. Thank you.’

  Lucia stood. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Really, I’m most desperately sorry.’

  Elliot’s father cleared his throat. He patted his pockets. He scanned the table. ‘Right then,’ he said. And he left.

  The room was dark again, this time because the shadow of the building opposite had reached outwards. It had worked its fingers through the gaps in the blind and wrapped the furniture and the floor and the walls in its grip.

  we R watchN U. evN f U cnt c us we cn c U

  Lucia sat alone. She held out the mobile phone in front of her, her thumbs resting on the keypad. She scrolled.

  do aL gingrs smeL of piss?

  She imagined Elliot, seated in the same room as his family but wrenched by the words on the screen into a place of loneliness and terror.

  wot hapnd 2 yor fAc? how lng til U dI of cancer??

  She tried to decide what she would have done in his place. She tried to decide but she realised that in fact she had already decided. Like Elliot, she had chosen to trust in denial, to confide only in herself, to try to cope with what others inflicted upon her without help of any kind.

  f U dont wash dat tng off yor fAc we R goin 2 cut it off

  And why? Because the help that was on offer was no help at all. Elliot had been wise to the reality in which he was caught. His parents were well meaning but ineffectual. His friends, if he had any, were probably just as well meaning but weak. There was the school of course; just as for Lucia there was the chain of command. But like Lucia, Elliot had known better than to even try.

  f U ask any1 4 hlp we wiL burn yor hows

  Samuel Szajkowski had tried. He had tried more than once. That he had tried was perhaps the only thing that might have slowed his soul on its descent.

  Njoy yor vzit 2 d hospital. I hOp dey mAk U beta so we cn fck U up agen

  More than alone, Elliot had been forsaken. Why should he have had to ask for help? Why had help not been forthcoming? It was no secret, after all. Those who had the power to intervene: they knew. Why was the onus always on the weak when it was the strong who had liberty to act? Why were the weak obliged to be so brave when the strong had licence to behave like such cowards?

  not a wrd. kEp yor gingr mouf shut

  It wasn’t over. She would not accept that this was over. Fuck Cole. Fuck Travis and the whole fucking school. It wasn’t over.

  kill yorself. f U cum bak yor ded NEway

  The room was dark but it was not late. There was still time. For what Lucia had in mind, there was still time.

  A blog. You know what a blog is, right?

  Well my mum doesn’t and she must be almost as old as you. She’s got no idea. She thinks I’m being foul when I say it. She tells me to chew on soap. I’ve got one, you see, and I write on it most days. I write about animals mostly. Birds and that. Things I see. I haven’t told anyone at school about it though. I don’t use my real name either. Jesus. Can you imagine? I call myself Firecrest. It’s a bird. It’s stupid, I know. Please don’t tell anyone, will you?

  Anyway, that’s what it was. A blog. Supposably it was written by him. Bum—I mean, Mr Szajkowski. They called it the BumLog. You know, like blog but also like Bumfluff.

  At first it was pretty funny, what they wrote. It was supposed to be him in hospital - you know, after he broke his leg. You’re supposed to imagine him like lying on his bed with his laptop, and his blog is all the stuff he’s thinking about and everything that’s going on around him. Like day one is him in pain and that but also he’s thinking about all the shots he should of saved in the game and worrying cos he wasn’t wearing his best pants when Donovan Stanley pulled down his shorts. He’s thinking about his girlfriend - you know, Miss Mullan - and he’s afraid that she saw his, um, I mean, well, us kids, we call them skid marks. I don’t know what the medical word for them is.

  Anyway, that’s day one. And there’s other stuff, like when TJ - Mr Jones - when Mr Jones comes to visit and he’s mad cos the teachers got beat and he’s taking it out on Bumfluff and whacking his leg and that and trying to pull the plug on his life-support machine.

  Which is a bit stupid really cos he wouldn’t of had a life-support machine, would he? I mean, thinking about it, he probably wasn’t even in hospital for more than a few hours.

  But that’s not the point. You’re not meant to take it seriously. Although this kid I know, Gareth his name is, he read it and he was like, why does Bumfluff call himself Bumfluff, does he not know what it means? And, how does he manage to type if he’s all hooked up to a life-support machine? And this other kid I know, David, he’s like laughing at Gareth and going, I dunno, Gareth, maybe he dictates. And Gareth is like, oh. Which is like, duh.

  So anyway, it was funny at first and everyone was reading it. Miss Parsons, she caught a bunch of us looking at it during ICT and at first she was like, what’s that you’re looking at, you’re supposed to be researching news stories not messing about in the webosphere. She calls it the webosphere. She thinks it makes her sound cool. And she reaches past us and takes the mouse and she’s about to close the browser but she sees what we’re looking at and starts to read. Us lot, we’re sort of hanging back a bit but when we see that she’s reading it we crowd in and start reading again too. And Miss Parsons, when she scrolls to this bit about how this nurse is trying to shave Bumfluff but can’t find his face cos it looks exactly the same as his arse, she gives this little snort and brings her hand to her mouth. Someone else laughs too, I think it was Owen, and that’s when Miss Parsons realises the rest of us are gathered round her. And she’s like, right, that’s enough, get back to your desks, that’s enough now, and she hollers at us all to sit down. But I’m watching her. When she gets back to her computer at the front of the classroom she turns off the overhead projector so none of us can see her screen. She types something in on her keyboard and then she just sits there reading, smiling, shaking her head. When the bell goes, she doesn’t barely notice. All she says is, quietly now, keep it down, and still she’s staring at her screen. I leave my PE kit behind so I have to come back for it during lunch but Miss Parsons, she won’t let me in. She opens the door just a fraction and says, what is it? I tell her and she says, not now. I say, but Miss, I’ve got PE, and she says, not now! And I don’t argue but I know what’s going on. I see them. The lot of them. Mr Daniels, Mr Boardman, Miss Hobbs, Mr Jones. They’re all in there, reading it just the same as us. And they’re laughing. I can hear TJ - sorry, Mr Jones - I can hear him laughing cos he’s got this really distinctive laugh. It’s like he’s choking on a wad of phlegm.

  It got nasty though. The blog did. I mean, people still read it and that. I did too. But it wasn’t funny. It was gross, really gross. I wouldn’t of read it at all but I had to cos everyone else did and you look like an idiot if everyone’s talking about it and you can’t even go, yeah I know, or, what about that bit, did you read that bit?

  I don’t want to say.

  Please Miss, I really don’t want to.

  What should I call you then?

  Okay but I still don’t want to say.

  What if I showed you? It’s probably still up. I doubt there’s anything new on it but it was definitely up three weeks ago cos I heard Tracey Beckeridge tell Gabby Blake that Meg Evans peed in her pants when she read it.

  Oh yeah, it’s been going on all year. The football match was February, wasn’t it, so yeah, three or four months.

  Do you want me to then? Do you reckon that computer over there is working? We’re not supposed to use the computers without permission so if anyone says anything will y
ou tell them that you said it was okay?

  Where’s the button?

  Oh yeah.

  These computers are really slow. They’re like jurassic or something.

  God. It sounds like it’s gonna take off.

  My dad’s got this brand-new computer and he says it’s like the Lambogenie of all computers. It’s got this blue light on it, like it’s a spaceship or something. He doesn’t let me use it.

  God, come on.

  Come on come on come on come—

  Right, here we go.

  Look. See, I told you. And it’s in the history, which means someone’s been looking at it in here. It would of been a teacher probably. I bet it was a teacher.

  This is it. Look, the last post was on 6 June. So that was like what. A week before the shooting.

  So if I click here and then here . . .

  God it’s sooo slow.

  Right. Here’s the first one. Then you just scroll down. When David reads them out he does this voice, like an accent. It’s supposed to be Polish. I mean, Bumfluff, he doesn’t have an accent - he didn’t - but on the blog he does. So David, he goes like this.

  Day 3

  Today i think again about game. never should i to be in goal. i am forwardstriker. Back home, in pooland, cats i would chase for food. fast am i. how you say. like thunder. In pooland, in my village, they call me greyhound. they call me other thing too but these word i cannot to repeat.

  Terence is to fault. he is stupid man. he is, how you say, a—

  When David does it he does the swear words. I won’t though. I mean, I would but I won’t.

  he is, how you say, a something. Too also, he is gayman. It is true, there cannot be doubt. Always he wears the short’s and watches in the mirror. He is like ladywoman. in pooland could he be Happy. in Pooland, he make poolish Man very handsome wife. He would to cook and to clean and to have the bottom sex all the Days long.

  I can’t really do voices. I can do birds. I’ve never shown anyone though. I’ve shown my mum, that’s all. But I can’t do voices. You get the idea though, right? Although not all of the entries are written like that. With the accent, I mean. Here, like this one.

  Day forteen

  Somethinged myself 2 sleep last nite. Couldnt find my Thing at 1st but kept thinking abot Maggie and up it popped. One day i hope she will let me touch her bottom. Its big and round and probaly doesnt have much fluff on it at all. Even if it was fluffy i wouldnt mind. I would stroke it and hold it and rub my beard against it.

  What I think is that Donovan did the ones with the accent. They’re much funnier. The other ones are just stupid really. Gideon did them I reckon.

  God, don’t say anything to anyone, will you? Don’t say I said they were stupid. God. He’d murder me.

  Look, here’s another one with the accent.

  Day 37

  My heart, it is inoperative! Why my Maggie no visit me in this place? she be so ashamed of me perhaps. she think i have some disease. I have no diseases my Maggie, only disease of lovesickness! also i am Hornyman. To long is it for me without the Jiggy Moving. today i try to jiggy move with pretty nurselady but nurselady she clap my face. She say “bad Mr Shite, not to touch the nurseladys!”. I beg but she no give up to me. She clap me again but i no feel for beard-fluff it protect me. I say “bring me my Maggie to me!”. I say “I must with the Jiggy” but she say “jiggy to yourself!2. And so again must I give reliefs to my own. Oh my Maggie. Why you no visit me?!

  So anyway, you get the idea. Like I said, it gets worse later on. There’s more swearing and, you know. Other stuff. It gets more . . . more . . . what’s that word when you read something and you can almost see what’s happening in your head?

  That’s it. Graphic. It gets more graphic. I’ll leave this open, shall I, and if you want to you can see what I mean for yourself.

  Oh yeah, he must of done. He must of heard people talking. I mean, all the kids, all the teachers - everyone read it. After the game, he was only away for about a week. He came into school on crutches. And during class and that, all the kids would be dropping hints. You know, going, nice post, sir, or, how was hospital, sir, or speaking in a Polish accent and repeating the stuff they’d read. He must of known. If it’d been me I would of asked one of the other teachers what everyone was going on about cos all the teachers knew, that’s for definite. Mr Grant, he even tried to stop them. Donovan and Gideon. This is what I heard from Tracey Beckeridge. Tracey said that Grant tried to ban them using the computer lab, which I suppose is where they were writing it and uploading it and that, but Donovan and Gideon went to TJ - Mr Jones - who went to Bickle - Mr Travis - and Bickle - Mr Travis, I mean - he said they - Donovan and Gideon - oughtn’t to be banned cos IT skills were fundamental to something-or-other and pupils shouldn’t be discouraged and anyway this school didn’t practise the censorship of expressions. Something like that. That’s what Tracey Beckeridge said anyway. I don’t know how she found out but Tracey always seems to find out everything and what she says turns out to be true probably half the time at least.

  Do you know what Tracey also said? She said she felt sorry for him. Bum—I mean, Mr Szajkowski. Which I didn’t really think about till she said it but that’s part of the reason I didn’t like looking at the Bumlog later on. Cos you could kind of imagine what it would be like, being him. He’s a teacher and everything and probably it didn’t even bother him but it’s not nice, is it, when it happens to you? That’s probably why Tracey said it. Cos she’s a bit of a gossip and that, which sometimes gets her in trouble herself. You know, picked on. She’s got freckles. They’re not too bad, not like on some kids, like on ginger kids, but she’s definitely got them. And last year - this is what Gabby Blake told me - last year Tracey was getting picked on so much that for a week she told her mum she was going to school but really she went and sat all day by the ponds on the common. And she bought this mirror, like one of those mirrors girls use for make-up, and she bought a cigarette lighter and she sat on a bench and put the mirror on her lap and she used the lighter to try and burn her freckles off. That’s what Gabby Blake said. And I reckon it was true cos when Tracey came back to school she had like these raw bits all round her nose. She said she got them from being scratched by her uncle’s cocker spaniel but it didn’t really look like she’d been scratched. I mean, they looked more like blisters that’d been burst, which would make sense if she did what Gabby said she did, wouldn’t it? You can still see the marks even now. They’re kind of shiny. Sometimes, in a certain light, it makes her look like she’s been crying.

  No, not that much really, not any more. I mean, I was for ages, for basically my whole first year, but now I only get picked on sometimes and virtually everyone gets picked on sometimes. It’s just how it is. Actually I’m lucky cos there’s this kid I know, Elliot his name is. He’s the year below, year seven. He has this massive birthmark on his face and also he’s ginger and also he hasn’t really got any friends so he gets picked on most of all. If I stay quiet no one really notices me any more. Also, I have five friends, which helps. Actually, four and a half. No, four. It’s actually four. Vince Robins broke my PSP so I’m not friends with him any more.

  Four friends isn’t that many I suppose. You’ve probably got loads more than that. Most people have. My sister, she must have like a hundred friends. They’re always round our house. It’s annoying cos they take over the lounge and I haven’t got a telly in my room. It’s embarrassing too. They blow kisses and stuff. They put on this voice and they’re like Nick-eee, oh Nick-eee. I ignore them or I tell them to shut up. I go upstairs.

  So my sister’s got hundreds of friends but I only have four. I don’t mind though. It’s better than how it was. And four is enough for me. When I think about it, four friends is quite a lot. I actually feel pretty lucky. I am pretty lucky, compared to some of the other kids.

  Across from the school gates, a pack of journalists lazed in the heat. They could have positioned themselves anywhere but, as hu
nters with a common prey, they had gravitated together. Lucia recognised some of the faces. Most of the journalists no doubt recognised hers. She approached on the opposite side of the road but still, as she drew near, those who had been sitting got to their feet. Pencils were drawn, lens covers snapped off. Cigarettes were sucked, dropped and ground with rubber soles into the pavement.

  ‘Inspector!’ someone called. ‘Hey, Inspector!’

  ‘What’s the occasion, Inspector? Come on, darling, give us something!’

  She would have liked to. In spite of the ‘darling’, she would have liked to. Yet she strode on. She had almost reached the gates when another voice called out to her.

  ‘Inspector! What’s going on, Inspector? The Samson boy. The shooting. Some coincidence, don’t you think?’

  This time Lucia stopped. She stopped before she could think.

  ‘Come on, Inspector.’ The same voice again. ‘You can tell us. We can keep a secret.’

  There was laughter but a flutter of excitement too. The gap between Lucia and the journalists was closing. One man - the man who had spoken, Lucia assumed - was halfway across the road; his Dictaphone was even closer. He spoke again. ‘Off the record? We don’t need to use your name.’ Like a movie cop surrendering his weapon, he lifted the Dictaphone above his shoulder and made a show of switching it off.

  Lucia said nothing. She turned away. She ignored the pleas that sounded behind her, the single profanity too, and continued towards the gates.

  The playground was empty but there were eyes, Lucia knew, at every window. As she crossed the playground she felt the building narrow its gaze. The sun was straining through the film of cloud that had settled over the city but as Lucia approached the entrance the day seemed suddenly less bright. Hot still, oppressive still, but gloomier too, though the building today gave no discernible shadow. Lucia climbed the steps. The glass on the doors cast her back at her. No one’s home, the building seemed to say. No one’s home who wants to talk to you. Lucia pulled one of the doors wide and stepped inside.