Simon Lelic

by A Thousand Cuts (v5)

  Immediately the sensation was dispelled. A group of students trotted across the entrance hall. All girls, they were hunched together and laughing. Either they did not see Lucia or they ignored her. From distant classrooms she heard children’s voices and teachers’ voices raised over them. She heard the bangs and scrapes of a school in session: chairs sliding, books dropping, doors slamming.

  From the corridor a teacher emerged: Matilda Moore, the young chemistry teacher who had started at the school at the same time as Samuel Szajkowski. A staccato of heel-steps escorted her across the parquet floor. She smiled as she drew near. ‘It’s Detective Inspector May, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Can I help you, are you waiting for someone?’

  ‘I’m here to see the headmaster.’

  ‘I’ll see if he’s available, shall I? Is he expecting you?’

  ‘No. He’s not expecting me. But don’t trouble yourself. I know where to find him.’

  The teacher seemed unsure but Lucia simply nodded at her and turned away. She sensed Matilda watching her as she climbed the short flight of steps that led to the administrative area of the building, then heard her footsteps again as she drifted away. Lucia approached the door to the headmaster’s office. She reached it and she knocked.

  ‘Enter.’

  Lucia did as the voice instructed.

  ‘Inspector. Well, well.’ The headmaster peered up from his desk. Janet, the school secretary, stood over him, clutching a stack of papers to her bust. She smiled and nodded at Lucia and seemed surprised when Lucia did not smile back. She made her excuses and scuttled past, heading for the door that linked her office to the headmaster’s. It closed noiselessly behind her.

  ‘Inspector,’ Travis said again. ‘I must say, I wasn’t expecting a visit from you.’

  ‘No,’ said Lucia. ‘I don’t suppose you were.’ She did not move from her position by the door.

  The headmaster waited. He reclined in his chair, rattled the phlegm in his throat. ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  ‘It’s over,’ Lucia said. ‘The investigation.’

  ‘Yes. I know. I spoke to your superior.’

  ‘You needn’t worry,’ Lucia continued. ‘There’ll be nothing that comes out that will cause you any trouble.’

  Travis had his elbows on the armrests of his chair. He held an expensive-looking pen in front of him, suspended between the fingertips of each hand. ‘If your intention is to discomfit me, Inspector, you will need to be a fraction less equivocal.’

  Lucia felt adrenalin constrict her lungs. She willed her heart to slow its pace. ‘Discomfit you?’ she echoed. ‘No, that is not my intention, Mr Travis. I would have hoped, given recent events, that you were quite discomfited enough.’

  Travis put down his pen. ‘I assume you will not be wanting tea, Inspector May. Would there be any point in asking you to be seated?’

  Lucia shook her head.

  ‘No,’ Travis said. ‘Of course not. Well then. Let’s get down to it, shall we? I assume you are referring to the Samson boy. I assume you have some grievance that you wish to express.’

  ‘I am. I do. But I had also hoped that it would not be necessary to spell out what should be as plain to you as it is to me.’

  ‘What?’ said Travis. ‘Tell me. Spell it out, why don’t you.’

  Lucia inhaled. ‘You are responsible, Mr Travis. You are culpable. You are to blame for that boy’s death, just as you were to blame for the blood that was spilled in your assembly hall.’

  For a moment the headmaster was still. No emotion was discernible on his face. Until he laughed: a single, contemptuous bark.

  ‘You find it amusing, Mr Travis. Another boy is dead. Another family has lost a child. You find it amusing.’

  The headmaster’s expression grew stern. ‘How dare you?’ he said. He stood up. ‘I say again: how dare you? If I find anything about this situation comical, Inspector, it is the absurdity - it is the impertinence - of your allegations.’

  ‘I am not one of your pupils, Mr Travis.’

  ‘Meaning what, Inspector?’

  ‘Meaning, do not talk to me as though I were.’

  The headmaster laughed again. ‘I will talk to you any way I wish, young lady. What right have you to demand otherwise? What right have you to walk so brazenly into my office and make accusations you know perfectly well you cannot substantiate? ’

  ‘From a legal standpoint it seems you are right. I cannot substantiate them, not to the satisfaction of those who have the power to decide whether to act on them. But I have seen and heard enough to convince me that they are true.’

  The headmaster scoffed. ‘Do not put too much faith in what schoolchildren and—’ he jerked his head towards the adjoining door ‘—secretaries tell you, Inspector. Both have notoriously hyperactive imaginations.’

  There came a noise from behind the door, something fallen or knocked over, as though Janet had recoiled at what she had overheard and toppled one of the many trinkets Lucia knew she kept on her desk.

  ‘I have drawn my own conclusions, Mr Travis.’

  ‘Have you indeed? Such a shame then that your superiors do not seem to agree with them. What was their reaction when you outlined to them your theory?’

  ‘The Szajkowski case is closed, as you well know. The Samson case will barely be opened. It is a shame, as you say. More than that: it is a disgrace.’

  The headmaster smiled. He smirked. ‘You call it a disgrace. I call it common sense, a regrettably rare condition among the public servants of this country.’ He sat back down and reclined in his chair. ‘You single me out, Inspector. Why? Why not the children who tormented the Samson boy? Why not their parents? And Szajkowski. You really hold me more accountable than the man who ended those poor children’s lives?’

  ‘There is plenty of blame to go around, Mr Travis. The simple fact is that you could have acted to prevent what happened but you did not. More than that, you were obliged to act. You knew - you know - about the bullying that goes on in this school. You know who the victims are and which children, which teachers, are responsible.’ Lucia took a step towards the headmaster’s desk. ‘You once told Samuel Szajkowski that you were omniscient. Isn’t that the word you used? You claimed to know everything that happened within the walls of this building. Even if that were an empty boast, Mr Travis, you are still the head of this institution and therefore accountable.’

  The headmaster yawned.

  ‘Am I boring you, Mr Travis?’

  ‘Frankly my dear, yes. You are. I find your arguments moralistic and naive. I find your manner obnoxious and disrespectful. I find your very presence a distraction from matters that are far more worthy of my attention.’

  This time Lucia laughed. She could not stop herself. ‘You old fool,’ she said. ‘You pompous old fool.’

  ‘Name calling. Really, Inspector. There was a time when I would have expected so much more from you.’

  ‘Then I suppose we are both failures in our way,’ Lucia said. ‘We have both fallen short of expectation.’

  Travis rose. He moved from behind his desk towards the door through which Lucia had entered. He opened it and held it wide. ‘Thank you for your time, Inspector. I am sorry if it appears to have been wasted. I don’t suppose you have considered what you will do now that you have allowed your bitterness to be aired.’

  Lucia passed through the doorway. ‘As much as it pains me, Mr Travis, I will do the only thing I can do. I will do the same thing you did. I will do nothing. I might sleep a little better, that’s all.’

  The headmaster smiled. ‘My dear,’ he said. ‘I would not count on that. I would not count on that at all.’

  That’s a lie.

  Please, love. Calm down.

  I’m not gonna fucking calm down. How fucking dare she? How dare you? He’s dead. My son is dead, murdered by that faggot freak of a teacher, and you expect me just to sit here while you go around pissing on Donnie’s grave?

&nbs
p; Bollocks. That’s not what you said. You weren’t asking. You were telling. You were what’s the fucking word. Insinuating. That’s what you were doing. If Donnie was such a trouble-maker, how come the school never said nothing? My wife, she was at parents’ evening what. Just last month.

  It was February. It was four months ago.

  February then. What does it fucking matter when it was? The point is they never said a word. Not a fucking word.

  Barry, please. Language.

  Shut up. Just shut up a minute. You. You listen to me. My son was a good lad. He had a mouth on him, I’ll grant you. He was sharp too, too sharp for his own good sometimes. But he was never in trouble. No drugs, no booze, nothing like that. He was smart enough to know what would happen to him if I found him with any. And maybe his grades weren’t all that great but he was quick. He was canny. The only stupid thing he ever did was hang around with that loser mate of his. Wassisname. Christ. What was his name?

  Gideon. Gi. Gideon.

  Gideon. That’s it. Waste of fucking space. You come here asking about Donnie causing trouble but this kid Gideon is the one you wanna be talking to. Donnie was always getting blamed for the shit Gideon pulled. I told him, I said, you better be careful, boy, or that loser mate of yours is gonna drag you down with him. And I was right. That’s exactly what happened. Gideon got a reputation for being a low-life and Donnie got tarred just the same.

  Back me up, Karen. I’m right, aren’t I? Tell her I’m right.

  He’s right.

  Of course I’m right. Like last summer. Like what happened last summer with that kid on the bus.

  It was November.

  It wasn’t fucking November. It was summer.

  It was November, I’m sure of it. It was dark outside, don’t you remember?

  It was summer. You, write that down. It was summer.

  I don’t care if you’re recording it, I’m telling you to write it down as well. You’re writing other stuff down. Write that down.

  So it’s summer. I’m eating dinner. I’ve just sat down. It’s been a long day and I’m in a bad mood anyway because the only beer we’ve got in the house is warm.

  I told you, Barry, it’s the fridge. It’s not been working properly for months. And I said I’d run down to the off-licence to get you some cold ones but you said—

  Jesus H. Christ. Can you not just be quiet for a single minute? It hardly bloody matters, does it? So the fridge is broken. So the beer was warm. So fucking what?

  What the fuck was I saying? All your fucking interrupting, I’ve lost track of what I was saying.

  You were eating dinner.

  I’m eating dinner. Right. I’ve barely started. So I’m sitting there and the sodding doorbell goes. Then, right away after, there’s this knocking. Hammering, more like. You know, like with the back of someone’s fist. And I go to Karen, who the bloody hell is that? She just shrugs. She’s looking at me all gormless, just like she’s looking at me now, and then the doorbell goes again, dingdongdingdongdingdong, like whoever it is has got their finger held against it. And I’m like, I’ll get that, shall I? Even though Karen here, she’s already eaten and Christ knows she could do with the exercise. So I get up and I’m not even out of the kitchen when whoever it is starts hammering again. I yell, I go, there better be something on fire out there, pal. I’m in the hall and I can see this figure through the glass - you know, like a shadow, a what’s the word, a silhouette - and I can tell he’s got his face pressed against the glass. So he can see me coming but all the time I’m walking towards him he’s still got his finger on the bell. By this time I don’t care what the hell’s on fire. Whatever it is will just have to burn while I take care of this joker.

  I open the door. I’ve got my left in a fist. But guess what. It’s a woman. Which is lucky for her because if she hadn’t of been the conversation that followed would of ended up a whole lot shorter.

  I say, who the hell are you?

  She says, Stanley. You’re Stanley, right?

  Who the hell wants to know? What the hell do you think you’re doing hammering on my door like that? You’re lucky you’re a woman, lady, else you and me, we’d be having words.

  A word is just what I want, Mr Stanley. A word with you and your son.

  Donnie. What about Donnie? I’m gonna ask you one more time. Who the hell are you?

  She says her name. She says it but Christ knows if I can tell you what it was. It was some nignog name. African or whatever. She’s one of them, see. A coloured.

  Barry. You’re not supposed to call them that.

  Then what the hell am I supposed to call em? Her skin, it’s coloured, ain’t it? In my book, that makes her a coloured.

  They’re African-American. You call them African-Americans.

  American? What the hell’s America got to do with anything? Look, the point is I don’t know her name. Her accent’s all right, I can understand what she’s saying, but I couldn’t tell you what she was called. Okay?

  Right then.

  So she tells me her name. I say, and?

  And your son attacked my son.

  Attacked. What are you talking about, attacked?

  He attacked him, she says. On the bus. The school bus. Him and his friends, they pinned him down and they punched him and they kicked him and . . . and . . .

  And what?

  And she’s crying now. That’s the problem with women. You’re having a conversation and halfway through they’ll burst into tears. I dunno if it’s the hormones or all the soap operas or what the hell it is.

  I say again, and what?

  And then she turns on me. When she answers, she spits. She shouts, like some fucking savage. They urinated on him, she says. He’s twelve years old and they urinated on him. They beat him and they knocked him down and then they urinated on him. Your son did. Your bastard son!

  Which is just too much. I’m like, hang on a minute. Just hang on a goddamn minute. That’s my son you’re talking about. That’s my son you’re accusing.

  And she’s like, there’s no accusing about it. I’m telling you what happened. I’m saying to you how it is.

  At this point I turn around. Karen, she’s already lurking, and Donnie, I expect he was lurking too. But I yell for him. I shout, Donnie. Donovan! Get your arse down here. Now!

  No one says nothing while we’re waiting for him to appear. I hear his door shut. I mean, I know he’s already on the landing. All he’s done is, he’s crept back along to his room and slammed the door like he’s been in there the whole time. Like I said, he’s canny. So when he gets to the stairs he’s like, what? What do you want?

  Just get down here, I tell him.

  And when she sees him she goes off on one. She tries to get past me. She’s reaching and lunging and spitting again and shouting. Then Karen here starts crying.

  I wasn’t crying.

  Karen here starts crying and meanwhile Donnie’s standing there halfway down the stairs and I’ve got this nut-job lunatic by the shoulders, trying to keep her out of my house.

  Who the hell is this? says Donnie.

  I don’t answer him. I’m busy wrestling. I mean, she’s a woman but she’s not small. That lot: their women tend to be bigger, don’t they?

  Anyway, eventually she calms down. I say she calms down. What she does is she stops screaming. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and she’s breathing in and out but in her eyes she’s got that look, like she’s willing Donnie to step just a little bit closer.

  He doesn’t. He hangs back. I told you, he’s not stupid.

  You, she says. What did you do?

  Who is this, Dad? What’s she been saying?

  She says you attacked her son, I tell him. On the bus. Says you pissed on him. And I expect Donnie to laugh or something. You know, just cos it’s so fucking ridiculous. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t laugh and he doesn’t say anything. He looks at the floor.

  Donnie, I say.

  And the crazy woman, she�
��s like, see! See! He did it, he admits it.

  No! says Donnie. It wasn’t me. I swear, Dad, it wasn’t me.

  I just look at him.

  Honest, Dad, you got to believe me. I mean, I was there. I saw it happen. I saw what they did to him but it wasn’t me.

  He’s lying! says the woman.

  Shut up, I say. You, just shut up. Then, who did it Donnie? What did you see?

  And Donnie goes shtum. Just clams up. Which makes it obvious, right? It was one of his mates. And it doesn’t take a whatdyacallit, a whateverthefuckologist to work out which one.

  Donnie, I say again. What did you see?

  I can’t, Dad. You know I can’t.

  It was him! My son told me it was!

  It wasn’t me. I swear to you it wasn’t!

  He saw him. He saw you!

  Maybe he saw me but I didn’t do it. There were lots of people there. Loads. Maybe he got confused. Maybe he only thought it was me.

  He did not get confused! If he says it was you then—

  You’ve got the wrong boy, I tell her. Do you hear me? You’ve got the wrong boy. Talk to the school. Tell the school what happened. Let them deal with it.

  I spoke to the school, she says. I spoke to the headmaster. He said they can’t do anything. Which means they won’t do anything. So I’m talking to you. I talked to my son and now I’m talking to you!

  Then Karen pipes up. There’re cameras, she says. Aren’t there? On the buses.

  That’s right, I say. Talk to the bus company. Look at the cameras.

  They put tissue paper over the cameras! She’s shouting again now. Your son did! He put wet tissue paper over the cameras! And she starts trying to get past me, to get at Donnie, and by that time I’ve had just about enough. So I do what I should of done in the first place. I grab her by the arms and shove her back. I tell her to piss off. I slam the door in her face. I go inside and finish my dinner.

  That ends it. That’s the end of it. I never see or hear from her again. Which just proves it, doesn’t it? I mean, if she was so convinced it was Donnie there’s no way she would of just crawled back into her hole, not after the way she was carrying on. What happened was, she went away and she spoke to her son again and her son was like, er . . . well . . . yeah . . . maybe I was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Donovan. But do I get an apology? Does Donnie get an apology? Do we fuck.