“I see the lazy-bones in every class I teach. The lazy-bones has never done their home-work, their shoe-laces are never tied, they arrive at the lesson a minute after everybody else, looking like they had just fallen out of a tree. And they never do any work. Their hand-writing is atrocious!” Pollard delivered his remark in a very animated way and the laugh that it received was noticeably louder.
“But, the lazy kid never does any harm, it’s only themselves they let down. Not like the class bully. Did you have one? Oh yes, of course you did. I bet you can visualise him or her right now and you can recall the fear they used to put into you. The nasty comments, the vicious remarks. And the class bully always has two mates, who aren’t nice, but they’re not quite as bad as the bully.”
There were some nods and grumbles of acknowledgement.
“I can guarantee that you all had a fat kid, a skinny kid, a tall kid and a short kid in your class. A great singer? A future actor? A poor kid, who’s shoes were falling apart? Did you have a specky-four-eyes? Was there a ginger?”
Once again, the jovial mood within the jury was noted by the sounds of restricted laughter. Mr Pollard may have been in prison for the past six months but he still knew exactly how to engage an audience, the first skill of teaching.
“Then there was the popular kid, the nice one that everybody liked, and everybody wanted to be like. You all wanted to have the same clothes and the same house and the same parents as the most popular kid in the class. They had the best holidays, the best Christmas presents, their parents had the best car. Oh, you’re nodding, but it still goes on. You may have left school several years ago but I could be describing a class of today’s year eights to you. That’s second years in old language. The kids you had in your class, they’re all here, every year, they keep coming back, year after year, without fail. I bet you all had a shy kid, the one who never spoke to you, the one you invited to your birthday, but they never came. So, after a few years, you stopped inviting them. There would have been a cocky kid with a chip on his or her shoulder who couldn’t answer a simple question without offering up a sarcastic comment. I know, you’re all nodding. I also believe that your class will have had a good-looking kid, who members of the opposite sex always fancied. And your class will have had the ugly kid, or the smelly kid nobody wanted to sit near.”
It was clear to everybody in the court-room that Mr Pollard was spot on in his analysis. Suddenly, his voice changed, the upbeat, enthusiastic tempo suddenly gave-way to a more serious, laboured delivery.
“Finally, your class will have had a Darren Jenkins. A nice enough kid, didn’t mean any harm, but was permanently annoying. Shouting out, saying stupid stuff, drawing male genitalia on the blackboard and getting caught red-handed as the teacher walked in. The Darren Jenkins in your class will have fallen off his chair at least once a lesson, he or she would have spent the lesson making silly faces at others, throwing scraps of paper across the classroom or tapping their pen against the desk. Eventually, in almost every lesson, the Darren Jenkins that you knew, would be sent out and made to stand in the corridor, where they’d then start staring through the glass in the door, trying to make the class laugh. Then, the teacher would open the door and send the Darren Jenkins from your class to the headmaster’s office.”
Mr Pollard stopped for a moment and the sudden silence in the court was unsettling. He took a sip of water from a transparent plastic cup.
“Just like a fast runner and a swot, and a shy kid, every class I’ve ever seen has a disruptive kid. Darren is a disruptive kid, he’s a total pain in the back-side to teach. But as a person, he’s kind-hearted, he’s funny, he’s very bright, he’s a great artist. He’s considerate, his manners are impeccable. I think he will go on to have a great future doing something that will benefit others, perhaps nursing, or teaching, or helping homeless people. But, for now, he’s disruptive and schools aren’t geared up to deal with that. School’s can cope with shy kids, lazy kids, cocky kids. But as I said earlier, schools can’t get square pegs in round holes. The only answer in a lot of these cases is exclusion. Just get rid of the problem, move the problem on to another school. Currently, in this country, we are excluding thirty-five kids every day. That helps the schools hit their GCSE result targets, sure. But the difficulty with that policy is that a lot of the time, that kid’s life is ruined before its begun. We are failing these kids, many of them will never recover and will face a life of unemployment, homelessness, addiction issues, poor self-esteem and a life-long supply of return-tickets to prison. Basically, these children go on to lead a miserable existence in most cases. And it’s only because their brains are working too fast for the classroom environment. It’s a scandal.”
Pollard looked at the jury and then across at the judge. “Exclusion. Kicked out of school, kicked out of the system at fifteen years old. That’s what we were going to do to Darren, the day he disappeared. And I’m ashamed to say that there was a real sense of relief amongst some staff members when he broke that door on that morning in May. That’s not a reflection on those members of staff. It’s a reflection on the obsession with grades, results, targets, and the school’s performance indicators. It’s no different from the council moving homeless people on. It doesn’t solve the homelessness issue; it solves nothing.”
The jury were listening carefully to Mr Pollard’s words.
“It was that day when I found Darren walking the streets, carrying a loaf of bread and planning to run away from home, that I realised that I had let him and hundreds of other kids just like him down. Hundreds of them. Darren had written me the letter I described a little earlier. It had taken him six hours and a lot of courage, and I’d refused to read it because I was in a bad mood, maybe a bit hung-over or whatever my issue was that morning. That was why he ran off, throwing back that door and smashing it. But as I sat in my car near to his house that morning, I read his letter, and do you know, I wish that I had read it thirty years earlier. Because if I had, I may have treated all those hundreds of kids like Darren differently. In his letter, he described the loneliness, the isolation, the desperation he felt. Just for being himself. Just for being born with the mind that he has.” Mr Pollard took another sip of his water as his captive audience sat silently, waiting to learn more.
“The reality of that morning was very depressing. I had just spoken to Darren’s father, who told me that he is sick of his child, and when he next sees Darren, he’s going to break both of his legs.”
There was a gasp from the jury and the public gallery. Surprisingly, there was no sound from Michael Jenkins. The boy’s father just looked down at his shoes and the gesture was noted by all of the jurors, who had been made aware of his presence earlier, with his cringy outburst.
“As far as I could see, this lad was in a great deal of danger. He wanted to run away from home, which as we all know is a bad idea. But I couldn’t try and convince him to go home because his father had just told me that he would inflict violence on him. So, I was stuck. I couldn’t take him back to school because the head had already told me that Darren was being excluded. I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to alter that decision. And so, I decided to contact social services myself and see what options were available. I soon discovered that there were no options, not unless I waited for both of his legs to be broken. Now let’s be honest here, I’m usually a very resourceful man who can get things done. But not this time. I was stuck. I had a fifteen-year-old kid here with no school to go to, a threat of serious danger at home, and a desire to run away and make his own path in life with seventeen pounds and fifty pence in his pocket. I wasn’t prepared to let that happen. So yes, what I did was unprofessional, it was out-of-character, it could be argued that it was foolish. But I did it for Darren’s benefit, and I have absolutely no regrets. Given the same scenario today, I think that I would most likely do the same thing.”
Mr Pollard looked hard at the jury.
“That week, Darren had his first ever holiday. I ta
ught him, all week, everything from map-reading to cooking, to improving his hand-writing and a lot more besides. I can honestly say that I was devastated when it was time to return the motor-home because I had enjoyed such a good time with him.”
Mr Pollard stopped talking and drained the last of the water from his transparent cup.
“Okay, thank you Mr Pollard. I think that sums up the side of the story that you wish to portray.”
“No, not quite. Those are the details of what happened. The facts are extremely clear. I took Darren to a place of safety…”
“It took you a week to drive from Manchester to Aberdeen, a journey which, according to the satellite navigation system I have in my car, would ordinarily take five hours and fifty-five minutes from Stalybridge.”
“As I have already said, I took him on holiday.”
The Prosecutor laughed theatrically. The jurors looked on with an expression of mystification on their faces, they didn’t appear to get the joke.
“This story gets more bizarre with each passing comment. You state that the reason that you abducted Darren Jenkins was to remove him from danger and to take him to a place of safety. On the face of it Mr Pollard, that is a very commendable thing to do, albeit foolhardy and irresponsible not to inform anybody of your good intentions and ultimately launching a missing-persons investigation which has cost the state an estimated six-million-pounds, not to mention the anguish and upset that this preposterous ‘holiday’ bestowed upon the boy’s parents and grandparents.”
“I couldn’t inform any…”
“Mr Pollard, I wish to explore the details of your holiday, if I may.”
“Of course. But I think that you should probably ask these questions of Darren.”
“And why do you say that?”
“Well, the holiday was Darren’s. I was merely his driver and his guardian.”
There was the sound of unrest in the court-room, whispers, coughs, uncomfortable shuffling of feet. The prosecutor looked confused.
“I’m sorry, but what is that remark supposed to mean?”
“Well, it’s simple enough. I hired the motor-home and advised Darren that I had it for a week. I asked Darren if he wanted to go straight up to his mother’s house and if so, I said that I was going to have a touring holiday on the way home. I was having difficulties with my marriage-breakdown and there were mounting problems at school. I really needed to get away for a bit and do some thinking. Naturally, I hadn’t mentioned this, but that was my intention. Darren said that he would like to stay with me and have a holiday. The lad had never been on holiday before, except for visits to his grandparent’s house in Scotland. Can I have some more water please, its dry in here.”
The Court Usher took a fresh cup of water up to the dock.
“Thank you. So, I gave Darren an ultimatum. I told him that he was welcome to spend the week with me but that he would be in charge of everything. I pulled the motor-home up in Mottram and I put a thousand pounds on the coffee table. I told him that this was our budget for the week. It will have to include food, diesel for the van, days out, camp-site fees. I also gave him a map of the UK and told him to plan a route, starting at Scarborough, where we were spending the first night as I had some business to attend to. The rest of the journey was down to Darren. So, I really think that it would be best to ask him about it.”
At this point, the judge interrupted.
“I think that is enough information for this morning’s proceedings. At this point I suggest a short adjournment, and we will hear the victim’s evidence after lunch. Court rise.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Darren Jenkins was standing in the witness stand, taking his oath as Mr Pollard faced him from the dock. Darren looked taller, and older, and he appeared much smarter than the former teacher had previously seen him, as he stood in a new suit with a grey tie. Puberty and adolescence had matured the young boy dramatically in the six months since the teacher had last seen him. He still had his cocky smile and his unwavering self-confidence though, which pleased the man standing accused of his abduction and of grooming him.
“Darren Jenkins, as you will all be aware, is the former pupil of Philip Pollard, and the young man that this whole case revolves around.” Said the prosecutor to the jury.
“Darren, I would like to ask you some questions about the circumstances which led to you being abducted by your teacher.”
“Yes Sir, but I just have to say, it’s wrong to say abducted. I asked him if I could stay with him.”
“Yes, well firstly, I would like to advise you that it is grossly bad-mannered to make interruptions. May I ask that you refrain from interrupting me in that manner, please?”
“Yes Sir, but I’m just saying, its bang out of order slagging Mr Pollard off. He didn’t abduct me.”
“Darren, in the eyes of the law I’m afraid that Mr Pollard did indeed abduct you. He took you away from your legal guardian without consent, or without even informing your guardian that you were safe and well. In this court, that crime is classified as abduction.”
“I’d run away from home. So, it’s me that you should be telling off. Not him.” Darren pointed at Mr Pollard, who looked different himself. He had an awfully grey, pale complexion from his time in prison. He was thin, and he looked as though he was ten years older than he had been when Darren had said farewell to him in Scotland, six months earlier.
“I would prefer that the jury decides on that matter, Darren. Now tell me, if you can, why Mr Pollard took you away in the motor-home.”
Darren explained the story, from the start beginning with the broken door. He spoke confidently about his thoughts and feelings on that disappointing morning. He talked about wondering what to do as he wandered along the canal, then having the idea to run away, before telling the court about his visit to the paper shop to get his wages early.
He continued, explaining the moment he saw Mr Pollard at the bottom of his street, and about the KFC lunch, smiling as he described Mr Pollard’s lie about getting a Tower meal free with the popcorn chicken. Darren’s story continued to being dropped off at the flat, to staying the night, and then the treats that his teacher had bought for him from JD Sports.
The prosecutor interrupted Darren, during a natural pause.
“So, bearing in mind the fact that this was a teacher that you had previously had a very fraught relationship with, did you not think that it was peculiar that he was showering you with expensive gifts all of a sudden?”
Darren seemed to be thinking hard about the question. After several seconds, he spoke. “What does fraught mean?”
There was a gentle laugh from several jurors. They weren’t laughing at the fact that Darren didn’t know the word in question, more his comical delivery in response.
“Let me re-phrase. You and Mr Pollard had a long history of conflict. Therefore, it might have seemed strange that he was suddenly giving you all of these expensive items. Was that how it seemed?”
“No, I told him that it was too much. He said that I can pay him back for it all when I’ve got a job and that. And I’ve been saving. I’ve got sixty quid for you so far, Sir.” Said Darren in the direction of the dock. Mr Pollard smiled and nodded.
“And how much do you imagine the items cost?”
“I’ve already worked it out. I know exactly how much I owe him.”
“Do you think that there was the possibility that Mr Pollard bought you those clothes for a reason?”
“Yes, he did buy them for a reason. He said I needed to look smart for my mum.” Darren looked over to his mother who was sitting in the public gallery, several rows away from Darren’s father. She smiled at her son encouragingly.
It was clear on the face of the prosecutor, that dealing with confident teenagers with fast tongues was not his usual forte.
“Darren, are you familiar with the term grooming?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Can you please describe to myself and the members of the jury
your understanding of what that term means?”
Darren looked at the jury. “Well, it’s when a man… well, doesn’t have to be a man, could be anybody of adult age, when they tidy their beards up.”
Laughter erupted throughout the court-room, it looked like the judge smirked for a second. The jury, the public gallery and most notably, Mr Pollard laughed at the cheeky gag, which had been timed brilliantly.
The prosecutor didn’t look amused. “I think you are fully aware of what I meant. I was referring to sexual grooming.”
“Is that when you have a bit of a tidy-up downstairs?”
There was another laugh and Darren seemed to be enjoying himself winding the prosecutor up. It was just like being at school.
“No, no, I know exactly what you mean Sir. Sexual grooming is when you buy presents and stuff, trying to get a little kid to start having sex with you. But like I said, that’s not happened, so its getting a bit boring now.”
“Has Mr Pollard ever broached the subject of sex with you?”
“What does broached mean?”
“Has he ever tried to start a conversation about sexual activity?”
“No, not that I can think of… no, actually, wait. Yes, he did once…”
Suddenly, the light-hearted atmosphere gave way, and a heavy silence fell on the court-room.
“Go on,” said the prosecutor.
“It was only once, but it was when we were at the KFC in Ashton, the morning I ran away.”
The jury member’s eyes all switched from Darren and focused on the man standing in the dock on the other side of the court. He didn’t look remotely concerned.
“Mr Pollard told me that young lads like me, living on the streets, will be asked for sex off strange old blokes, in return for food and money and stuff. It was when he was trying to convince me that running away was a bad idea. That’s the only time he has ever mentioned anything to do with sex or anything like that to me.”
Proof of Life Page 28
