by Stephen Laws
I hunted for the key in my pockets. My overalls were in there; the not-so-new uniform I’d been wearing these past four months since the court hearing. I turned the key in the lock and began to shoulder the door open.
And then, when the voice came from behind me, it seemed that I was catapulted back to those early days. Suddenly it was like I was a kid again.
“Late again, O’Connor?”
I turned, squinting into the sun as it rose over the school roof and silhouetted the stocky figure who had suddenly appeared from nowhere. I took a sidestep out of the sun, shading my eyes.
It was the head teacher, Stafford. The man who’d tried to bully so-called sense into me when I was a less-than-model pupil at this school. Four years on, it seemed that I’d been brought back to this place so that Stafford could try and finish the job.
“Second time this week,” he said, hands behind his back, rising up on his toes as if getting the extra height would somehow give him an edge. It made him look like an old-time copper on the beat.
“There’s time,” I said, still shading my eyes. “It’s not seven yet.”
Now I could see his face properly for the first time. Still the same white hair and white eyebrows. Still the same horn-rimmed glasses, magnifying his hooded eyes. The same tweed jacket and tobacco-stained teeth. Still the same old bastard.
“But work for you begins when you’ve signed the book in the main building. You haven’t done that yet. And those are the rules.”
“Look, I’m here, aren’t I? I’m just getting the stuff I need, and then I’ll sign the book when I get into the school.”
“You never were any good at rules, O’Connor. That’s why you’ve turned out the way you have, and why you’re right back here where you started. Now, as to rules and procedures—do I have to remind you of the terms of your community service sentence?”
He smiled then, because I reckon he could hear me gritting my teeth. I could still remember that day in court vividly. My “friends” Sean and Forker had robbed a petrol station, while I was sitting in the back of the car. I thought they’d gone in there to buy cigarettes, hadn’t known what they were going to do. There was a high-speed car chase when a cruising panda car was flagged down by the outraged owner. Sean and Forker got away, but I wasn’t so lucky. Four years after I thought I’d waved goodbye to the place—and the person—I hated most in the world, I was standing in the dock before that very same person: Frederick Stafford. Not only a headmaster, it seemed, but also a local Justice of the Peace. I can’t tell you how I felt when I saw him sitting there. You wouldn’t have to use much imagination. At first I hoped that with so many kids passing through his hands he wouldn’t remember me. But as soon as the power-mad bastard looked down on me, removing those horn-rimmed glasses, I knew that he not only remembered, but was getting a very real pleasure from seeing me there.
Surprise, surprise. I was found guilty.
Sean and Forker, my “friends”, got off scot-free. Naturally, I lost my job at the car plant where I’d been working since leaving school.
Stafford sentenced me to a hundred hours of community service, feeling that “manual work of a socially responsible nature” would have more effect on me than a fine or a custodial sentence. And it just so happened that, since Stafford’s school caretaker had recently been taken into hospital with appendicitis, I found myself carrying out those very duties until such time as he was fit for work again. My first reaction was to challenge the system. Surely Stafford was bending the rules? Was he allowed to do this? I would take on any other job. Digging trenches somewhere. Planting flowerbeds in old folks’ homes. But not working for him. Wouldn’t the caretakers’ trade union have something to say about it? And that was when I found out that Stafford also had a third role in life. He was a councillor for the local authority with a strong trades union connection. It seemed that every string that could be pulled was in Stafford’s hands…so all I could do was bite the bullet; sweep the yard, clean the floors, the windows and the toilets, and generally put up with every bit of crap that Stafford threw my way until my hundred hours were up. He was enjoying every minute. That’s why he was there that morning at school, well before seven in the morning when school didn’t start until nine. Just trying to catch me out. Find some way to get me infringing the rules of that community service order, no matter how slight. He’d made it clear from the start that if I stepped out of line just once, then my sentence would be subject to review.
“I’m waiting for my answer, O’Connor,” he said, rising up on the balls of his feet again.
“No, Mr. Stafford. You don’t have to remind me of anything.”
“Think you can get into the main building and sign the register before seven? Let’s see. That’s about…fifty seconds. Isn’t it?”
I started towards the school, head down.
“Well, lock the storage room door, then! It was locked before you opened it, wasn’t it?”
I halted, head still down. The anger had become fury. But there was nothing I could do about it. I turned back to the door, dragged it shut and locked it. I could feel my face burning.
“Good. And that leaves…thirty seconds.”
I started across the school yard again towards the main entrance.
“Only twenty-five, O’Connor. Better run!”
Aware of Stafford still standing and watching two hundred yards behind me, I let myself in through the front door of the school. On the table before me, already laid out neat and tidy, was what Stafford liked to call the “signing-in” book. I strode to it, and when I signed in the time, 7:01 a.m., the pen tore through the paper.
I walked back out into the school yard.
Stafford was nowhere to be seen.
Collecting up the bucket, mop, cans of cleaning fluid and everything else I needed, I headed back indoors. Five minutes later, I was sweeping the mop across the assembly floor. That’s when the other feeling came back; the first feeling I’d had when I woke up that morning. I knew—just knew—that something was going to happen. But now I felt that it was imminent, and was something to do with me. It’s difficult to put this into words, but I could feel that something was going to happen inside me. Strange, but I felt cold inside now. Cold and waiting for that something bad to start happening. Any time now.
My face felt like stone as I continued “serving my community” that morning, before the kids arrived. I tried to put all of my frustrations into that simple task, using each stroke of the mop to get the frustrations out. By the time I’d finished, I felt a little better. The gnawing knot in my stomach hadn’t exactly gone away, but I felt more in control. Still, the feeling of “something coming” was just as real as before.
If I’d only known what a short time I had to wait.
My last task was to make sure the toilets were clean before the school day began. It was the job I hated most. I caught sight of my own face in the communal mirror as I filled a bucket with water. I looked old this morning; my skin was white, my eyes bloodshot. Was it just the hangover, or was I getting a flash-forward view to what I’d be like in thirty or forty years’ time? Now that I’d lost my job courtesy of my “friends”, and got a criminal record in the process, would I still be cleaning out people’s toilets then? I shuddered, cursing when the water began to overflow. I put everything into the work. Slowly, bit by bit, the anger would fade away altogether.
I was putting away the cleaning materials in the cinder-block storage building when the school bell rang, announcing lunch break. By the time I’d locked up again, kids were thundering down corridors and out across the yard.
“O’Connor!”
Stafford was standing directly ahead of me at the double doors leading into the main school block, in the same pose he’d adopted in the school yard. Hands clasped behind his back, raising himself up on tiptoes and down again, exerting his authority. This time he was angry; very angry.
“O’Connor,” he repeated, this time trying to contain the anger.
I finally drew level, and fixed him in the eye, staring him out.
“Are you,” he continued, closing his eyes as if this could help him from flying into a rage, “or are you not in charge of cleaning the urinals?”
“Apparently.”
“Are you, or are you not, in charge of cleaning them, O’Connor?”
“Yes, that’s one of my jobs.”
“Yes, Mister Stafford.”
“Yes, Mr. Stafford…I clean the toilets and do all of the other shitty jobs you feel I should be doing.”
Stafford kept his eyes closed, one hand moving from behind so that he could stroke his temple with his forefinger; as if he were feeling for a “loss-of-control” button there.
“Follow me,” he said, turning sharply to push through the double doors, holding one open without looking back to see whether I was following; pausing to snap at a couple of kids who were running towards him. The kids slowed to walk past. I grinned at them and winked. They were too frightened of the old bastard to acknowledge it. Stafford strode to the toilets. Now what? Reaching the door, he held it open. I stopped, waiting for an instruction. Stafford kept his head down, looking at the floor, and then indicated impatiently that I should walk on through. Fists clenched, I pushed past him into the main area. The door banged as Stafford came in behind. There was only one kid in there, looking over his shoulder as he stood at the urinal.
“Hurry up, boy!” snapped Stafford, and the kid zipped up quickly, grimacing and hurrying stiff-legged to the washbasins when he realised that he hadn’t been able to finish properly. Quickly wringing his hands under the tap, the boy dashed towards the door, wiping his hands on his jacket lapels. I could see Stafford in the toilet mirrors without turning. He was closing his eyes again to control his temper. I turned slowly. When I spoke, I tried to keep my voice calm.
“So…what?”
Stafford ran a hand through his hair and marched past me to one of the cubicles. He shoved open the door with his hand and pointed inside.
“What?” I asked again.
“Come and see for yourself, O’Connor.”
“You’re telling me that the toilet isn’t clean enough. Is that it?”
“Come and see, boy.”
“First of all, I’m not a boy. Secondly, I clean those toilets three times a day. First thing in the morning, in the afternoon, and then when school’s out. Probably one time too many, but I do it because you tell me to…”
“Come here, O’Connor!”
“So if the toilets get a little unclean in between times, then it’s hardly my fault, is it? Mr. Stafford, sir? After all, that’s what they’re there for, isn’t it? To put dirty stuff down.”
“Do I have to enter insubordination and foul language into my report?”
I stalked across to Stafford, looking into the cubicle as he stood back.
Now I could see what had so upset my dear old headmaster.
Someone had scrawled an obscenity on the tiled wall.
Stafford Sucks Shite.
I sighed, turning to look at him again. His eyes were closed once more as if he couldn’t bear to look at what was written there. When he spoke again, it was with great effort.
“It’s your job”—he was forcing the words out—“to keep these toilets clean…and that…that…filth…is your…your…”
“My what? You’re saying it’s my responsibility?”
“Remove it. At once.”
“You’re saying that because one of the kids you’ve been bullying scrawls something on the wall, it’s my fault?”
“It is your job to keep these cubicles clean.”
“But it’s my fault, is that right?”
“The culprit will be someone like yourself, O’Connor. Someone with absolutely no respect for authority.”
“Authority? You want me to respect someone like you?” The anger was out of control now. It was spiralling inside, rising to take me over.
“That’s enough. Get that filth cleaned off at once.”
“You’ve had a downer on me since the first day I walked into this school, Stafford. And it’s not good enough that I managed to get through it all without you breaking me. You twisted all the rules and brought me back here as slave labour, just so you could have another go…”
“One more word and you’ll be in severe trouble,” said Stafford, marching past the cubicle and towards the main door. In the multiple mirror reflections, I could see that the colour had risen in both our faces.
“One word?” I snapped out as he passed. “How about two?”
Stafford paused as he pulled open the main door.
“Here they come, Stafford. Fuck! Off!”
And then he was gone, the door slapping behind him.
I stared at the door, feeling as if the anger in my eyes could burn a hole right through it, find Stafford on the other side and turn him into a ball of flames. Then, turning to the cubicle and seeing the graffiti again, I lunged forward to smack the palms of my hands against the tiled wall. The impact stung, but I didn’t care. The pain was nothing compared to the spiralling hate inside. I leaned there, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I hung my head, hands still braced against the wall; could feel and hear the blood singing in my ears. There was a lump in my gullet, and it was as if the hate had somehow become a blockage inside. More than that, it was growing and spreading; a physical thing, filling my insides. My eyes misted. I had kept the hate inside too long. It was somehow free now; free to spread and eat me alive unless I could find a way to let it out.
The graffiti was right before my eyes, on the tiled wall.
Stafford Sucks Shite.
My job in life. To clean off other people’s toilet mess.
The anger exploded. Red mist speckled my vision.
I was out of control.
I began to punch the tiled wall. My knuckles were skinned. I was leaving blood smears on the cracked tiles, smudging the graffiti as I battered at the words. The sound and the feel of the tiles cracking killed any pain in my knuckles as I battered on and on. With each punch, each blow, the hate was streaming out of me and into the cubicle wall. As it left me, draining the great sickening knot inside, I could feel something else happening. I could feel the wall shaking, could hear a low grumbling as the hate streamed through the wall and on into the brickwork behind. Somehow, it was spreading to the entire school building. Now I could hear a shuddering, grumbling sound as the foundations of the school began to shake. But there was no way that I could stop now. I had to go on, had to keep punching at the wall, or those words, or that hate, was going to destroy me inside. Somewhere kids were wailing and shouting in fear. Above these sounds I heard a man’s voice, shouting something I couldn’t make out, as if he were trying to calm the kids but it wasn’t working because he couldn’t keep the terror out of his own voice. The commotion was drowned by a louder roar; as if a gigantic runaway express train were bearing down on the school, exploding through the classrooms, thundering in the corridors, crashing through the walls.
I collapsed to my knees, holding my bloodied hands before me in my lap. I gasped for breath. The hate was out of me now. Out of me and into the fabric of the building. I know that sounds crazy, but that was what was happening. In a moment, if I could just rest, I would be okay. The madness would go away, and then I could set about cleaning the wall and getting on with the rest of my community service sentence.
But why could I still hear the express train smashing through the school?
Why was the floor still shaking and shuddering where I knelt?
And as the throbbing of the blood in my ears dulled, why could I still hear the sounds of kids screaming?
This couldn’t be happening.
I looked at the cubicle walls on either side of where I knelt. They were shaking. Somewhere beyond, there was a great shattering of glass. As if a mountain of it had been tipped into the school yard. It seemed then as if the screaming grew louder. And now the express train was the soun
d of a mountain avalanche, with tons of rock falling on the school roof and crashing through the toilet block walls. I clambered to my feet. Outright fear replaced my anger as I braced my hands on the cubicle walls, feeling them vibrate madly. I knew they’d suddenly collapse inwards and crush me. Something exploded above my head. When I looked, I could see a jagged crack in the plasterwork. The crack was still moving, still zigzagging away on all sides as chunks of plaster and white dust began to fall from the ceiling. I had a crazy image in my mind. There was a giant up there. He had brought his foot down on the roof. Now he was leaning all his weight on it, and the ceiling would cave in on top of me.
I yelled as the ceiling began to split and shift in mad, distorted patterns.
Beyond the cubicle, the mirrors shattered and fell apart.
There was a thundering roar of brickwork as another wall beyond the cubicle suddenly erupted inwards.
The giant’s foot was coming down.
A chunk of plaster fell from directly ahead.
I lunged backwards, still yelling.
My hate was loose and destroying the school.
“I didn’t mean it!” I screamed. “I didn’t mean it!”
The plaster exploded before me on the toilet seat, shattering the enamel on either side and engulfing me in a choking white cloud.
Beneath me, the floor began to shift and grind and crack; just like the ceiling above.
“I DIDN’T MEAN IT!”
And then the ceiling came down on top of me.
There was no more screaming, no more sounds of destruction.
Just the darkness and the silence.
I died then.
