‘Go away.’
Ellie was a corpse on the bed. With her back to the door and Rupert a tabby bundle in the crook of her knees, she made no movement. Her words, for all the signs that she was otherwise sentient, might have been carried on her dying breath.
‘Darling, we just want to talk to you for a moment.’ Leo squinted. ‘Do you mind if I switch on the—’
‘No!’
Leo recoiled from the light switch. He looked at Megan, who said, without saying it, what did I tell you?
Leo hesitated, then forced a smile. He stepped towards his daughter’s bed and attempted what he hoped was an empathic-sounding sigh. ‘It seems we’ve both had quite a day,’ he said. He regarded his daughter’s back, cast in the light from the hallway. Ellie’s fine, fra-gile spine jutted through her vest-top towards him. Her shoulders, heartbreakingly slender, were drawn in a self-protecting pinch. Her hair seemed damp – washed but not combed – and Leo could sense the chill of its touch on her bare shoulders. He had an urge to sweep the hair from her skin, to tuck his daughter beneath the bed sheets on which she lay. He sighed again. The mattress was pressing his knees and he thought about lowering himself onto a corner. He brushed it with his fingertips instead, trailing his touch across the balled-up cat. ‘I’ll make you a deal,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you about my day and then you can tell me all about—’
‘I don’t want to hear about your stupid day!’
Leo flinched. ‘Ellie, I—’
‘Go away! Just go away!’
Leo parted his lips. Ellie, listen, he was about to say but when Ellie turned towards the light he was distracted by the flush to her skin. It only covered one part of her face: a ra-ging red that extended down the left side of her neck and to her collarbone, too lopsided and vivid to be explained by Ellie’s anger. Leo could not stop himself reaching.
‘Leave me alone!’ Ellie wrenched her chin from Leo’s touch. ‘Switch on the light.’ When his wife did not respond, Leo turned. ‘Meg. Switch on the
light.’
This time Megan obeyed. Ellie winced and Leo stared. Once again he reached and this time Ellie allowed her face to be turned.
‘I couldn’t get it off,’ she said. She began to cry. ‘I scrubbed but I couldn’t get it off.’ Leo heard his wife’s exclamation. He felt Megan draw to his side. His attention, though,
was on his daughter’s skin: blotched from the ink but scoured, too. Along her jaw line and below her cheekbone there were sketches of blood, as though she had been dragged along tarmac.
‘Ellie,’ Leo said and barely heard himself. His fingers gravitated towards his daughter’s wounds. This time Ellie flinched and Rupert, reluctantly, stirred.
‘Don’t!’ Ellie shuffled towards her headboard. She was sobbing now. ‘Just go,’ she said. ‘Please. Just leave me alone!’ And she thrust her face into her bloodied pillow. They pieced it together. In the living room and with barely a discussion they worked out what, when, why. Who, they did not tackle. In one respect, they could hardly hope to. In another, they both already knew.
Ellie’s coat was taken from her just as Felicity’s had been. The ink: it was Felicity’s blood. They might have used fairy lights, had they found any. They might have threatened to drag her to the river.
‘I’ll talk to the school,’ Leo said. He glanced at Megan, who was beside him on the sofa, staring at the blank television screen. ‘Her teacher. The headmistress. I’ll go in first thing.’ Although, as he spoke, he was struggling to see how he could afford the time. After the riot Daniel had changed his story, had admitted what everyone else had already known. So there was the confession to get on record and the remand hearing to discuss and the boy’s parents to deal with because everything was moving at such a pace that Leo had not really had a chance yet to—
‘First thing,’ Leo said. Megan sniffed and fiddled with her tissue and seemed not to have sensed his vacillation.
Leo shuffled closer and reached an arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s kids, Meg. It’s kids being cruel like only kids can be.’
His wife pulled away from him.
‘Meg? What’s wrong?’
Megan hesitated before answering. ‘I was spat at,’ she said. ‘What?’
‘We were. Ellie and me. Yesterday, at the supermarket. I wasn’t going to tell you but . . . after today . . .’ Her voice seemed colder all of a sudden.
‘Spat at? By who?’
‘By a woman. A mother. She was my age, younger. She had a shopping trolley and two children and as she passed me she turned and spat.’
‘What? Are you sure? I mean—’
‘I’m sure, Leo. I’m perfectly, one-hundred-per-cent sure.’ ‘No. I know. I just meant, why? Did you say something to her or—’ ‘It wasn’t my fault!’
‘Calm down, Meg. I’m not saying it was. I’m just trying to understand what happened.’ He shook his head. ‘Why on earth would someone spit at you? Do you think . Are you saying . . . You think it was because of the case?’
‘The thought occurred to me.’
‘Why though?’ Leo said again. ‘How did she even know who you were?’ ‘Your secret’s out, Leo. You’re a big name, suddenly, in a small town. No.’ She corrected
herself: ‘You’re a small name in a smaller town full of even smaller-minded people. That’s why, Leo. That’s how.’
Megan shuffled round to face him. She took his hand and held it. ‘The point is, it’s not just kids. What happened today, what happened at the supermarket: it’s not just kids.’
Leo looked down. He felt Megan’s plaintive stare and turned from it. What more was there to say? The whole episode: it was deplorable. Entirely contrary to the ethos of the school and not, Ellie’s head teacher had assured him, behaviour that would be tolerated. The culprits would be identified and punished. Mr Curtice could no doubt un-derstand, particularly given his profession, that it was difficult at this stage to say how ex-actly but the school – she, personally – would not let Eleanor down. It would help, of course, if Ellie could be encouraged to come forward – to name names, as it were. But no, yes, of course, it must be extremely difficult for the poor child and yes, indeed, just as you say, the onus must of course fall on the school to get to the bottom of things. And they would. Of course they would.
Ms Bridgwater was a slight, suited woman washed in scent and smeared in make-up. She had deflected Leo’s anger with the practice of a politician. Leo, having expected a twelve-round brawl, had felled his opponent with a single swing – and was left as dazed as he would have been had he lost.
‘Well,’ he said. He sat straight, gave a firm nod. ‘Good. I appreciate your cooperation. And I . . . apologise if perhaps I seemed a little – ’ he rolled a hand ‘ – upset. Before.’
‘Not at all, Mr Curtice. You have every right to be upset. As a parent myself, I can fully appreciate the distress you must be feeling.’
‘Yes. Well. Thank you.’
‘And of course,’ Ms Bridgwater added, ‘there is the pressure of your work.’ ‘My work?’
Come now, the head teacher did not say. ‘The case, Mr Curtice. The Forbes case.’ ‘Oh. I see.’
‘Forgive me for mentioning it but, well.’ Ms Bridgwater pinched a smile. ‘I saw you on the news. You’re quite the local celebrity.’
Leo fumbled a laugh. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.’ ‘There is no need for modesty, Mr Curtice. And besides . . .’ The head teacher’s smile
turned gluttonous. ‘Doing what I do,’ she said, ‘being in the position that I am, I cannot help but take an interest in these matters.’ She raised her arms from her lap and settled them on the edge of her desk.
Leo, this time, returned a frown. ‘Ms Bridgwater. You appreciate, surely, that I cannot dis-cuss—’
‘Oh, please don’t misunderstand me, Mr Curtice. I wouldn’t dream of putting you on the spot. My interest is not so much in the case itself. It is, rather, in . the boy. The accused.’
Leo made to stand. ‘I’
m sorry but I’m really not comfortable . . .’ The head teacher leant across the desk, reached an apologetic hand towards Leo. ‘I
thought perhaps I might help. That’s all. I thought I might offer you some information – not the other way round.’
Leo drooped into his chair. ‘Me?’
The head teacher tipped her head. ‘The boy,’ she said and, perhaps noticing Leo stiffen, quickly raised a palm. ‘I know, I know – his identity has not been disclosed. But this is a small town, Mr Curtice. There is a limited number of secondary schools and a very active branch of the National Association of Head Teachers. We talk, just as you talk, I’m sure, with your fellow professionals.’ Again Ms Bridgwater smiled.
‘Well, naturally, but—’
‘The boy. The accused. If it is whom I – we – suspect it is – ’ the head teacher gave a twitch that was almost a wink ‘ – then, as I say, I would perhaps have some insight that you might find instructive. He is not, I am sure, the most cooperative of clients.’
Leo resisted his instinct to agree. ‘I’m still not sure I follow. I don’t want to sound un-grateful but what insight could you offer?’
‘We taught him,’ the head teacher said. Then, when Leo began to dissent, ‘Not most re-cently, I concede. But he was here, for about as long as the boy has spent anywhere.’
‘Here? But . . .’ But this was his daughter’s school. It was a good school. A state school but as reputable a state school as a parent could hope for. Leo shook his head. ‘When?’
‘He started his secondary education here. We excluded him after a term. This is all on the assumption, of course, that we are indeed talking about the same boy.’ The head teacher studied Leo. She gave him seconds to respond. ‘But you will have access to the boy’s re-cords,’ she said when Leo did not. ‘You will be able to confirm the precise dates, I’m sure.’
Ellie would have known him. No, not necessarily. It was a big school, one of the biggest in the county. She will have seen him, though. She will have passed him, brushed against him. He will have seen her .
‘Did you teach him?’ Leo said. ‘Why was he expelled?’ ‘I am denied, in my role, the pleasures of classroom contact.’ The head teacher twitched
her lipstick. ‘But certainly I had dealings with the boy. He was, shall we say, a regular vis-itor to my office.’
‘He caused trouble?’
‘When he was present, Mr Curtice, yes, he certainly did. We’d heard about his reputation before he started here so we thought we were prepared. But when a child will simply not allow himself to be taught, there is very little that we can do.’
‘Not allow himself . . . What do you mean?’
‘I mean he was abusive, disruptive, entirely lacking in deference. A real attention seeker. Our strategy was reduced to restricting the impact his presence would have on the children around him.’
‘He was isolated?’
‘He isolated himself. His attendance record was woeful, as I say. When he was present, he may as well not have been.’ The head teacher shook her head and her hair, sprayed rigid, moved not a jot. ‘Such anger. Such visceral, unaccountable rage. He attacked a teacher, Mr Curtice. That’s why, in the end, he was excluded. An unprovoked attack, by all accounts but the boy’s.’
Leo frowned again, waited for Ms Bridgwater to continue. ‘The teacher, Miss Dix: she asked him to read aloud. Just a simple passage from a text
the class was studying. The boy was subdued that day, which for him amounted to his best behaviour, and poor Josie sensed an opportunity to involve him.’ The head teacher made a face, like really her colleague should have known better. ‘She asked, gently, and the boy refused. She persisted and the boy insulted her. He called her an s-l-u-t, Mr Curtice. Josie was admirably restrained in her response – far more restrained than I would have been, I assure you – but when she approached the boy’s desk and set an open book in front of him, the boy hurled it aside and flung himself at Josie’s throat. He throttled her – or would have, had the other boys in the class not restrained him.’
‘So he was excluded?’
‘He was excluded.’
‘Permanently?’
‘Permanently.’
‘But after a term, you say? A single term. Is that, I don’t know. Is that not unusual?’ ‘Ordinarily perhaps but not given the boy’s history. And we were warned about him, as
I say. We expected trouble. We were prepared, all along, to take extreme measures should they be called for.’
‘Well,’ said Leo, ‘clearly. But expulsion, I’d always assumed, is a last resort. Isn’t there a process? A gradual escalation in sanctions?’
‘Sanctions escalate in line with the behaviour that warrants them. It was not his first of-fence, by any means, and the boy, after all, attacked a teacher. How could we do anything thereafter but exclude him?’
‘I understand but would not a suspension have sufficed? Or, I don’t know . . .’ Ms Bridgwater did not wait for Leo to finish. ‘I have staff to protect, Mr Curtice. I have
children under my ward. In view of the reason for your visit, I must say I struggle to com-prehend your disapproval.’
‘Disapproval? No, I . . .’ Leo moved in his seat. Ms Bridgwater was watching him and he looked towards the window to avoid her eye. The head teacher’s office was on the first floor at the front of the main building – a squat Sixties structure assembled from shades of grey – and pupils were beginning to appear in the playground below them. There was a boy, alone, rummaging in his rucksack and weaving towards the entrance. In his wake whirled a gossip of girls.
‘You’ve met Daniel, Mr Curtice. You know the kind of boy he is. You know, more to the point, what he is capable of. We acted with alacrity and I can only be thankful, for the sake of our school, our pupils, that we did.’
Leo turned to face her. His nod started slowly and gathered pace. ‘As much as it pains me to say it, Mr Curtice, some children are beyond help. They are
born bad, plain and simple. I have seen many, in my time, though few quite so wicked as Daniel Blake.’
Leo, again, gave a nod. He looked towards the clock on the office wall. He reached for his briefcase and stood. ‘I should get along.’ He gestured towards the window, to the trickle of children that was becoming a torrent. ‘I expect you must too. Thank you for your time, Ms Bridgwater.’
The head teacher pressed the desk until she was standing. ‘Please send Eleanor my very best wishes. She should of course take all the time she needs to recover from her ordeal.’
‘Thank you. I will.’ Leo shifted his briefcase and accepted the woman’s grip. He nodded, turned and pushed at the door until he realised he needed to pull. In the corridor he walked slowly, and was slowed further on the stairs by the tide of children. It was only when he reached the car park that he realised what Ms Bridgwater had achieved. Confirmation. A name to toss to her peers and renown, no doubt, for having won it. All she had really hoped to, then.
Some children are born bad. Isn’t that what the head teacher had said? They are born bad and there is nothing that anyone can do. The teachers: they tried their best. The parents: they did too. It is not as though the boy was denied opportunities. It is not as though he was not shown right from wrong. So how else can you explain it? He was born bad, Mr Curtice: bottom line, end of story, case closed.
‘Case closed. Right?’
Leo looked up from his open briefcase. Daniel’s stepfather was the only one standing. He had his feet hip-width apart and his arms across his pectorals. Stephanie, his wife, was seated to Leo’s right, her chair as far from the table as the wall behind her would allow, her chin offset and her bloodshot eyes on the floor. Daniel, across from her, faced his knees. His hands were pinned between them, his shoulders drawn inwards. He seemed a slight, feeble thing – though so, Leo reminded himself, might any wild creature that had been caged.
‘Right?’ Blake repeated. ‘Sounds to me like a no-brainer.’ Leo took out his files and set his br
iefcase beside his feet. ‘It’s not quite that simple, Mr
Blake. As with any of the options open to us, there are risks.’ Blake showed his incomprehension through a sneer. ‘The sentence,’ said Leo. He glanced at the boy. ‘The sentence, if the argument is rejected,
might still be . . . harsh.’
‘Harsh? How harsh?’
Again Leo looked towards Daniel.
‘Never mind,’ said Blake, flicking a hand. ‘It’s his best bet, that’s the point. That’s what you’re saying. Right?’
‘Not necessarily. All I’m doing, at this stage, is laying out some of the—’ ‘I’m not mental.’
They turned to the boy. His voice had been a whisper. His face, like his manner, was downcast.
‘No one’s saying that you are, Daniel. We would simply argue that you were not respons-ible for your actions, on the grounds that—’
‘What would you call it then?’ interrupted Daniel’s stepfather. ‘Why the hell else would you have done what you did?’
Daniel’s mother gave a whimper.
‘Mr Blake,’ said Leo. ‘Please.’
‘Well?’ the man persisted. He was leaning towards his stepson but not, Leo would have said, as close as he might have. When Daniel raised his eyes – full of misery; fear, too, though checked by his obvious resentment – Blake backed slightly away. He disguised his retreat with a grunt. ‘Not mental, he says. Like that makes everything all right. Like any-
one’s gonna think less of him if he ends up in a loony bin instead of in prison.’ ‘Mr Blake—’
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