The Hiding Place(48)

“It’s Hurst—he’s got some kid in there and—” He falters. No student likes being a snitch.

“Okay. We’re on it.” I nod my head to indicate he can go. “And don’t worry—you never saw a thing.”

Gratefully, he hurries off down the corridor.

I look at Beth. She sighs. “There goes my coffee.”


—



I can hear muffled shouts and laughter as we approach. I push at the door. Someone is holding it shut from the other side.

“Piss off. It’s engaged.”

“Not anymore it isn’t.”

I shove the door with my shoulder and we burst in. The kid holding the door stumbles into the urinals. I take in the scene. Three of Hurst’s cronies stand in a loose semicircle. Hurst kneels over a kid on the floor, a Tupperware box at his side. I grab his arm and haul him up.

“You. Stand over there.”

I turn to the kid on the floor. My heart sinks. Marcus. Of course it is.

“Are you okay?”

He nods. Tries to sit up, can’t quite make it. I hold out a hand but he doesn’t take it. There’s something odd about his mouth.

“Marcus. Talk to me. Are you okay?”

Suddenly, he clutches his stomach, lurches over and retches. Half-eaten toast spews onto the cracked and stained tiles, along with something else. A mangled mess of dark bodies and stringy legs. One of them drags itself up and tries to crawl away. I feel my own stomach give a lurch. Daddy-long-legs.

I pick up the Tupperware box. It is still half full of the spindly insects. They’ve been making Marcus eat them. For a moment, I can’t see. White spots flood my vision.

“Whose idea?” I ask. Like I don’t know.

More silence.

“I said—whose idea?”

My voice reverberates off the tiled walls.

Hurst steps forward, lips curving into a smirk. The desire to rip it from his face is overwhelming.

“It was mine, sir. But I was provoked.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Marcus has been calling my mum names. About the cancer. Ask anyone.”

He glances at his band of boneheads. They all nod.

“You’re a liar,” I say.

He steps forward to meet me until we are almost nose to nose.

“Prove it, sir.”

Before I can stop myself I have shoved him hard up against the sink. I grab his hair and ram his head into the rusted taps, again and again. Blood sprays up the tiled walls and decorates them in abstract patterns of red. I feel his skull splinter and crack. Several teeth shoot from his mouth and hit the floor. And I can’t stop. Can’t stop until— Beth lays a hand on my arm. “Why don’t I deal with this, Mr. Thorne?”

I blink. Hurst still stands before me, still smirking. My right hand has formed a fist at my side. But I haven’t touched him.

Beth takes the Tupperware box from my other hand.

“Hurst—I’m this close to suspending you on the spot. One more word and I will. All of you—headmaster’s office. Now.”

“I should come with you,” I say.

“No,” she says firmly. “You should stay right here and take care of Marcus.”

She yanks open the door and they all file through, even Hurst. She turns and gives me an odd look.

“We’ll discuss this later, Mr. Thorne.”

“I had it under control.”

Her only reply is the slam of the door. I stare at it for a while, then look back down at Marcus. He remains half curled on the floor, breathing heavily.

“Can you stand up?”

He nods faintly. I hold out my hand and this time he takes it. I haul him up and point at the sink. “Why don’t you wash your face, rinse out your mouth?”

Another dazed nod. I look back down at the pile of regurgitated toast and daddy-long-legs. The half-dead insect has given up and sprawls on the floor.

I sigh. A teacher’s work. I walk into one of the cubicles and grab some toilet paper (being school regulation, it takes several sheets to constitute a safe handful that won’t disintegrate upon contact with anything wet or solid). I notice there’s something in the toilet, as well as a vast quantity of sour-smelling urine. A black object bobs in the center of the bowl. A mobile phone. I flush the toilet, taking the chance it’s too big to go down the pipe, then fish it out gingerly and dry it on the toilet paper. I look at the old Nokia and walk back out of the cubicle.

Marcus turns off the tap, wipes his face on the sleeve of his blazer and blinks at me. His eyes are red-rimmed.

“This yours?” I hold up the phone.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“What happened to your iPhone?”

He stares down at his shoes. “What d’you think?”

Anger burns in my chest. You can’t protect them all the time. I know that. You do your best while they are in school. But you can’t be there on the way home, in the park, the playground, by the shops. Bullies don’t stop being bullies when the bell rings.

“Marcus—”

“I’m not going to the head.”

“And I’m not going to make you. Beth and I both saw what happened. With any luck, Hurst will be suspended.”

“Yeah. Right.”

I’d like to contradict him but find I haven’t got the will.