The Hiding Place(49)

“You never know,” I say.

“Yes, I do. And you do too.”

I don’t reply.

“Can I go now, sir?”

I nod wearily. He slings his bag over his shoulder and shambles off. I remain, staring down at the vomit on the floor. Marcus is not my problem, I tell myself. I won’t even be here much longer. But still, my irritating good side wants to help him. I try to ignore it and grab some more toilet paper. As I do, I realize I still have his phone. I slip it into my pocket. I’ll find him later and hand it back. I clean up the vomit—grimacing, my own stomach turning—and limp from the toilets.

I could go to Harry’s office, but my gut tells me that my presence may only hinder the situation. Besides, I already know what will happen. I can see it now. A slap on the wrist. Detention. A deep sigh from Harry as he explains that his hands are tied; to suspend Hurst now wouldn’t be appropriate, bearing in mind his mother’s condition, not to mention the upcoming exams. And after all, kids will be kids.

The problem is, if you let kids be kids, then before you know it they’re smearing their faces in pigs’ blood, pushing each other off the edge of cliffs and smashing their mates’ heads in with rocks. Our job as teachers, adults and parents is to stop, at every level, kids being kids, or they’ll tear the fucking world down around our ears.

I shuffle slowly along the corridor, empty now, except school corridors never really feel empty. They echo with the laughter, shouts and screams of students long departed. Their ghosts remain, milling around me, shoving past with cries of “Hey, Thorney!” and “We’re gonna get you, Doughboy!” The bell rings again and again as trainers now rotted to dust squeal around corners to classes that never end. Once or twice I think I catch a reflection other than my own in the glass of the windows. A shock of blond hair, a small skinny kid with a mass of red where his face used to be. And then they are gone again, consigned to the register of memory.

“Mr. Thorne?”

I jump. Miss Grayson stands in front of me, clutching a pile of blue folders to her chest and staring at me coolly through her glasses.

“Shouldn’t you be in class?”

Her tone makes me feel like I should be in short trousers.

“Err, yes, I’m just on my way.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Just one of those mornings. You know, the ones that make you wonder why you became a teacher.”

She nods. “You’re doing a good job, Mr. Thorne.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” She rests a hand on my arm. Through my shirt her fingers feel cold. “You’re needed here. Don’t give up.”

“Thank you.”

Something that looks remarkably like a smile slips briefly across her features. And then she is gone, padding away in her sensible moccasins, cardigan and beige skirt, like the ghost of schooldays past.


—



My Year 10 pupils are waiting for me when I finally reach the classroom. And when I say “waiting,” I mean that they are sitting around, glued to smartphones, feet on desks. Some make a halfhearted attempt to pocket their phones or sit up as I enter. Most don’t bother, barely glancing around as I sling my satchel onto my chair.

I stare at them. Despite Miss Grayson’s words, I suddenly feel depressed with the futility of my job, my life, my return here. I walk around the room and hand out well-thumbed copies of Romeo and Juliet.

“Phones away before I confiscate them. And I should warn you, I often get mixed up between the school safe and the microwave.”

There is a small avalanche of activity.

“Okay,” I say as I return to the front of the class. “Today’s lesson—how you can all get at least a B for the lackluster essays you turned in last week.”

A murmur runs around the room. One foolhardy suspect shoots their hand up: “How’s that, sir?”

I sit down and take out the mountain of homework that I should have graded over the weekend.

“You can sit quietly and pretend to revise, while I pretend to actually read them.”

I take out my red pen and look meaningfully around the room. They open their books.


—



Class ended, pupils released and grading complete—contrary to what I may have said, I read most and some even deserved a B—I pack up my bag, turn on my phone and check for messages. Nothing. No reply from my cryptic courier. Not that I was really expecting one. That’s not how these things work. Still, ever one for pursuing the futile, I try the number one more time.

It rings. I frown. Another phone is ringing too. In perfect synchronization. In this room. In my pocket. I slip my hand inside and pull out the old Nokia. Marcus’s phone. I stare at the handset. My number flashes up. The ringing stops and an automated voice informs me that I have reached the Vodafone voicemail, blah, blah.

I’m still staring at the phone, trying to make sense of things—anything—when someone raps loudly on the classroom door. I stuff the Nokia back in my pocket.

Beth strolls into the room and perches on a desk. “Hey.”

“Come in, sit down.”

“Thanks. I will.”

“What happened with Hurst?”

“A week’s detention.”

“That’s it?”