and laughing as they go.
‘Do you have to teach now?’ I ask.
Jasmine nods, frowning. ‘2E. Why? Tell me!’
‘Bilal,’ is all I say. ‘He had a knife.’
‘What?!’
I look at Jasmine; her expression of horror has made me feel better already. ‘A knife. And not a small one. A long, thin blade. He held it to my throat.’
Jasmine’s jaw drops. ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
My hands are trembling and I’m close to tears again.
‘We have to talk about this, but I’ve got a class now.’ Jasmine is flustered. ‘Hold on, I’ll set them an essay, then I’ll be able to leave them for a while. Sit down and have a coffee, I’ll be back in a minute.’
She puts a cup of coffee down in front of me, then is gone, and I’m alone in the staffroom. I read the announcements on the noticeboard without taking them in. All I can think about is whether or not I should go to the police.
When Jasmine rushes back in, I jump.
‘Well, this really is the limit!’ she cries out. ‘We shouldn’t have to put up with this kind of rubbish. Tell me exactly what happened.’
‘We had an argument,’ I say, ‘but the crazy thing is, I can’t remember what was said.’
‘That’s the shock,’ Jasmine says. ‘It doesn’t matter. You had an argument and then what?’
‘He got up and came towards me. His face was all contorted, it was horrible. And then he pulled out a knife and pointed it at my throat.’ Three sentences and I’m crying again.
Jasmine puts her arm around me. ‘It must have been so terrifying.’
‘I really thought he was going to stab me,’ I sob, choking back the tears. ‘All I could think was, not my throat, not my throat, because I knew I’d have no chance of surviving that. But then I realised that he could also cut my face and I imagined spending the rest of my days with a big scar, or just one eye.’ I cry even harder.
Jasmine strokes my hair; her face is pale. ‘Where is Bilal now?’ she asks. ‘Have you already spoken to Jan?’
‘I ran out of the classroom and went straight to Jan’s office.’
‘And? What did he say?’
I pick up a plastic spoon and toy with it. ‘He would rather I didn’t report it to the police. He said he’d get in touch with Bilal’s parents this afternoon, and he’d suspend Bilal immediately.’
‘Okay. And what else?’
‘Legally speaking, Bilal’s got the right to take his final exams here, but he’ll be barred from entering this building. He’ll take classes at the other site.’
Jasmine nods. ‘The sooner they get him away from here the better. That does seem the best solution to me. Jesus, just the thought that he might pull a knife on me! I’d die of fright!’
I bend the plastic spoon, making a white crease in the plastic. ‘But I wonder if I should go to the police.’
Jasmine frowns. ‘You should really, shouldn’t you?’
‘It wouldn’t do much for the school’s reputation, but on the other hand.’ I look at my friend despairingly. ‘What kind of signal would that send out, that a student can threaten a teacher with a knife and the only punishment is being sent to work in another building?’
‘And a suspension.’ Jasmine adds.
‘A suspension?’ The spoon snaps. I put the pieces down. ‘He’ll get a week’s holiday, watch a bit of MTV.’
‘That’s true,’ Jasmine says, ‘but what do you expect the police to do? The most they’ll do is caution him. If we reported every threat that was made in this school, we’d all be out on the street in no time.’
‘That might be true,’ I say heatedly, ‘but what kind of school is this then? Not reporting him means that the students have the upper hand, that they can do whatever they want.’
‘They can,’ Jasmine says soberly, ‘and you know it.’
I do know it. The power of the students, protected by their parents, is growing and growing. When I was at school, just the threat of being sent to the deputy head’s office was enough to stop me in my tracks if I was fooling around in class. These days they just laugh at you. Once, a student I’d sent out stood outside the classroom windows and dropped his trousers.
If you telephone the parents to ask them in for a chat, they never have time and they aren’t interested. If they do turn up, they barely understand what you’re saying because their Dutch is so poor – or they promise they’ll give their son or daughter a good hiding which you then desperately try to talk them out of. Often, they’re defensive. How dare you?! Are you saying they aren’t good parents? Isn’t it the school’s job to sort out problems? Isn’t that what they’re paying taxes for?
Victor, one of my colleagues, was once punched by a father.
‘What should I do, Jasmine?’ I ask. ‘What would you do?’
‘I’d sleep on it.’ Jasmine gets up to make another coffee. ‘Think it over.’
We sit there together, drinking our coffee in silence. I look at Jasmine over the rim of my cup. ‘I’ve got a headache.’
She rests her hand on mine. ‘Just go home,’ she says. ‘I’ll call you this evening, all right? And whatever you decide, police or no police, I’ll stand by you.’
I’m glad I never cycle to work, even though the weather’s lovely for the end of April. I can’t take my bike because I have to rush off at the end of the day to pick up my six-year-old daughter from school. To my shame, she is sometimes there waiting for me, holding the teacher’s hand. But not today. It’s Monday, early in the afternoon, and I’ve got plenty of time to tell my story to the police.
If I decide to.
As I cross the playground on my way to the car park, I catch myself looking around. The sight of every dark-haired, broad-shouldered boy gives me a jolt and I only feel safe once I’m in my car with all the doors locked.
As I join the busy Rotterdam traffic, it all comes back to me, piece by piece.
From the moment the lesson began, Bilal had been looking me up and down. I was wearing a skirt – not a mini-skirt, it was to the knee – and high black leather boots. Slouched in his chair, Bilal looked from my legs to my breasts and then back again.
Ignoring things is always the best approach, so I carried on with the lesson. Until Bilal raised his hand.
‘Miss?’
