a deep breath and fought to stay calm as he looked across his desk at Liam, who was tall for his age and overweight, making him quite an imposing presence for an eleven-year-old. Maybe this time they’d be able to get rid of him. A temporary exclusion was on the cards at the very least. ‘Well, I can prove the reason you’re here,’ he said. ‘Half the school witnessed you attacking poor Joshua with the stinging nettles at break time. He’s in so much pain he’s had to go home. Why would you do something so nasty to him? Where did you even get the nettles from?’
Liam looked up at him with dead, psycho eyes and a grin to match. ‘What’s a stinging nettle? I just chased him with some leaves. It was a game. A bit of fun.’
‘Don’t give me that, Liam. You knew exactly what you were doing. I asked you where the nettles came from. Well?’
The only answer he received was a shrug, accompanied by a smug look of defiance. For some reason it really got under Mike’s skin. He felt himself getting angry. It wasn’t the first time this kid had wound him up in this way. His blatant lack of respect was infuriating. And yet Mike knew it was his job to stay calm, or at least to appear that way. Liam was trying to goad him and if he realised he was succeeding, it would only make him worse.
Joshua Banks, the boy who’d been attacked, was no angel. He’d been in Mike’s office on several occasions too, although he was much easier to handle than Liam. At least he was able to acknowledge when he’d done something wrong. Mike had no idea how the attack had come to pass. Joshua, who’d suffered nettle stings all over his arms, face and torso, had been too distressed to explain. And there was zero chance of getting a confession out of Liam.
Mike couldn’t get over the nastiness of the incident, which he was convinced was premeditated. Since he was unaware of any nettles growing in the school grounds, he could only assume that Liam had brought them with him from outside, presumably hidden in his bag. Wearing gloves to handle them, he’d also made a point of shoving the plants inside Joshua’s T-shirt.
‘What do we have to do to get through to you?’ he asked, as calmly as he could manage. ‘Why are you so determined to cause trouble at every opportunity? It’s not for my good that you come to school, Liam. It’s for your own. You’re the one—’
Mike stopped mid-sentence when he saw Liam, the little shit, leaning back in his chair and yawning. What the hell was the point?
‘You’re a—’
It was the sound of his desk phone ringing that stopped him this time, although he was glad of the interruption. He’d almost said something he would have later regretted.
‘Hello?’
It was Beth in the school office on the line, wanting to know if he had the key for the safe. He did and, although she offered to come and get it, he said that he would take it through to her instead. He liked the idea of getting a moment away from Liam. It seemed like a good way to cool down; to put things into perspective.
‘Stay where you are,’ he told the boy. ‘And don’t touch anything. I’ll be back to deal with you in a moment.’
It was a stupid move, leaving him alone in his office like that. Mike was already thinking so as he headed back there a couple of minutes later. But it didn’t prepare him for what he found – what happened and the terrible path it led him down – when he opened that door.
Mike woke with a start, a gasp for air, jolting upright on the couch as his eyes sprang open. His muscles were clenched and his body covered in sweat, eyes darting wildly around the room as he took in where he was – and where he wasn’t.
A dream, thank God. An awful memory: the start of his downfall, his undoing, haunting him as it so often did.
He lowered himself back on to the sofa and, as his hands kneaded the soft cushions, he took a series of slow, deep breaths. He focused on one spot of the swirling pattern in the ceiling above him, which had been wallpapered then painted white to hide the cracks. He stared upwards trailing the curves of the embossed lines with his eyes. And he fought to wipe his mind clean of all other thoughts. He fought to forget, or at least to compartmentalise, this recalled moment. But God it was vivid – so raw, so fresh – like he’d just lived it again.
This was the booze getting its revenge from the night before; so too the feeling of panic in his chest. But gradually it passed. It always passed eventually, he told himself.
And then he carried on. He stood up and walked through to the kitchen. He boiled the kettle and made two cups of tea, which he placed on a small tray and carried upstairs to the bedroom, where he could hear that his wife was awake and moving around.
It was time to face the music: to do his best to smooth things over with Lisa again.
Friday, 6 September 1991
‘Hi, Mum, I’m home,’ Elliot called.
‘In the kitchen, love,’ Wendy replied casually, as if that was where she’d been the whole time. In truth she’d just raced down the stairs of their small dormer bungalow, so that Elliot didn’t know she’d been watching through her bedroom window for him to get back.
Her heart had swollen with pride when she’d finally spotted him down the road, making his way home from his first day at secondary school. Her little boy looked so grown up in his new King George’s uniform: a maroon blazer with the boys’ school’s own crest, plus a green-and-grey striped tie, white shirt, grey V-neck jumper and black trousers. It was uncanny how much he looked like her late husband.
As Elliot closed the front door behind him and removed his shoes, Wendy picked up where she’d left off in the kitchen, preparing their tea. Right Said Fred were banging on about how sexy they were on the radio and she found herself singing along in her deepest voice.
‘Muuum! Please don’t. That’s gross.’
‘What?’ She grinned, taking in the sight of her pride and joy, whose crisp smartness from this morning had taken on the ruffled look that a day at school inevitably delivered. ‘It’s a big hit. Might even knock Brian Adams off the top spot at last.’
‘Hmm.’
She stretched her arms out wide. ‘Come on then. Where’s my hug?’
She ruffled his curls as she took him in her arms, squeezing him tight. He smelled like school, whatever scent that was: books, pencils and ink, perhaps, with a soupçon of sweaty socks thrown in for good measure.
‘So, spill the beans,’ she said, planting a kiss on his forehead before letting him go. ‘How was it?’
‘It was fine.’
‘Fine? Is that all you’ve got? I’m going to need a lot more information than that about my boy’s first day at secondary school. Let me get you a cup of tea and a biscuit. Then I want you to tell me everything.’
Although he sighed and made out it was a pain to have to recount the day’s events, Wendy knew it was only an act. Unlike a lot
