had stopped throbbing. In fact, he didn’t seem to feel any pain at all, only sadness, horrible sadness.
His dad was sitting at the end of the bed, seemingly at a loss for the right words to say. Billie had apparently been fed a steak laced with rat poison, something called warfarin, but which Michael initially heard as wafin. It had caused a massive bleed inside Billie’s brain called a stroke. That’s why he’d been fitting and drooling.
Whatever the reason, Michael hoped he’d never have to see such a horrible thing in his life again. He recalled the chilling words Jude had said earlier that day: Someth’ns wrong with Billie, I think he’s dyin’, Mikey.
Seeing the Great Dane die wasn’t the only thing that was worrying him, though. He knew Jude wasn’t going to forget this incident. Not for a long while. Not ever.
The school bell sounded the end of the final period, shaking him from his memories. Michael jumped, and for some reason absently rubbed his fist. He turned and faced the class. They were patiently waiting for him to say something, their faces staring up at him like sunflowers tilted toward the sun. He knew what they wanted to hear, so he quickly gave them permission to leave.
The volume in the room immediately turned to full. The children gathered their bags and packed their books away, then began streaming out of the classroom into the corridor and merging with the children exiting the other classrooms. A little girl in a bright floral dress ambled up to him. Her name, for some reason, eluded him. She was a cute kid, a real daddy’s girl – blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect lips. Pointing to the blackboard, she asked him what he’d written.
He turned around, at first quizzical, then wide-eyed and incredulous. On the blackboard, in large white letters, was a message that seemed to have come from beyond the grave, as if it had been spelled out on a ouija board:
Something’s wrong with Angie.
I think she’s dying, Mikey
Michael staggered back, grabbing a steadying hold of his desktop. He read it again, his mind stumbling over the words like a dyslexic. The little girl asked him another question, but he was still too stunned to answer.
Suddenly, a mental image flashed before his eyes, of Angie drooling and twitching on the ground in a fetal position, writhing in agony, one hand clasping her belly, the other her head.
“Just like Billie,” he whispered, horrified at the idea.
He kept staring at the blackboard, running his hand through his hair. He’d never had a premonition before, he didn’t even believe in them, but this felt very much like one now, like déjà vu in reverse, as if he could sense something bad was going to happen before it did.
He heard the little girl’s footsteps running out of the classroom. She was obviously bored with receiving no answer to her questions and wanted to catch up with her friends before it was too late. He watched her leave and waited until she was out of sight before rubbing the offending sentence off the blackboard. As the duster wiped away the words, he caught himself smirking. The stress of the past few months was affecting him a lot more than he realized. He needed to relax. He needed a nice long holiday sitting on the beach reading a good book and drinking beer. Lots of beer.
He finished cleaning the blackboard and glanced outside the dirty windows. The sky was drizzly grey and the light was already fading. Some kids were shooting baskets on the basketball court, which also doubled as the school quadrangle. Others in parkas and raincoats were saying farewell to each other beneath the two large eucalypts over on the far side of the court. He figured it was time he stopped dawdling and got going as well. Removing his leather jacket from over the back of his chair, he looked up at the clock above the lockers on the back wall. It was showing ten to four, though he knew it was five minutes slow. He hadn’t bothered to set it to the proper time because he liked the thought of having five minutes less to go before the end of school. Nevertheless, time was ticking and Angie would be waiting. In slow, exaggerated movements, he made his way to the door. He felt like a man twice his age; his bones felt achy and his feet hurt. That holiday couldn’t come too soon.
He stepped out into the corridor, what he thought of as the highway of the building, and was surprised to find himself its sole occupant. To his right was the reception and principal’s office at the main entrance. To his left, the staff room and emergency fire exit at the rear. The classrooms abutting the corridor reminded him of prison cells lining death row. He couldn’t wait to get out of here quick enough.
After locking the door, he hastened as fast as his tired body would allow toward the main entrance. Halfway there, he heard the click of a shutting door from behind. He turned around to see the rotund figure of his friend, Norman Page, exiting his classroom. As well as the cream cardigan and beige trousers he was wearing, he carried a grey tatty coat over the crook of one arm and a taupe leather briefcase under the armpit of the other. Michael had once seen inside that briefcase. It was filled with nothing apart from nudie magazines and candy bars. Norman locked his classroom and looked up at Michael. There was a frown deeply embedded in his brow, which Michael reckoned was as permanent as his stubby nose and double chin.
“You look wonderful, my friend,” Michael said, smiling.
Norman grabbed his belt and hoisted his trousers over his over-hanging belly. “And you’re a very handsome woman,” he replied in his best Elvis Presley impersonation.
Michael thought the lip-curl lingered on his face like a poorly reconstructed harelip. He watched Norman turn and waddle towards the staff room. After a few steps the large man halted, sensing that Michael wasn’t following, and turned around to confront him.
“Are you coming to the staff meeting or not?” he asked.
Michael kept smiling as he had. “Not today, Mr. Page. I’ve got a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
Norman’s shoulders slumped and he almost dropped his briefcase. Michael could see he was having problems figuring out how he could get away once again whilst everyone else had to stay behind. Norman was always complaining that Michael was the headmistress’s pet. It drove Norman mad. He was always late in the mornings and missing meetings, while Norman was never late and yet was forever under the watchful eye of his superiors. Norman felt that no matter what he did, everything always went pear-shaped. Michael, he was forever grumbling, was luckier. Everything always seemed to work out for him, as if the gods were always on his side. Michael had to disagree. Norman didn’t know the problems he was facing at home.
“But, but how can you?” Norman said, still obviously flummoxed. “It’s out of the question. You can’t leave before Frau Hitler gives her orders for the month.” He clicked his heals together, dropped his coat, and gave a Nazi salute. “Vee must obey! Resistance is futile!” His fake German accent echoed around the corridor and Michael hoped no one else had heard, especially the headmistress. It would just be Norman’s luck if she had.
“Then call me nobody, mein Kommidant,” Michael said, looking at his watch. “I’ve got an important rendezvous in an hour. Angie won’t let me get out of it.”
Norman lowered his arm. “Sure, you’re off to enjoy yourselves while your poor friend suffers at the hands of a sadist. Don’t desert me like this Mikey, you know I can’t cope alone. I’m always the sacrificial lamb. Why can’t it be someone else for a change?”
The look on Norman’s face was almost pitiful. If Norman knew what he was about to do, Michael thought, then he probably wouldn’t complain so vociferously. If he himself had a choice, he would gladly exchange places with Norman right now.
