firmly shut, a solid lump of wood. A few early autumn leaves scatter the empty playground, crispy green-orange, some dancing up against the brickwork. I notice again the bars on the windows and bite my lip. Why have bars like that? This is a school, not a prison. And that blacked-out window. What are they trying to hide?
After a moment, the headmaster himself strides across the playground. He looks earnest. Almost helpful. But I sense another energy too. Something like annoyance.
‘Hello, Mrs Kinnock,’ says Mr Cockrun, as he reaches the gate. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Um … it’s Riley. And I have Tom’s medicine.’
‘Medicine?’ His eyes bore into me. ‘Why wasn’t this mentioned before?’
‘It’s not essential but—’
‘All medicine must go through me.’ Anger passes across his face for a fraction of a second – it’s so quick that I almost don’t spot it. The next moment, his earnest expression is back in place. ‘Well, come inside and we’ll make a record.’
He unlocks the gates and ushers me through, taking a good few minutes to re-secure the padlock.
I follow him across the playground.
When we reach the heavy entrance door, Mr Cockrun says, ‘Wait in reception, but please don’t let the children see you, Mrs Kinnock. I don’t want them knowing a parent is here during the school day. It’s unsettling for them.’
I nod stiffly.
‘Next time, make sure you bring everything at school drop-off,’ Mr Cockrun continues. ‘All right? It’s a safeguarding issue, Ms Riley. Having people come and go.’ He gives me a winning smile.
‘Parents dropping things off is a safeguarding issue?’ I say.
‘Yes. And the children really do become unsettled too. It’s not fair on them. They learn much better when they understand that school is where we care for them and home is where they see their parents. I’m sure you can understand.’ He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘We’re an exceptional school, Ms Riley. We know what we’re doing. Let’s have this medicine, then. What’s Tom taking?’
I don’t know why the question feels intrusive, but it does.
‘Painkillers,’ I say, passing over the white packet. ‘He doesn’t take them all the time. Just if he gets a bad headache.’
‘I’ll pop these in my office,’ says Mr Cockrun, heading through a side door. In the room beyond, I see him unlock a cabinet made of orangey teak and stickered with a pharmaceutical green cross. The cabinet is mounted low down on the wall – at stomach level.
Mr Cockrun puts Tom’s medicine inside, then locks the cabinet and pockets the key.
The room has a single window, I notice. The two-way glass I saw from the outside.
So the headmaster’s office is the room they don’t want people seeing into.
As I’m thinking about that, I hear the sound of children chanting coming from a room off reception:
‘We are the best.
We rise above the rest.
By strength and guile,
We go the extra mile.’
The double doors leading from reception haven’t quite closed, and through the crack I see rows of children seated for assembly: eyes dull, school uniforms immaculate and identical, hair neatly brushed. It looks choreographed – as if someone has positioned them for a photograph.
Like the plain tarmac playground, there’s something very soulless about it.
I spot Tom then, blond hair shining.
Normally I would smile at the sight of him, but he’s tiny beside one of those black-haired boys. The ones who were fighting.
Tom’s body leans away from the boy, his pose awkward.
I feel my heart judder.
Someone spots me looking – a teacher, I think – and pushes the double doors closed.
Then the headmaster returns with a book in his hand. ‘Jot some details down here,’ he says, offering me the lined pages. ‘Don’t worry – we don’t need a medical history or anything. Just the name of Tom’s medication, the quantity you’re leaving here, the dose Tom needs and today’s date.’
I write, pen-marks jerky.
‘You keep the medicine cabinet in your office?’ I ask.
‘Pardon?’ Mr Cockrun takes back the notebook.
‘Don’t you have a nurse’s office?’
Mr Cockrun smiles again, a wide version that still doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘As I said, Mrs Kinnock, there’s method to our madness. Don’t worry.’ He pats my shoulder. ‘We have it all under control. Let me show you to the gate.’
We walk slowly across the playground, me watching my plain lace-up DMs tap tap over tarmac.
On my way home, I see a dead bird. There’s a lot of blood. I suppose a fox must have got it.
It’s right by the hole in the school fence – the one I saw before, repaired with a bike chain. The hole is very small. Not big enough for an adult to climb through.
There’s probably some logical explanation.
Given my past, it would be strange if I didn’t get twitchy about odd things. But there’s no need to be paranoid.
‘Look, keep still. It’s broken.’
I put my hand on Olly’s knee, which bulges at an eye-watering angle under his padded O’Neill trousers.
He’s lying on thick snow, one ski boot bent back under his snowboard, the other boot snapped open, his socked foot falling out.
Under the bright morning sunshine, Olly’s blue eyes water, tanned skin squeezing and contorting. He has English colouring – sandy hair dusting his ski goggles and an unnatural orange hue to his suntan.
‘I’m pretty lucky to have a nurse here,’ says Olly, after another wince of pain. ‘Have I told you I love you yet today? I do. I love you, Lizzie Nightingale. Remember that, if I die out here on this slope.’
He doesn’t realise how serious this is.
‘I’m not a nurse yet. Don’t try to move.’
Olly, of course, makes a stupid attempt to get up, pushing strong, gloved hands onto the snow. But then his eyes widen, his skin pales and he falls back down. This is just like him. Give him a boundary and his first impulse
