Skeletal (8 page)

If I’d felt sure that no one was on the other side I would have exploded, taken my frustrations out on the walls and the floor and the door. I would’ve pounded my fists raw and screamed my throat dry.

Instead I whimpered and began to cry.

The other door was the only possibility. I had no idea of whether the English room would be locked up: I didn’t own a watch and my limited sense of time had been destroyed by anxiety.

I kneeled and pulled boxes away from the second door. With my eye to the lock I could make out daylight, but when I tried to work it the hairpin snapped from the effort.

I threw it on the floor with disgust and put my head in my hands.

When they found me tomorrow I would be in more trouble than I’d ever been in my life.

For so long I’d tried to hold everything together. Keep everything running as it had when I was smaller and my mother could still be depended upon to take care of things. But it had been crumbling, crumbling.

I didn’t know what the hell I was doing anymore. I shouldn’t have to. Now they’d find out that everything was a slapped together mashed-up lie, and my life would change.

It wouldn’t be for the better.

My mother was no longer capable of looking after me. Hadn’t been for a while. I’d now be in the type of trouble that would ensure I was taken away. Stored somewhere different. With the other broken kids.

And if I thought a spoiled teenage bully was a worry, it was nothing to what a truly fucked-up kid would be.

I was too high maintenance to live with CYF kids. Even at my low maintenance standards.

And then they’d try to place me in a home and I’d be left with some pervo who got his kicks off putting his hands down my pants - or her kicks. And then I’d be fucked. Literally.

I put the calculator into my backpack, and closed up the flap. There were some refills on the shelf in front of me, and some markers in the cupboard where I taken the calculator from. If I was in here for the long haul I may as well amuse myself. I could write a series of letters and put them in bottles. Leave the remnants of my current self and throw them out to the wind to let someone find in a day, a week, a month, a year. A lifetime.

I drew a picture of the home that formed my earliest childhood memory. The grass grew high around the steps leading to the front door, but at least the inside had been clean; spotless.

A bike that I’d been given to learn to ride on. Bright red paint that flaked off to reveal the hard crusting of orange rust. I’d fallen off a hundred times, brought home a hundred scraped knees, blood bright to match the paint. Bruises deep with crimson, purple, brown.

We’d moved so many times since then it was hard to keep track. The wooden house with the peeling white paint; the old red brick where I’d spent a day industriously poking out the crumbling grout until I was yelled at and dragged inside. They turned topsy-turvy in my head until they merged together into one old draggy house. Too old for decent folk. Too new to demolish. Just right.

And when I pulled the stapler off the shelf to seal my images and jottings away inside their own enveloped selves, a key dropped onto the floor. The key to the side door. The key to freedom.

Tears threatened again. This time in relief.

I packed up everything I could fit into my backpack, slung it over my shoulder, turned the key and walked into Mr Bond’s English room. I’d been shut away for so long that shadows stretched across the floor. Soon the fireshow of sunset would begin.

The room was so dim that I almost missed seeing the figures standing on the other side of the glass panelled door. It was only movement that my eye caught. From the corner. My heart kicked into high gear again and I knelt behind the desk. This was all becoming too much. I just wanted to go home. Couldn’t everyone just leave and let me go home?

I thought it would be the janitor, locking up for the night. But then I caught the sound of a high voice, light and teasing, breathless. Michelle.

Mr Bond backed through the door, pulling her along with him. I crept further behind the desk, but they couldn’t see me. They weren’t looking.

He pushed her back against the door to close it shut again with them on the inside. He leaned into her and whispered something into her ear, wrapping a chunk of her hair around his hand and giving it a tug. She gave a long soft moan of pleasure.

There was no way this was right. When Susie had recounted her fantasy tales of what Michelle was up to with the English teacher, I thought they were just that. Spiteful gossip that no one should believe. But look at this. Look at this!

I peered around the side of the desk and did just that. For a moment I even wished I had a camera to record this moment for posterity. See how Michelle liked being the centrefold of the slideshow.

Mr Bond turned her now so his back was to the door; his hand still wrapped in her hair, using his other to pull apart her regulation white cotton blouse.

She laughed low in her chest, her throat open as she leaned her head back. Mr Bond laughed too, but even I caught the edge in it. There was something wrong here.

He gripped her hair tighter in his hand, curling it one turn closer in his fist. And then he slammed her back against the schooldesk nearest the door; bending her painfully back at the waist, pushing up her skirt.

Michelle gasped in pain as her pulled at her hair. Skirt up, panties down, he used it as a cruel throttle to flip her over on the desk so she was face down. He pushed her head down on the desk so she was pinned and then pulled down his fly, and pushed up against her.

There was a scream for help caught in my throat. Self-defence battled against self-respect, and by the time I knew which side should win it was over.

Mr Bond thrust inside her, looking down at his own erection as he forced himself into Michelle, still keeping her head flat against the desk, ignoring her small cries or perhaps motivated by them.

Once, twice. He pounded for a few more thrusts, and then groaned and leaned over her. He disentangled his hand from her hair. Pulled himself out of her and gave himself a quick wipe on her skirt.

‘You’re so good, baby,’ he said as he pulled his fly back up and straightened his shirt, tucking in the side where it had pulled out. The only sign of disarray on him.

‘Take a minute if you want. I can’t have you walking out with me; we might be seen.’

He left the room while Michelle put herself back together again. I couldn’t make myself known now. What would I say? Oh, I saw you and just thought I’d sit back and watch.

There were tears slipping down her face, but she wiped them clear and they stayed gone. Michelle pulled her pants back up, fixed her skirt, and started to button her blouse. Her fingers made hard work of the tiny pearl buttons, slipping again and again instead of finding the buttonhole.

But then it was done up. Michelle stood for a moment in place, staring at the schooldesk in front of her, then gave it a quick swipe with her sleeve. She turned and was gone.

I sat back against the desk, tucked out of sight for a few minutes more. And then I also left, taking care not to jostle my pack as I walked, then jogged, then ran. Trying to outrun what I’d just seen. Trying to outrun what I knew I would have to do now. Failing.

Coroner’s Court 2014

‘I hadn’t had much to do with Miss Harrow prior to that. I knew that Patty found her a nuisance, something to do with forms and signatures, but I considered that it was just an enrolment hitch. Not something I needed to keep an eye on.’

‘So when did Miss Harrow first come to your attention?’ the coroner inquires. He has straightened from the slouch he’d relaxed into as the day’s proceedings trailed along. I’m sure Mr Fitzsimmons had that effect on a number of people during his lifetime. Military bearing with old-school propriety that resonated with men of a certain age.

‘She asked for an appointment to see me. She didn’t arrange it with Patty – sorry, I mean Ms Pearson – but had come straight through to me. Literally, I mean. She just barged right into my office one morning, as though I had an open door policy.’

He laughs to show how ridiculous the very notion is. I wonder how else he’d thought I’d get to see him. Wait for a year for his secretary to pass on a message?

‘I told her to make an appointment. And when she just stood there I consulted my diary and made it for her. On the spot. As a favour, you understand?’

The coroner nods his head.

A favour. To me. As though an appointment with the School Principal was something that every teenage girl wanted, but few could aspire to. What a dick.

‘So when she turned up I had no idea of what she wanted.’

Because you hadn’t bothered to ask.

‘And then she started spouting some…’ He coughs into his hand and colours just a bit before he continues, ‘…Sexual nonsense. About the English teacher, Mr Bond. I didn’t believe her but,’ he shrugs and holds his hands out, palms upward.

‘Why?’

Mr Fitzsimmons turns in astonishment towards the coroner, who is looking at him intently. He may have straightened his pose, but he isn’t bending to this man. Good for him.

‘Well, because it was ridiculous, that’s why.’

‘What was the exact nature of the allegations?’

Mr Fitzsimmons shifts in his seat. He looks uncomfortable. He fingers the space between his tie and his collar, not pulling it out any – that would be gauche – but making sure that it exists. That he can draw air in without trouble, if he can catch his breath, that is.

‘Well, I don’t know that I can remember all the specifics…’

‘You would have kept a record of this appointment though?’ The coroner asks.

‘No. There was no truth to any of it, of course we didn’t keep a written record.’

The coroner leans back in his chair, and rubs the top of his nose with one hand, his eyes closed. ‘A student made a formal appointment with you to discuss a sexual allegation against one of your teachers,’ he sums up, and looks to Mr Fitzsimmons for confirmation.

‘I wouldn’t put it like that.’

‘How
would
you put it?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t call it a formal appointment, for a start.’

‘But you made the appointment yourself, with a pupil, because she wanted to speak to you urgently about a teacher and their inappropriate behaviour.’

‘Well I didn’t know that at the time I made the appointment, otherwise I…’

‘Otherwise you would what?’ The coroner seems to realise all at once that he is leaning forward in an aggressive stance, and pushes himself back in his chair. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like I was attacking you. Please explain what happened during the appointment, to the best of your recollection.’

Mr Fitzsimmons has lost his confidence. His voice sounds hesitant, questioning, as he continues with his story.

***

Daina 2004

I had my mouth open to blurt everything out when I realised for the first time that I didn’t know what I should say. This was the only course of action that I’d been able to think of, outside of calling the cops and
that
was never going to happen. But I couldn’t just let the whole thing go. If I waited I’d let my head rescript everything into a misunderstanding brought about by fear, brought about by indecision, brought about by my own aberrant behaviour.

I may have hated Michelle when she was treating me like shit, but even she didn’t deserve what I’d witnessed. And there was no way that Mr Bond should have been allowed to get away with it. Not when there was a steady stream of adoring teenage girls flowing through his classroom. Not when there was every likelihood he’d done it before. And if the media hysteria about sexual abuse had taught me anything, it was that he’d do it again.

‘I saw Mr Bond with a student,’ I forced out. When I looked up at Mr Fitzsimmons I could see he had no idea where this was going. Damn. Why didn’t we have a principal who’d been around the block a bit more? This guy wasn’t even married. How on earth was I going to tell him without saying it all straight out? ‘I saw Mr Bond having sex with a student in his classroom,’ I stated.

Mr Fitzsimmons winced at the words, and his head was already shaking no before I had even finished my short sentence. ‘I don’t know what rumours you’ve been hearing, Miss… Miss.’

‘Daina Harrow.’

‘Miss Harrow. But there’s no way that a teacher in this school had been having an inappropriate relationship with a pupil. You’re mistaken.’

I stared at him in confusion. ‘It’s not a rumour. I saw Mr Bond having sex with a student. Last night. In the English room.’ Mr Fitzsimmons continued to shake his head and I began to get angry. It made a welcome relief from feeling scared and awkward.

‘It didn’t look consensual,’ I added. Then leaned forward to him to make sure he got the message. ‘It looked like rape.’

The head shook no. A little waggle of denial. ‘Miss Harrow. I’m not sure what is going on with you. Perhaps you’ve received a mark that you weren’t happy with…’

‘I’m not in here making an allegation of rape because I got marked down in a test,’ I interrupted. ‘I haven’t
had
any tests in Mr Bond’s classroom. He doesn’t believe in them.’

That seemed to shock Mr Fitzsimmons more than any of my previous statements. ‘Mr Bond is a fine teacher. We were lucky to have him sign up with our school. He has an excellent record and he’s producing excellent results so far.’

I waited for some acknowledgement of my complaint, but the man just looked back at me as though he’d answered my question. ‘This isn’t about his teaching abilities,’ I said, emphasis on each word. Just like you explain things to a retard. Which perhaps he was.

‘Well, I don’t know what this is about Miss Harrow, but you seem to have your wires crossed somewhere. You can’t just walk in here and start making trouble just because you feel like it.’

‘I don’t feel like making trouble Mr Fitzsimmons. I came here because I’m scared and worried about a girl in my class who was raped last night by one of the teachers at
your school
. I thought you’d want to know about it before I called the police.’

He shot out of his chair and leaned over the desk at me. ‘There’s no need to threaten me with the police, Miss Harrow. They won’t appreciate you wasting their time any more than I do.’

All the frustrations of being a person without power in the world settled into me with a heavy weight. All the things I couldn’t do. All the things I couldn’t make people believe. ‘You’re the girl who left her class without permission last week,’ he accused me.

‘Yes.’

‘And now you’re in here making accusations about a teacher with no foundation and no evidence.’

As though there were any relation between the two events apart from me. I wished that I’d been able to go home and tell my mother what had happened and let her take care of it like any other teenager would be. Instead, I had to sit impotent in this stupid office with this stupid man and listen to his stupid mouth form stupid words that made stupid connections that meant nothing.

‘There is evidence,’ I stated back. ‘There’s a raped girl somewhere in this school, and I’m an eyewitness.’

Mr Fitzsimmons mouth pursed in as though he were sucking on a sour lolly. ‘I meant evidence aside from your testimony. I think it’s probably best that you go back to class. Is that what this is about?’ he asked leaning forward.

‘What?’

‘Is this just a chance to get out of class? You’ve missed a lot of schoolwork already according to your transcripts. I think you’d better knuckle down and study hard if you want to make something of yourself.’

He sat back in his chair and looked out of the window, his back straight as a rod. ‘I remember when I was about your age. I also wanted to lag about and wag school. There were children of my age who did exactly that. But I overcame those temptations. I studied hard and worked hard and now look at me! What do you want Miss Harrow? To be a layabout, and a beneficiary,’ I could swear he was about to add
like your mother
but he settled for, ‘Or be a contributing member of society?’

I swallowed and there seemed to be more bile than spit in my throat. ‘I understand that you’ve accomplished a lot, Mr Fitzsimmons,’ I said, and tried to inject some respect and appreciation into my voice. It was so far from how I felt that I don’t think I succeeded too well. ‘It doesn’t change the fact that there was a serious incident committed by one of your teachers yesterday, and as you’re my guardian ad locum, not to mention Michelle’s, I think you owe it to both of us to investigate.’

He picked up a pen that sat in front of him on his desk pad. It looked like an old-fashioned fountain pen, the sort that you had to pour ink into to refill, rather than just snapping in a cartridge. Given his other mannerisms, there was a good chance that it was. He focused on the side of it with intense scrutiny, and it wasn’t until he laid it back down on the desk and it rolled to its side that I realised he’d been reading the inscription on the side.

‘Very well,’ he said, as he got to his feet and marched to his door. He pulled it open with so much force that I could feel the drift of air that rushed to fill the gap pull past my face. ‘Ms Pearson,’ he said. He wasn’t shouting but there was something in his voice, the stern tone or the emphasis maybe, that carried the sound so well he may as well have been.

My second favourite person in the school appeared in the doorway. She saw me sitting there and had to fight with her facial muscles to keep the scowl away. I didn’t bother. I was a teenager after all. I was meant to wear my displeasure with the world on my face.

‘Yes, Mr Fitzsimmons?’

‘Would you call Michelle…’ He turned back to me. ‘I’m sorry, what was the girl’s surname?’

‘Carrasco,’ I replied and then frowned as I tried to think where I had heard that. ‘I think,’ I added to help.

He sighed, though not at the same volume as his previous command and turned back to Ms Pearson. ‘Would you call Michelle Carrasco, if that is her name, to the office, please.’

Ms Pearson stared at me. Or glared at me more accurately. I could’ve been in class right now. Working out some problems and getting a smile from the teacher when my answer was right. Getting a note from Vila with some sarcastic comment on it and struggling to hide my snigger. I could’ve wagged school altogether and wandered the streets trying hard to become the person that everyone expected me to be.

Instead I was sitting here trying to help someone who probably didn’t want my help and fighting with someone who couldn’t care less what happened in his school under his nose, as long as it didn’t cost him any trouble.

‘Do you really think it’s appropriate to break into her class?’ Ms Pearson asked.

I almost laughed when he responded, ‘Of course I think it’s appropriate, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked. Do it now, please.’

He closed the door in her face, the rudeness of the gesture undoing the pleasantry he’d ended on.

‘Thank you.’

‘We’ll see whether there’s anything to thank me for, Miss Harrow. Don’t think that if you’ve been telling lies as I suspect, that this will end well for you. You’ve already gone through one school this year, do you really want to jeopardise another?’

‘I’d rather that than let this go without saying anything.’ It was the truth if nothing else. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.

We faced each other down across the desk, waiting for Michelle to turn up and confirm someone’s point of view.

When Ms Pearson knocked on the door and then entered I could see she was still smarting from Mr Fitzsimmons’ behaviour. Her lips were pursed as she said, ‘Michelle is here to see you.’

He nodded and said, ‘Show her in,’ as though Michelle wasn’t already standing right there. In the doorway.

She scowled at me, but there was a small frown line creasing her forehead. I wondered what she thought I was doing here. If she thought that I was trying to get my own back for her bullying. Whether I was making a complaint about her that she so richly deserved.

‘Please take a seat Miss Carrasco.’

Michelle sat on the edge of the seat and stared straight ahead, not making eye-contact with him, but not looking away either.

‘Miss Harrow has made some allegations against you,’ he continued once Michelle had taken her seat. ‘She alleges that there has been some sexual misconduct on your part.’