Teacher's Dead (16 page)

‘There are no sides here,’ said Mrs Joseph. ‘There are no winners and no losers, but there are many victims, and this is not a game.’

‘Can I come to you now, Lisa?’ said the presenter, pivoting on her seat. ‘I don’t want to repeat all the things that have been said about you in the press, but it could be said that going public with your friendship is a way of hiding behind the goodwill of Mary and cleaning up your image.’

Miss Ferrier’s demeanour was the opposite of Mrs Joseph’s. She was nervous, hesitant, leaving long pauses in between words.

‘I – I don’t think I’m hiding behind anything – I never thought of – being like – friendly with Mary – but we just did. It was really because of one boy – he’s a pupil at the school – I thought he was a bit mad myself but he knew I wasn’t mad or – or cruel – or a witch. He’s a good lad.’

‘Can I just say something?’ said Mrs Joseph. ‘I am sick and tired of the way people are blaming Lisa for what her son did. He did a bad thing, I know that more than anyone else in the world, but he did it, not Lisa. The reason we are here today is because there is a documentary about this whole affair being made
right now and it may make good TV but it’s not telling the whole truth. For example, I’m told that there’s a dramatic reconstruction of me phoning Lisa and shouting at her down the phone. I never did that.’

‘I haven’t even got a phone,’ said Miss Ferrier.

Mrs Joseph continued, ‘And apparently Lisa was supposed to have lied to the police when they came to her house looking for Lionel. It’s just not true. Lionel didn’t even make it home; he was arrested in the park not long after the stabbing. We want to show people that we are not bitter with each other. Lisa hates what her son did as much as I do and whatever the film says we know the truth and we have come to tell the truth.’

‘That’s very brave,’ said the presenter.

‘I don’t think it’s brave. I can’t hate her, there’s too much hate in the world. We have to move on.’

Miss Ferrier butted in nervously, ‘I think she’s brave. She could have just turned against me like so many people have – but she has done the opposite, she has really helped me realise that I have nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘Well,’ said the presenter, returning to her happy face, ‘this is quite a story. What do you think people can learn from your experiences?’

Miss Ferrier spoke first.

‘I was beginning to think everyone hated me because of something I never done, but now I’ve
learnt that there are good people out there.’

Mrs Joseph then said, ‘I just want to thank Jackson Jones and his mother for bringing us together – I don’t like being in the public, and I don’t want to be hounded by the press or programme-makers and I don’t want to do breakfast TV chat shows any more. All I have to say is leave us alone and I’d also like to say we all must save a space in our hearts for forgiveness.’

The presenter turned to the camera.

‘An amazing pair. We’ve come to the end of this morning’s show. It only remains for me to thank you for joining us. We’ll be back tomorrow morning at six a.m. See you then. Goodbye.’

I looked down and my lap was covered with cereal, I looked up and the clock was saying eight forty-five. I ran to clean my teeth, shouting, ‘Oh no, I’m late.’

Mrs Martel was waiting for me as I entered the school.

‘I’m glad you could make it, Jackson.’

‘I’m sorry I’m late, miss, it won’t happen again,’ I said, rushing past her.

‘One minute, Jackson.’

I stopped.

‘Can I see you in my office?’

‘When?’

‘Now.’

‘But I’ve go to go to registration, miss.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ve dealt with that.’

She led the way and I walked behind her feeling naughty but nice. When we reached her office she walked over to the window, looked out, and started by congratulating me.

‘Well done, Jackson. I saw the programme this morning and I have to say I was very impressed. You did a great thing by bringing them together and it was quite a feat getting them on television.’

‘I got them together, but it was their idea to go on TV.’

‘Yes, but it wouldn’t have happened without you. I’ve done my bit in the documentary now but I want you to know that I haven’t got involved in this character assassination that’s been going on. All I did was let them film around the school and I did a short interview saying that we were a pretty normal school, and Mr Joseph was a pretty good teacher.’

‘What did you say about Lionel?’ I asked.

‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘I just said I didn’t know him very well, but I’ve read his reports and he seemed like an average pupil. Anyway, they’ve done all they need to do here; they’ll be finishing the film elsewhere now, so you can stop being angry with me. Are you still angry with me?’

‘You told me
what
you did, but I still don’t understand
why
you did it,’ I replied.

Mrs Martel turned to face me and looked at me for a couple of seconds. Without taking her eyes off me she took a couple of steps forward and stood next to her desk. Then came the confession.

‘I really did think it was harmless, and we – that’s me and you, and everybody else in this school – really need the money. They offered us a lot of money for a couple of days’ filming. You may think that all I do is watch teachers and parade through the corridors but there’s more to being a head teacher than that.
Nowadays I have a budget to manage, books to balance, I have to spend money, save money, and make money. It’s called the internal market. I didn’t do it because I wanted to see myself on television, no, that money has gone straight into the school funds to help pay for some of the things this school desperately needs.’

‘I understand,’ I said.

She smiled; it was the first time she’d smiled in my presence for a long while.

‘I could talk about the changing role of a head teacher for a long time. Another time, maybe. Now to your class – don’t worry, I warned Mrs Anderson that you’d be late.’

Word had got around the school that I had been mentioned on breakfast television that morning, but there was very little mention of the context. Most people thought I was just stirring trouble. I had a lot of thinking to do, so I made sure I stayed out of people’s way. I used my loneliness to think about the journey I’d been on and what I had discovered about Mrs Joseph, Miss Ferrier, Lionel and Ramzi. There was a lot to think about but one thing was for sure, my view of all of them had changed, and I still thought there was more to learn.

When I arrived home that afternoon the three women in my life were in the living room talking
about the programme. Although my mother had only watched it from the side of the studio she was apparently the most nervous. At one point I even heard them talking about forming a support group of some kind, and then a writers’ group, and then a chess group. I realised that they weren’t serious when they started talking about a Jackson Jones support group. It was good to see them happy, most of all Miss Ferrier.

That evening we ate together. This time all three of them helped with the cooking and I pretended to do my homework. I have no idea what time Miss Ferrier and Mrs Joseph left, but I do remember falling asleep to the sound of them mimicking the voice of the TV presenter with the happy face. I’m pretty sure they were up until the early hours of the morning, but they were happy, so I was happy.

I had pleasant dreams, and happiness was still with me at the breakfast table, where my mother had to listen to me telling bad jokes about the TV presenter. My ability to tell jokes was as bad as my ability to defend myself but she was happy to go along with me. Just when I thought she was sounding more like the sister I never had than my mother, she jumped up off her chair and said, ‘Right, now off to school, young man. And remember, you owe me some good exam results.’

I went through my packing routine and made my
way to school. I was happy, until I reached the school gate, where Terry Stock, Priti Shah, Alex Morris and Lola Muir were standing. They stood on the playground side of the gate, Terry and Priti on one side of the gate and Lola and Alex on the other. I stopped. If I was going to go in I would have to walk between them. There was an alternative. As I thought about it Alex Morris seemed read my mind.

‘Come on, Detective Inspector Jackson. Enter, or if you don’t like the look of this entrance there’s always the other one.’

The other one was a bit of a walk away and I didn’t fancy the walk there, and more importantly I didn’t want them to think I was intimidated. It’s hard not to look intimidated when you are.

‘You don’t frighten me, you know,’ I said, frightened.

‘You frighten me,’ said Terry. ‘No, you don’t frighten me, I just feel sorry for you. It must be so hard being a freak.’

I tried a threat. ‘If you touch me –’

‘You’ll tell Mrs Martel,’ said Lola interrupting.

Not wanting to feel left out Priti said her bit.

‘Come on, wacky jacky, we’re not going to touch you.’

I decided to walk through. Step one was good, step two was good, but on the third step Terry shouted, ‘Boo.’

I jumped as if a firework had gone off under my
feet, and then I ran as if I had ants in my pants. They laughed as if it was very funny. I wanted to report them but I just couldn’t see myself running to Mrs Martel saying. ‘Miss, they said boo to me and laughed at me.’

I let it go and just avoided them throughout the day, but I was to see them again when school was over. As I headed towards the street I heard a commotion. The noise was loud and there was a large group of kids gathered around the gate area. I ran over and saw about ten kids shouting abuse at the woman who had been in court claiming to be Ramzi’s mother. She looked rough, as if she hadn’t slept, washed or eaten for days. A couple of people started throwing paper balls and chewing gum at her.

‘My boy’s better than all of you,’ she shouted back at them.

‘Your boy’s in the nick,’ shouted Terry. ‘And he’s not your boy anyway. You’re too old for him and he doesn’t date women with hairy chests.’

‘You’re a smelly tramp, Mrs, you know that, don’t you?’ shouted Lola.

‘And your hair’s like animal farm,’ said another girl, trying to get noticed.

The insults began to come from all directions before someone shouted, ‘Teacher. Run.’

And they ran, leaving about five boys including myself standing there as the teacher joined us. One of
the boys was Warren Stanmore; the teacher was a supply teacher who had just finished her first day at the school.

‘What’s going on here?’ she said, looking from us to the woman.

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

The others claimed ignorance too, but I knew they knew more than me. One of them must have seen how it all started.

The teacher shouted to the woman on the other side of the railings, ‘Are you all right there?’

‘No I’m not all right,’ she shouted back. ‘I hate this school, I hate those kids, and I want to kill all of you because you lot killed my son.’

The teacher had no idea what she was going on about. She turned to us again.

‘What does she mean by you lot killed my son?’

‘Don’t worry, miss, she’s the local mad woman, she’s always letting off,’ said one of the boys as he picked up his bag and walked off.

‘She’s not mad,’ said Warren. ‘She just needs help.’ He began to walk off, following the other boy, but as he did so I heard him mutter, ‘And she needs a son.’

‘OK,’ said the teacher. ‘Let’s go.’

The two boys who were left walked off in one direction and I chased after Warren. He walked swiftly down the road. As I spoke to him he looked straight ahead.

‘Warren, what do you mean when you say she needs a son?’

‘I ain’t telling you anything.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘You talk too much, and you ask too much questions. Then when I tell you stuff you grass me up.’

‘I don’t grass you up, I’m just trying to work all this stuff out.’

‘Well, I’m not telling you anything,’ he said, trying to quicken his pace.

‘So what do you know?’

‘I know more than you, but why should I tell you anything?’

‘Because I need to know,’ I shouted, surprising myself by my own strength of feeling. ‘I know there’s more to all this, but what is it?’

‘Just leave me alone, man. Go and ask the old lady, leave me alone.’

I jumped in front of him so that he couldn’t walk any further. He tried to sidestep me but I moved with him.

‘Do you know that lady?’ I asked.

‘Kind of.’

‘Kind of what?’

‘I kind of know her,’ he said.

‘Is she Ramzi’s mum?’

‘Kind of.’

‘What do you mean, kind of? Is she or isn’t she?’

‘Kind of.’

I got loud again. ‘Kind of what? Answer the question, will you?’

Warren raised his head and looked at me. ‘I’m not saying any more, just go and ask her. Now let me go, or I’ll report
you
for bullying.’

‘OK. Thanks anyway, Warren. Thanks. I’ll go and ask her.’

‘Good.’

I walked away slowly, and then I began to hurry. Then Warren shouted, ‘Jackson.’ He had his hands around his mouth, directing his voice in my direction. ‘Ask her about the cider,’ he shouted.

‘The what?’ I shouted back, unsure of what he said.

‘The cider,’ he shouted again.

I sprinted back to the school as quickly as I could but when I arrived she had gone. I ran up and down the side streets but I couldn’t see her anywhere. There were still stragglers on the streets from school, so I began to ask them. No one had seen her, and then I got lucky. A girl told me that she had just seen her heading back towards the school. She told me which route she had taken and I sprinted off. I arrived back at the school just in time to see her taking stones from a hat that she had in her hands and throwing them into the playground. They went nowhere near the school building, but I felt I had to stop her. I ran to her.

‘Excuse me. You don’t know me, but –’

‘Don’t talk to me,’ she said.

‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ I said. ‘I want to talk with you.’