Megan shuffled round to face him. She took his hand and held it. ‘The point is, it’s not just kids. What happened today, what happened at the supermarket: it’s not just kids.’
Leo looked down. He felt Megan’s plaintive stare and turned from it.
What more was there to say?
The whole episode: it was deplorable. Entirely contrary to the ethos of the school and not, Ellie’s head teacher had assured him, behaviour that would be tolerated. The culprits would be identified and punished. Mr Curtice could no doubt understand, particularly given his profession, that it was difficult at this stage to say how exactly but the school – she, personally – would not let Eleanor down. It would help, of course, if Ellie could be encouraged to come forward – to name names, as it were. But no, yes, of course, it must be extremely difficult for the poor child and yes, indeed, just as you say, the onus must of course fall on the school to get to the bottom of things. And they would. Of
course
they would.
Ms Bridgwater was a slight, suited woman washed in scent and smeared in make-up. She had deflected Leo’s anger with the practice of a politician. Leo, having expected a twelve-round brawl, had felled his opponent with a single swing – and was left as dazed as he would have been had he lost.
‘Well,’ he said. He sat straight, gave a firm nod. ‘Good. I appreciate your cooperation. And I . . . apologise if perhaps I seemed a little – ’ he rolled a hand ‘ – upset. Before.’
‘Not at all, Mr Curtice. You have every right to be upset. As a parent myself, I can fully appreciate the distress you must be feeling.’
‘Yes. Well. Thank you.’
‘And of course,’ Ms Bridgwater added, ‘there is the pressure of your work.’
‘My work?’
Come now, the head teacher did not say. ‘The case, Mr Curtice. The Forbes case.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘Forgive me for mentioning it but, well.’ Ms Bridgwater pinched a smile. ‘I saw you on the news. You’re quite the local celebrity.’
Leo fumbled a laugh. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.’
‘There is no need for modesty, Mr Curtice. And besides . . .’ The head teacher’s smile turned gluttonous. ‘Doing what I do,’ she said, ‘being in the position that I am, I cannot help but take an interest in these matters.’ She raised her arms from her lap and settled them on the edge of her desk.
Leo, this time, returned a frown. ‘Ms Bridgwater. You appreciate, surely, that I cannot discuss—’
‘Oh, please don’t misunderstand me, Mr Curtice. I wouldn’t dream of putting you on the spot. My interest is not so much in the case itself. It is, rather, in . . . the boy. The accused.’
Leo made to stand. ‘I’m sorry but I’m really not comfortable . . .’
The head teacher leant across the desk, reached an apologetic hand towards Leo. ‘I thought perhaps I might help. That’s all. I thought I might offer
you
some information – not the other way round.’
Leo drooped into his chair. ‘Me?’
The head teacher tipped her head. ‘The boy,’ she said and, perhaps noticing Leo stiffen, quickly raised a palm. ‘I know, I know – his identity has not been disclosed. But this is a small town, Mr Curtice. There is a limited number of secondary schools and a very active branch of the National Association of Head Teachers. We talk, just as you talk, I’m sure, with your fellow professionals.’ Again Ms Bridgwater smiled.
‘Well, naturally, but—’
‘The boy. The accused. If it is whom I – we – suspect it is – ’ the head teacher gave a twitch that was almost a wink ‘ – then, as I say, I would perhaps have some insight that you might find instructive. He is not, I am sure, the most cooperative of clients.’
Leo resisted his instinct to agree. ‘I’m still not sure I follow. I don’t want to sound ungrateful but what insight could you offer?’
‘We taught him,’ the head teacher said. Then, when Leo began to dissent, ‘Not most recently, I concede. But he was here, for about as long as the boy has spent anywhere.’
‘Here? But . . .’ But this was his daughter’s school. It was a good school. A state school but as reputable a state school as a parent could hope for. Leo shook his head. ‘When?’
‘He started his secondary education here. We excluded him after a term. This is all on the assumption, of course, that we are indeed talking about the same boy.’ The head teacher studied Leo. She gave him seconds to respond. ‘But you will have access to the boy’s records,’ she said when Leo did not. ‘You will be able to confirm the precise dates, I’m sure.’
Ellie would have known him. No, not necessarily. It was a big school, one of the biggest in the county. She will have seen him, though. She will have passed him, brushed against him. He will have seen
her
.
‘Did you teach him?’ Leo said. ‘Why was he expelled?’
‘I am denied, in my role, the pleasures of classroom contact.’ The head teacher twitched her lipstick. ‘But certainly I had dealings with the boy. He was, shall we say, a regular visitor to my office.’
‘He caused trouble?’
‘When he was present, Mr Curtice, yes, he certainly did. We’d heard about his reputation before he started here so we thought we were prepared. But when a child will simply not allow himself to be taught, there is very little that we can do.’
‘Not allow himself . . . What do you mean?’
‘I mean he was abusive, disruptive, entirely lacking in deference. A real attention seeker. Our strategy was reduced to restricting the impact his presence would have on the children around him.’
‘He was isolated?’
‘He isolated himself. His attendance record was woeful, as I say. When he was present, he may as well not have been.’ The head teacher shook her head and her hair, sprayed rigid, moved not a jot. ‘Such anger. Such visceral, unaccountable rage. He attacked a teacher, Mr Curtice. That’s why, in the end, he was excluded. An unprovoked attack, by all accounts but the boy’s.’
Leo frowned again, waited for Ms Bridgwater to continue.
‘The teacher, Miss Dix: she asked him to read aloud. Just a simple passage from a text the class was studying. The boy was subdued that day, which for him amounted to his best behaviour, and poor Josie sensed an opportunity to involve him.’ The head teacher made a face, like really her colleague should have known better. ‘She asked, gently, and the boy refused. She persisted and the boy insulted her. He called her an s-l-u-t, Mr Curtice. Josie was admirably restrained in her response – far more restrained than I would have been, I assure you – but when she approached the boy’s desk and set an open book in front of him, the boy hurled it aside and flung himself at Josie’s throat. He throttled her – or would have, had the other boys in the class not restrained him.’
‘So he was excluded?’
‘He was excluded.’
‘Permanently?’
‘Permanently.’
‘But after a term, you say? A single term. Is that, I don’t know. Is that not unusual?’
‘Ordinarily perhaps but not given the boy’s history. And we were warned about him, as I say. We expected trouble. We were prepared, all along, to take extreme measures should they be called for.’
‘Well,’ said Leo, ‘clearly. But expulsion, I’d always assumed, is a last resort. Isn’t there a process? A gradual escalation in sanctions?’
‘Sanctions escalate in line with the behaviour that warrants them. It was not his first offence, by any means, and the boy, after all, attacked a teacher. How could we do anything thereafter but exclude him?’
‘I understand but would not a suspension have sufficed? Or, I don’t know . . .’
Ms Bridgwater did not wait for Leo to finish. ‘I have staff to protect, Mr Curtice. I have children under my ward. In view of the reason for your visit, I must say I struggle to comprehend your disapproval.’
‘Disapproval? No, I . . .’ Leo moved in his seat. Ms Bridgwater was watching him and he looked towards the window to avoid her eye. The head teacher’s office was on the first floor at the front of the main building – a squat Sixties structure assembled from shades of grey – and pupils were beginning to appear in the playground below them. There was a boy, alone, rummaging in his rucksack and weaving towards the entrance. In his wake whirled a gossip of girls.
‘You’ve met Daniel, Mr Curtice. You know the kind of boy he is. You know, more to the point, what he is capable of. We acted with alacrity and I can only be thankful, for the sake of our school, our pupils, that we did.’
Leo turned to face her. His nod started slowly and gathered pace.
‘As much as it pains me to say it, Mr Curtice, some children are beyond help. They are born bad, plain and simple. I have seen many, in my time, though few quite so wicked as Daniel Blake.’
Leo, again, gave a nod. He looked towards the clock on the office wall. He reached for his briefcase and stood. ‘I should get along.’ He gestured towards the window, to the trickle of children that was becoming a torrent. ‘I expect you must too. Thank you for your time, Ms Bridgwater.’
The head teacher pressed the desk until she was standing. ‘Please send Eleanor my very best wishes. She should of course take all the time she needs to recover from her ordeal.’
‘Thank you. I will.’ Leo shifted his briefcase and accepted the woman’s grip. He nodded, turned and pushed at the door until he realised he needed to pull. In the corridor he walked slowly, and was slowed further on the stairs by the tide of children. It was only when he reached the car park that he realised what Ms Bridgwater had achieved. Confirmation. A name to toss to her peers and renown, no doubt, for having won it. All she had really hoped to, then.
Some children are born bad. Isn’t that what the head teacher had said? They are born bad and there is nothing that anyone can do. The teachers: they tried their best. The parents: they did too. It is not as though the boy was denied opportunities. It is not as though he was not shown right from wrong. So how else can you explain it? He was born bad, Mr Curtice: bottom line, end of story, case closed.
‘Case closed. Right?’
Leo looked up from his open briefcase. Daniel’s stepfather was the only one standing. He had his feet hip-width apart and his arms across his pectorals. Stephanie, his wife, was seated to Leo’s right, her chair as far from the table as the wall behind her would allow, her chin offset and her bloodshot eyes on the floor. Daniel, across from her, faced his knees. His hands were pinned between them, his shoulders drawn inwards. He seemed a slight, feeble thing – though so, Leo reminded himself, might any wild creature that had been caged.
‘Right?’ Blake repeated. ‘Sounds to me like a no-brainer.’
Leo took out his files and set his briefcase beside his feet. ‘It’s not quite that simple, Mr Blake. As with any of the options open to us, there are risks.’
Blake showed his incomprehension through a sneer.
‘The sentence,’ said Leo. He glanced at the boy. ‘The sentence, if the argument is rejected, might still be . . . harsh.’
‘Harsh? How harsh?’
Again Leo looked towards Daniel.
‘Never mind,’ said Blake, flicking a hand. ‘It’s his best bet, that’s the point. That’s what you’re saying. Right?’
‘Not necessarily. All I’m doing, at this stage, is laying out some of the—’
‘I’m not mental.’
They turned to the boy. His voice had been a whisper. His face, like his manner, was downcast.
‘No one’s saying that you are, Daniel. We would simply argue that you were not responsible for your actions, on the grounds that—’
‘What would you call it then?’ interrupted Daniel’s stepfather. ‘Why the hell else would you have done what you did?’
Daniel’s mother gave a whimper.
‘Mr Blake,’ said Leo. ‘Please.’
‘Well?’ the man persisted. He was leaning towards his stepson but not, Leo would have said, as close as he might have. When Daniel raised his eyes – full of misery; fear, too, though checked by his obvious resentment – Blake backed slightly away. He disguised his retreat with a grunt. ‘Not mental, he says. Like that makes everything all right. Like anyone’s gonna think less of him if he ends up in a loony bin instead of in prison.’
‘Mr Blake—’
‘Talk to your son, Steph, for Christ’s sake. Don’t just bloody sit there.’
Daniel’s mother did precisely that.
‘You saw what happened outside the court,’ Blake persisted. ‘They’ll tear him apart if he goes to prison. Ask your ex, Daniel’s father: ask him. He’s inside, he knows what it’s like. Daniel won’t last five minutes. They’ll rip him to pieces, even before they find out what he’s done.’
Stephanie, this time, choked back a sob.
‘Oh Christ. Here we go.’ Blake looked at Leo, as though expecting him to mirror his rolling eyes. ‘Power up the sprinklers: that’ll help. Sit there feeling sorry for yourself when it’s your son –
your
bloody son – who’s just confessed to murder, who’s gonna spend rest of his worthless life, probably, in some stinking, piss-stained—’
‘Mr Blake! That’s enough!’
At the sound of Leo’s raised voice, the guard outside the door framed his face in the security glass. When Leo raised a hand, he returned a frown – then reluctantly, it seemed, revolved away. Blake, meanwhile, had settled his snarl on Leo. He made a gun shape with his fingers and spoke down the barrel.