In Loco Parentis (17 page)

“For God's sake Carpenter, it's a primary school concert not the Royal Albert Hall.” It's William Words, our top celeb. Working his way back in the world of TV after many years acting in films.

There's a small ripple around the room. Whether it's for or against Words, I've no idea.

Carpenter goes back to the keyboard, clearly rattled.

I'd be celebrating the mess if I didn't have problems of my own.

Imagining I've captured all the embarrassment on tape, I look at the viewfinder to see it's completely dark.

I press some buttons. Give the thing a tap. Try turning it on and off.

“Battery,” some old guy who's chewing the stem of his pipe says in the kind of voice that suggests he knows he's right.

And he is. I watch the Dambusters come to its end and there's whole-school finale to come. The parents'll lynch me if miss it.

Crapsticks.

I look in the case. There's no spare.

I look at the man who's still chewing his pipe. He shrugs his shoulders.

The kids walk on to finish the night.

Maybe if I drop the camera, I could say it was damaged. I look down. Chances are it would land on someone. Can't be risked.

I think about jumping. If only heights didn't scare me to death.

after-show

The applause goes on for ages then the crowd heads for the door.

There's a lovely, Christmassy feel to everything.

Emma looks up and pulls on her black fur coat. Blows me a kiss on the sly, or at least I hope it's on the sly.

Beneath me, the rattle of coins in the collection buckets plays the final tune of the evening.

I become aware of a small crowd gathering round the keyboard.

Will Words walks over to Carpenter, his hands up in a gesture of peace. Reckon Mrs Words has suggested he make an apology.

“I'm really so sorry,” he says, the low rumble of his trained voice reaching me up all the way up here.

Carpenter steps over.

He throws a punch, if that's what you can call it. More like a girl's slap, I'd say. Hits Words somewhere in the face. Knocks his glasses onto the floor.

Three or four people, Alistair and Carol among them, hold Carpenter back as he strains to get in for more. He's doing a great job of the old ‘hold me back' routine. I curse the fact that there's no power in the battery.

I say nothing, but I'm trying to send a message by ESP. “Kill the bugger, Will. Go and kill the bugger.”

Mrs Words steps in. Puts her arm round Will who's looking at his glasses, trying to bend them back into the right shape.

Looks like the show's over.

Shame.

Words would have made mincemeat of the old git.

round midnight

My dreams are like a Chagall, flying in colour on clouds and through time.

When the phone wakes me I don't move. Eight rings and it stops.

Before I can turn over onto my side, it rings again.

“Nobody home,” I tell it, reaching over and pulling the cable from the socket in the wall.

words and music

Carol's kept a low profile. Didn't see her except when she hurried over to the lunch hall. I presume she was wearing the sunglasses to hide her shame. Either that or a hangover.

Carpenter's off sick.

Funny that.

Upset stomach they're saying.

I'd do a bit more than upset his stomach if I had the chance.

While I'm having my postprandial smoke, Sal runs in, balancing her bits and pieces like Buckaroo. Somehow she's managing to carry her bag, a mug of coffee, newspaper and an armful of exercise books all at once, not to mention the sandwich hanging from her mouth and a cigarette shoved behind her ear.

She dumps everything on the table, slips off her shoes, goes back to the door and looks around.

“Hey, you've got to see this.” She tiptoes back in, her big toe sticking out of her 70 denier tights, and thumbs at the paper.

When she gets to the page she wants, she picks up her sandwich and stuffs it in, so that her next words are hard to understand. “Middle of the page,” I think she says.

It's the early edition of the Standard.

I see why she's so excited. ‘Words And Music Clash'. Nice.

The story hardly scratches the surface. Teacher hits TV man is the way it's written. School and star refuse to give a comment.

I get out a pen. Write the journalist's name on my hand. Eddie Doyle.

Reckon he might like to know that Carpenter hits kids, too. Put that upset stomach through some real distress.

the stitch up

The stand-in secretary called Alistair out as soon as I sat down. Poor thing's never going to get the hang of it. Makes me stressed just being near her.

I look out of the window at the bare trees, admire their ability to sway in the wind. If I were a tree, reckon I'd be broken at the first sign of a storm.

“Sorry Joe,” Alistair says as he comes back in, closing the door behind him.

“What can I do you for?”

He takes his time getting to his chair. I think I'm supposed to feel the weight of the importance of our meeting as he lowers himself onto the cushion. He clears his throat and begins.

“How did the video go?”

I sit up a little straighter to compensate for the deflation I feel inside. Decide it's better to come clean. “Didn't turn out too well to be honest.”

“Really?” Alistair sits forward. I look at the yellow stains on his fingers as he knits them together, smell the tobacco on his breath. Remind myself to buy some gum.

“Something went wrong at the beginning of one piece and then the batteries packed up on me.”

“What about the spare?”

Red-handed catch. “I forgot it.”

Alistair throws up his hands. Practically claps then sits back in his chair.

Looks like my bollocking's not coming after all. I allow myself to slip down in my seat. Stretch out my legs and cross them at the ankles. Notice my jumper has a hole in one of the purple stripes and fiddle around until I find the loose end.

“So you didn't film the...weren't filming when...didn't record the incident?”

This time I sit forward. Want to bang my head on the table. I should have known better.

“Sadly no.”

He gives me a funny look. His body stiffens as he stares.

“What's going to happen to him?” I ask. “After the written warning his career must be on the line. I'd like to see the scumbag wriggle out of that one.”

I don't like the way his eye-brows rise up or the way the creases take over his forehead.

“I should remind you we're all professionals and should treat each other as such.”

“Professionals don't go hitting the kids in their care. In Loco Parentis, remember? In place of the parent and all that.”

He flexes his fingers as if he'd like to throw a punch himself. I'd have him for breakfast and he knows it.

“It might be difficult to understand at your tender age, Joe, but sometimes life gets in the way.”

Thirty-three years old I am and I've walked through more shit than most'll see in a lifetime. “So what's going to happen?”

“At the moment, Mr Carpenter's off sick.” The Mister's supposed to set the tone, I guess. “We can deal with the rest when he returns.”

“But the written warning?”

“I'm sorry to inform you that, due to some,” he clears his throat, “complications in the office, the letter was never actually sent.”

It's not happening. Can't be. The room's not real, the desk, the chair or the voices in my head.

I stand and look around to see what's going on.

Nothing changes.

“You said he'd received a written warning.”

“And he should have. Then Cilla went off sick and the temp stormed out the day it should have gone out. Sorry.”

“Sorry?” My teeth are grinding. I want to grab his shirt. Pull him over the top of his desk and give him the kind of kicking a gang of bikers would give a rogue mod on a Brighton beach. “You can stick your fucking sorry. You can stick your professionalism and all. He'll wish last night had never happened when I speak to the press.”

I feel like a winner. Like Spartacus. So I'm not ready.

He lunges forward. Grabs my jumper and gives it a stretch.

The bugger's stronger than I thought.

“Listen Joe.” He's right in my face. The smell of cigarettes mingles with the rot of halitosis as he spits his words at me. “Speak to anyone about this and you're done. It's your professional responsibility to keep this to yourself.”

I'm closer to him now than I like to be with any man. Best way out would be a butt to the nose. My head tilts back without being told, my neck muscles like a coiled spring.

He lets go before I snap.

Only takes a second or two to stare him out.

I turn my back on him. Open the door.

“Anyone,” he reminds me, “and you're finished, Joe...”

I slam the door as I leave, hear plaster dust the floor as the hinges take the brunt of my anger.

hamster cage

The inside of my mouth's like the bottom of a hamster cage. Not that I've ever tasted a hamster cage or even owned a hamster, but it's what I imagine it would be like if I ran my tongue over the bottom of one.

Wouldn't be so bad if that was the only symptom. My head's throbbing. Aching like I was using myself as a punch-bag during the night.

It hurts when I stay still. When I move, my stomach joins in, imagining it's on the ocean waves or something and ready to empty itself at any moment.

Only thing I can think of to get me through it is a proper fry up and a bottle of pop.

Course Wolf's out cold when I go to look in his room. I even brave the fart-stink and go in there to give him a shake. Only thing I achieve is to get his nose to blow bubbles.

The fridge is empty, bar a beer and an opened tin of beans.

What's left of the milk is on the sideboard with the lid off. I don't need to smell it to know that it's rank. Just the thought makes my stomach churn.

Thankfully I get to the sink before I hurl.

Feels good to get it all out, the dark-brown gunk that blocks the plug like tea leaves. Wouldn't fancy fingering through that to read my fortune.

I put on the hot tap. Spin my finger in the puke to force the lumps through the holes and wipe myself clean.

Best thing to do would be to wander out to the café, get to eat without having to do the washing up, maybe choose a horse or two from the Racing Post and then veg in front of the telly all afternoon watching my selections fall at the first hurdle.

Good news is I don't need to dress. I'm still wearing my clothes from yesterday – black combats, polo-necked shirt and my green and purple stripy jumper.

I go into the bathroom, clean my teeth, give myself a deodorant squirt under the arms and splash water on my face.

Boots on and I give Wolf a call.

“Fancy popping down the Sunrise?” I don't shout it, but it's a bit more than a whisper.

No response. I make a fist and punch the air, then regret it when it feels like my skull's just cracked from front to back.

I open the door quietly and shut it with a bang.

It's one of those lovely winter days, the sun bright and an edge to the cold like everything's clean and pure.

There's a spring in my step. Feels good to be out. As long as I don't need to throw up I'll be absolutely dandy.

As I'm imagining the cold drink slipping down my throat and the grease of my egg and chips giving my stomach a good lining, I see something I'm not expecting.

Pulling into Hilldrop Road, Emma's black Fiat. I check the plate. MMR, there's no mistake.

Shit.

What the hell's she doing?

Doesn't she know I've gone to Preston?

Only one thing for it, I run into the driveway I'm about to cross, jump over the garden wall like I'm a trained Commando and lie as flat as I can.

My face is about an inch from a turd. Looks like cat, but I'm no expert.

Smells like the bathroom after Wolf's treated himself to a curry.

That stomach of mine twitches again. Convulses and sends a gush of bile through my mouth and onto the soil. Tastes bitter as myrrh.

Coast must be clear by now. I stand up and look down at myself.

Have to say I'm not proud.

The door to the house opens. A little guy opens the door. The turban on his head makes him look fierce, or perhaps it's the kitchen knife he's waving in the air.

I'm not hanging around to find out which it is.

I do my best appeasing sign, listen to the bloke mouthing off in a language I don't understand and back out of his drive.

Soon as I'm on the pavement I run. Sprint like a whippet up to the corner. By the time I get there, I'm out of puff.

Working out Emma's possible route out of my road, I reckon the Sunrise is my best option.

I'm running like hell, dodging the old ladies and the gay men crowding round the health food shop.

One of the guys steps into my way.

Too late for me to do anything about it, I take the hit and tumble like a gymnast.

The guy's over straight away, his perfect quiff, tight Tee-shirt and boyish looks mean he's a guy I could go for if I was that way pre-disposed. Despising myself for even thinking such a thing, I flush it out straight away. Want to wash my mind out with soap.

I take his hand and accept his apologies without a thought.

As I rise to my feet, I see it again, the black Fiat MMR pulling up just ahead.

“No worries,” I tell the guy who seems reluctant to let me go. I'm backing off for the second time of the day and it's not even eleven o'clock.

Emma gets out of the car.

I wave. Smile. Wander over. Try and ignore the scowl on her face.

the girl in the black Fiat

She looks amazing. Shades pushed back on her head, lips red as the strawberries on her summer dress.