In Loco Parentis (24 page)

Notice

I get back from the doctor's and tell Wolf about it.

I don't think he's taking me seriously. It's like he's not really listening. I want to shake him.

“A month off was all she'd give, even with my history. And that includes the holiday
.”

Wolf looks puzzled. He's probably wondering how it affects him. “What about the flat?”

He's like a book these days, a kid's book with big writing.

“Truth is I haven't a clue.” Maybe I think there's still a chance for me and Jenny, a slender thread to clutch.

He looks at me like a begging dog.

“Stay till the flat sells,” I tell him. “I'll speak to the estate agent and he'll be in touch. You just make sure it stays spick and span and everything's all right.”

There's no change in his expression. The way he's taking it, it's like he's a paying tenant.

The market the way it is, the place should sell in a week or so, though I don't suppose many'll be out looking to buy a flat for a Christmas present.

“I'll miss you bud,” I tell him.

He lifts his hands and our thumbs lock into a shake.

“Miss you too, man,” and I finish my cigarette before hitting the road.

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Teenage Lobotomy

T
he weather's been shite all week. By the time the doc buzzes me in, my hands are hurting even though they've been buried in my pockets.

“You're wearing black,” he says like he's a clever man. Rubs his chin and looks at me like he's spotted something important. A clue, maybe. Or a key.

“Yes.” I think about saying more. There's not a lot to add.

“Isn't that a funeral coat?” When he asks me, he leans forward. I wonder if he's sensed things are amiss.

“It was my grandfather's.”

He just leans back in his chair and picks up a pen. Doesn't bother to compliment me on it. Doesn't bother to write anything down.

I should hate him. It's what he's always telling me. But I'm going to miss the old guy. Miss the way he keeps quiet until he has a bullet to fire.

We stay quiet. It lasts a long time. I think about Jenny and whether she'll have me back. Wonder whether I'm doing the right thing pissing off like this.

If I could talk it through I would, I just don't have the energy.

“A funeral coat,” he says, those three words spoken quietly like there's something fragile in the room. “They're worn at funerals.”

There's something I'm supposed to do here, but I'm damned if I know what it is.

“And funerals mean death. Has something died for you?”

I could tell him about the Carpenters. About Emma. About Don's dad. But it's not in me. I know he's right, though. It is the end of something.

“Every ending means a new beginning,” I say as I stand.

The coat feels heavy in my hands as I lift it from the back of my chair and slide my arms inside.

“I need to go,” I tell him. He doesn't bother to mention the time.

A lump forms in my throat as I fumble around in my pocket.

I pull out a packet of astronaut ice cream and hand it over, wrapped neatly in red, shiny paper. “Merry Christmas,” I tell him and we shake hands without the usual clumsiness.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, the words costing at least a quid each.

I turn round and walk out ready to face the world.

U-turn

The gears of the hire-car crunch as I drop to second for the roundabout.

Cars behind beep and flash as I fumble around with the stick. No point getting angry with them, I'd probably do the same.

I make it and accelerate onto the Archway Road, pass under Suicide Bridge and think about the kids in my class. Feels funny not getting to say goodbye. I picture their faces flicking quickly before me and pull over.

There's another flash of lights. Another beep of the horn.

On the double red line, I look up at the bridge in the rear view. It's like an invitation seeing it there like that. And I know what I have to do.

I take a U-turn, accelerate back to the roundabout and it's up to the top I go.

spin dizzy

It's damp and cold, the kind of wall that'll give you piles if you sit on it too long.

I lean over. Look down. Feel sick.

There's the usual urge to jump only this time that's why I'm here.

Cars speed beneath, like they can't wait to get to where they're going. I wonder if I should go when the cars come or when it's clear?

Don't want to go taking out a driver or giving them nightmares for life. On the other hand, I don't want to land flat and end up as a vegetable.

A lorry passes. Offers a solution. So far from the ground the driver might not see and not a hope in hell of stopping.

I put my hands on the top, ready to pull myself up. Soon as I move the fear grows larger than the desire.

My eyes close and I lower myself back to the pavement.

In my pocket, I finger the ring. Feel the smooth round metal with its hard, clean edge.

I hold it tight, hoping there's latent energy to feed from.

And I know what I must do. Find Jenny. Put the ring back where it belongs. On that beautiful finger of hers.

All I need to do is change and I can manage that. I'm no leopard.

It's cold. Freezing.

I get back in to the warmth of the car. Turn the key. Put on the blowers. Press play on the CD player. Click forward three tracks and feel the hope of the thrashing chords of
Teenage Kicks
.

––––––––

End 

Author's Note

Rarely has so much been owed to so many by so few.  With humble thanks, especially to the readers and comrades Chris Rhatigan, AJ Hayes, Ron Thomas Brown, Allan Guthrie and Brian Lindenmuth.

And thanks to the children I've taught over the years for making a difficult job a joy (and sometimes a joy into a difficult job).

All material contained herein © Nigel Bird 2012. All rights reserved.

The story contained here is a work of fiction. All names of characters, places or incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to people, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

a Sea Minor Publication

© 2012