A Thousand Cuts

No, no, no. I didn’t keep it. Christina Hobbs, she took it. She wrapped it up.

Mr Szajkowski. The headmaster’s pinching the bridge of his nose now. Mr Szajkowski. Perhaps you would do me the courtesy of starting your story at the customary point of departure.

Which throws Samuel completely.

The beginning. Begin, if you would, at the beginning.

So Samuel does. He tells Travis about the coughing and the swearing and that certain classes of his have become unteachable. He tells Travis that he has been tripped, shoved, abused, hounded, spat at. He tells Travis that his bicycle has been vandalised, his seat stolen, his tyres knifed. He tells Travis about the graffiti he has seen, the notes he has discovered in his pigeonhole, the text messages he has received. He tells Travis again what the kids deposited in his briefcase. And then he drops into a chair like he’s physically exhausted and the headmaster’s left standing there looking down at him.

How old are you, Mr Szajkowski?

Samuel looks up. I’m twenty-seven. I was twenty-seven just last week.

Well, congratulations. Did you have a party? Was there a cake?

I’m sorry, I’m not sure I—

Never mind. You’re twenty-seven. A fair age. Not a mature age but an adult one. You are an adult, Mr Szajkowski?

Yes. Yes, I am an adult.

I am pleased to hear it. And your tormentors. How old are they?

They’re year eleven, mainly. Year ten.

Fifteen then. Sixteen perhaps. Fourteen possibly.

That’s right. Yes. I would say that’s right.

Do you not see a discrepancy somewhere, Mr Szajkowski? Do you not sense something awry?

Samuel nods, he’s saying, yes, Headmaster, I do. But they defecated—

In your briefcase. Yes, Mr Szajkowski, you mentioned it. What of it?

Samuel is regretting having sat down, I can tell. The headmaster’s a tall man anyway and now he’s looming right over him.

What of it? Travis says again. What would you have me do? Perhaps I should summon the culprits to my office, make them apologise to you, make them promise in future to play nice. Perhaps, Mr Szajkowski, you would like me to ask them to stop picking on you. Perhaps you think that might help.

No, says Samuel. Of course not. There won’t be any need for—

Or perhaps, Mr Szajkowski – now here’s an idea – perhaps, Mr Szajkowski, you might consider for a moment your function as an employee of this establishment. You are a teacher, Mr Szajkowski. I have reminded you of that fact before but perhaps you have forgotten it. You are a teacher, which means you teach and you lead and you maintain order. You maintain order, Mr Szajkowski. You effect discipline. You do not allow yourself to become intimidated by a fifteen-year-old boy who in twelve months’ time will either be queuing for his dole money or stealing other people’s. Do not look so surprised, Mr Szajkowski. You do not name names but you do not have to. I see everything that happens within this institution. I am omniscient. Donovan Stanley is a reprobate. He will be with us only for a few months more. During that time I will not waste time or attention or resources on something as sordid and inconsequential as that boy’s shit.

And then he leaves. He doesn’t look back at Samuel and he doesn’t look over at me.

I’m standing there. I’ve got a teaspoon in my hand and I’m just standing there. I look at Samuel. I’m watching him. I feel like I should say something but I don’t know what. What can I say?

In the end I don’t say anything. Samuel doesn’t give me the chance. He stands up and he picks up his bag and he packs away his books and he’s across the room and without so much as a glance he’s out the door and he’s gone.

And that, Inspector, was that. That was that and nothing changed. I mean, I assumed that Travis would do something. I told myself that his little speech was for Samuel’s benefit. You know, a sergeant major ball-busting one of his troops. But he did nothing. He actually meant what he said. He did nothing and nothing changed.

No, that’s not quite right. Things did change. Things got worse. At the time I didn’t think it would be possible, but it was, it most definitely was. You heard about the football match, didn’t you?

.

‘It’s a joke. That’s what it is. It’s a joke report.’

She said nothing. So far she had said nothing.

‘Come on, Lucia. Put me out of my misery. Show me the real one. This is hilarious, real comedy stuff, but give me the actual report, the one that says what we all need it to say.’

She could have. The DCI did not know it but she could have. It was at home, on her computer, in the recycle bin. It was in a pile on the side of her desk, sentenced but not yet shredded. It was on the memory stick in her pocket.

‘You know the one I mean. The one that says this was a tragedy, that Szajkowski was a lunatic, that guns are a menace to our society.’

She shifted. She sighed. She shifted back.

‘Something about social services maybe, something they should’ve could’ve might’ve done.’

She was still. She held herself still.

‘The one that’s not going to cost me my reputation. The one that’s not going to cost you your job.’

There was a fly on his shoulder. She could tell he could not feel it but it was there.

‘I’m going to do you a favour, Lucia.’ He raised his arm, showed her the folder. The fly leapt free and the folder followed, arching and then tipping into the bin. ‘You’re early. It’s your saving grace. I gave you until lunchtime if you remember. I don’t need it until lunchtime.’

‘You have it now.’

‘My lips are itching, Lucia. My whole jaw: it’s itching. It’s tingling. It’s like I can tell there’s bad weather coming, you know, like those guys with their hips in those films. Except the bad weather isn’t bad weather. It’s a shit storm. That’s what’s coming: a shit storm.’

‘Toothpaste,’ Lucia said.

‘What?’

‘Try toothpaste. On your cold sores. I read about it.’

‘What kind of toothpaste?’

‘I don’t know. It didn’t say.’

‘There are all kinds of toothpaste.’

‘There are. I didn’t think about that. But it didn’t say.’

‘I use whitening toothpaste. My wife buys whitening toothpaste. ’

‘I wouldn’t use that. Or maybe you could. It didn’t say.’

The chief inspector watched Lucia for a moment. His eyes did not leave her as his fingers wandered across his desk. They found what they were seeking and Cole broke eye contact long enough to pick up a pen and scribble a note on a scrap of paper. He folded the note and tucked it into his breast pocket.

‘All I’m asking,’ Lucia said, ‘is that you let me talk to them. This doesn’t commit us. It doesn’t have to go anywhere if we decide it shouldn’t.’

‘Lucia. I have to make a presentation at three. That’s in what. Six hours. Five and a half. The super is going to be there. The commissioner is going to be there. The home secretary might even drop by. Believe me: it commits us.’

‘So tell them there’s been a delay. Don’t tell them anything. Stall.’

The DCI grinned. He grinned and then he winced, raised his fingertips to his jawline. He regarded Lucia as though she were the source of his pain. ‘Stall,’ he said. ‘You want me to stall the home secretary.’

Lucia shrugged. ‘Just long enough so I can talk to the CPS. Present the evidence. Convince them that there’s a case.’