what do you call it. Complementary. Which means they’re about as much use to me as a goldfish in a pillowcase. Jessica, she works for Holland & Barrett. Katie, my eldest, got her the job and she’s deputy assistant manager now, which is wonderful. But the things she brings home. The rubbish she gives me to take. I tell you, you can keep your herbal Nytol. Give me half a diazepam and a large glass of something French any night of the week.
But Samuel. We were talking about Samuel. He was always so very polite, you see. Not like some of the teachers we’ve had here. Some of the teachers we have here. Really, it’s no wonder that children these days are turning out the way they do when you look at the example they’re being set. Terence is a tease, he makes me smile sometimes in spite of myself. But some of the language he comes out with. Honestly. And it’s not just Terence. Vicky’s as bad. Christina’s as bad. And George. George Roth. He’s a nice enough fellow and I’ve never heard him swear but I’m still not sure that it’s right. He’s a homosexual, you see. Which I don’t have a problem with. Live and let live, that’s what I always say. But a homosexual teaching Christian values. To children. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just my upbringing. Maybe I’m old before my time. But that, to me, does not seem right.
So I worried about Samuel. I really did. He never seemed quite cut out for it. He never seemed quite tough enough. I hear things, you see, Inspector. I don’t listen out for things but being in my position, being as close to the headmaster as I am – emotionally, it goes without saying, but also with my office being where it is – it’s not always easy not to hear things, even when you do your best not to listen. And not a month after he started, Samuel was in with the headmaster. I didn’t catch every word of what was said. The headmaster, he has such a clear voice, such an authoritative voice – a newsreader’s voice I always tell him – but Samuel, it used to sound through the door like he was talking into his sleeve. Still, I heard enough to know that he was finding it difficult. I heard enough to make me wonder whether teaching was really for him.
And it was more than once. It got to the point I had to make up excuses, tell Samuel that the headmaster was in a meeting, on a call, out of his office even though he’s hardly ever out of his office, I mean he’s so committed to this school. He’s another one, you see. We’re very similar, he and I. He can’t help it either but he really shouldn’t be working himself so hard. And I tell him that. I say to him, you’ve earned a break, Headmaster. Let someone else shoulder some of the responsibility. And he tells me not to nag, not to make a fuss but if I don’t make a fuss then… Well. Who will?
He’d speak to Samuel more often than not of course but what could he do? I’m finding it hard, Samuel would say, like he was expecting the headmaster to wave some magic wand. Thinking about it, though, this was mainly in the autumn term, Samuel’s first. After that, Samuel stopped being such a nuisance. He seemed to understand that there were certain things he should really have been able to sort out for himself. He came when he was summoned of course. He came to discuss lesson plans and the syllabus and exam results and the like. Just like every teacher really. But otherwise he became a rare visitor to our little corner of the school. He kept himself to himself. That’s why it was such a surprise when I found him here on the Monday morning, the Monday before the shooting.
First thing, this was, like I was saying. The headmaster wasn’t even in yet. I was just arriving and invariably I’m about the first. Not that I get paid for coming in early but I have to if I’m to make it home at a respectable hour. But Samuel was waiting. He was sitting just out there on the floor, his back against my door, his knees tucked up against his chest. When he sees me he jumps right up. He says, I need to see the headmaster. No good morning, no hello, Janet, how was your weekend? Just that: I need to see the headmaster. So I say to him, good morning, Samuel. What are you doing here so early? And he says, is he in? The headmaster: is he in? And I say, it’s only just seven o’clock. The headmaster arrives at fifteen minutes past. I’ll tell him you were here, shall I? Because I’m thinking, I’ve just arrived and I’ve a pile of things to sort through and I don’t really have time to sit and natter. Particularly with someone like Samuel, who was always very courteous as I say but not really one for a natter. He seemed to be missing the gene.
Samuel looks at his watch. He frowns and looks around him, like he’s worried someone’s been sneaking up on him while his attention’s been on me. He says, I’ll wait. I’ll just wait here. And I say, really, Samuel, the headmaster has a lot on his plate this morning. I think it would be better if you came back later. But he just slides to the floor. He doesn’t say anything else. He just sits there, like people used to do in the sixties.
When the headmaster arrives I’m at my desk. Every morning he comes through my office to get to his so I can give him the morning’s post and his newspaper and his cup of coffee. He has it black, with sugar just up to the rim of the spoon. So I get to my feet when I hear him and I’m trying to think what I can say to make it plain that I did my best but Samuel, he just wouldn’t leave. But I’m looking at the door and it doesn’t open. I hear them talking outside, both at once it seems to me, but the walls are thicker between here and the corridor so I hardly catch a word. All of a sudden, though, they’re in the headmaster’s room next door and this wall, it’s only a partition.
I saw them. That’s when he said it. I saw them and they saw me. And he’s not talking in his usual tone of voice, I mean there’s nothing muffled about it now so I can tell he’s got himself all in a fluster. And I’m standing there with the headmaster’s coffee and I roll my eyes and I’m debating whether to knock or instead to just leave them to it. I leave them to it.
Who? the headmaster says. Who did you see? Calm down, for pity’s sake, man.
You have to help me, says Samuel. You have to do something. They’ll come after me, I know they will.
The poor headmaster, I can tell he’s losing his patience. What are you talking about? he says. Who did you see?
Who? says Samuel. You know who. Donovan. Gideon. The two of them and their mates.
Donovan Stanley, Inspector. One of the boys who was shot, as things turned out. I assume that’s who Samuel meant. Donovan and his best friend Gideon. Always causing mischief, those two. Just silly stuff, usually, just boys’ stuff, nothing for Samuel to make such a fuss about. I mean this was exactly the type of thing Samuel and the headmaster had been through before. This was exactly the type of thing. And I thought Samuel had got a grip on things but clearly he hadn’t. He was out of his depth: that’s the plain truth of it. Working in a school: it’s not as easy as people assume.
I don’t have time for this, Mr Szajkowski, the headmaster says and he didn’t. I could vouch for the fact that he didn’t. There was a big meeting that morning, you see. With the governors and some special guests. A very important meeting for the future of the school. The headmaster was excited. Truly, I’ve never seen him so excited. So it was very reasonable, really, that the headmaster should show Samuel to the door.
Samuel says, please, Headmaster. Please.
Mr Szajkowski, the headmaster says. Get a grip on yourself. You can’t go behaving like this in front of the children. You’re a teacher, man. Set an example.
And now it sounds like the headmaster is over by the door, and Samuel, Samuel’s shuffling around in front of the headmaster’s desk. Then there’s silence for a moment, neither one of them says anything. Until the headmaster speaks again. He says, well, Mr Szajkowski, I really must be getting on. And Samuel doesn’t reply. He doesn’t say anything, nothing that I can hear. He leaves, I suppose. I don’t hear him leave but I suppose that’s what he does because the door clicks and there’s quiet again and then the headmaster appears in my office.
So that’s it. I mean it’s not very helpful, I don’t suppose but, yes, that’s just about it. That was the last time I saw Samuel.
No. Wait a minute. I saw him later. Of course I saw him later. How silly of me. I saw him later to send him home. The headmaster asked me to, you see. After the police arrived. After they left, actually; after they’d told us about Elliot Samson.
Elliot’s a first-year here. Year seven we call them now. He was attacked, Inspector. Beaten up quite badly, by all accounts. It happened after school on the Friday but we didn’t hear about it until the Monday morning. Your colleagues arrived at about ten. Price, one of them was called. I didn’t catch the other one’s name. That’s when they told the headmaster. That’s when he and I found out. This was after the business with Samuel but before the governors’ meeting, although in the end that had to be postponed.
The headmaster and I are in my office. The police have just left, as I say. We’re both a little shocked, I suppose. I mean the headmaster, he looks dreadfully pale. And I say to the headmaster, what a terrible thing to have happened. Because it was. Terrible, just terrible. And the headmaster nods and doesn’t say anything and we’re both just looking at the floor.
Then the headmaster says, Janet. Have you heard any more from Samuel?
I say, no, Headmaster, not a thing. Nothing since first thing.
And the headmaster looks at me. He says, first thing? You mean you heard all that this morning? He’s
