‘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.
8
‘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—’
