“Are you here because of Miss Carlisle?” the tall one asked sheepishly. I looked at Steph, my eyes willing her to answer on our behalf. She nodded slightly.
“Yes, we are. We want to find the person responsible,” she said, squatting down to their eye level. The smallest one standing to the right of the leader, took a small step back, hesitated, then stepped forward again.
“Is she coming back soon?” he asked, his voice sounding young and innocent. Someone had invaded this kid’s, all these kids’ childhood innocence and ripped them into the reality of this cruel and fucked up world. Rage was all I felt right then and for the briefest moment, I wanted to scream. But I bit my tongue, held it in and smiled at them.
“What’s your name?” Steph asked the small one. For a moment, he just stared at her, his bewildered eyes never leaving hers.
“James, but everyone calls me Jim,” he finally said.
“Wow, well guess what Jim? You see this man here with me? His name is James too and do you know what he likes to be called?” Little Jim shook his head.
“I prefer Jim, too, buddy,” I said taking a step forward, then also dropping into a squat beside her. I recognized the trust they had for her; she was wearing her police uniform, me however? I was the scary stranger, the grown-up they didn’t know, the grown-up that could have hurt Miss Carlisle.
The boys suddenly turned their eyes away from us and I heard footsteps approaching from behind. They sounded much heavier than a child and for an instant, I felt a sense of panic rise in the boys, even if ever so slightly.
“Can I help you?” a man’s voice suddenly cried out and as I stood, I turned to see a well-dressed man approaching us. He appeared much older than myself, maybe late fifties or early sixties, his round glasses looking glued to his face thanks to an unrelenting nose that seemed to have sprouted somewhere last century. His grey, peppery hair was combed dead straight and parted on the political left. I could see he was about to repeat his question more sternly, when he spotted Steph, now also rising to her feet beside me. This time, I sensed a moment of hesitation.
“Oh, excuse me. I didn’t see you there, Officer,” he said politely. Steph stepped past me, held out her hand and they shook, briefly. “I’m George Bester, the principal of Cider Hill Primary.”
“I’m sorry, Stephanie Connor. We did come unannounced,” Steph said to him, introducing herself. She turned slightly back, willed me forward and introduced me. His eyes peaked a little when he heard my name.
“The James Lawson? Of the Daylesford Devil kind?” I nodded and his smile broadened so much it nearly eclipsed his nose, no simple task judging by its size, the shadow now casting across his face, looking more like a giant birth mark. His hand grasped mine so tight that for a moment I thought he would pull me completely off balance, a feat I would have thought impossible, considering I outweighed the guy by at least 50 pounds and stood a good head taller. But his eagerness tickled my sub-conscious again. I ignored it and returned his shake, smiled, then pulled my hand free when he had finished.
“You were quite the hero, if my memory serves me correct, Mr. Lawson.”
“Thank you, but that was a long time ago.” His face grew stern as he looked at the boys now standing scattered around his legs.
“Why don’t you boys go and play and let me speak with our guests,” he told them and the boys ran off almost immediately, relief visible on their little faces.
6.
George invited us back to his office so we could have a discussion. ‘A trifle more private’ he had said as he led the way, weeding his way through the tangles of children, then climbing the steps into the largest of the three buildings. We followed him down a dark and narrow corridor, then into a brightly lit office, where a plump lady, wearing giant horn-rimmed glasses, sat at a desk and was busy bashing her fingers onto the keys of her typewriter.
“Gladys, this is Officer Connor and Jim Lawson. Would you fetch us some tea?” The woman offered us a strained smile as she dragged her ample derriere out of her chair and headed out of the room. George opened the door to his office and invited us in, the only thing matching the gloominess of the room, being the ghastly smell of pipe smoke, which hung thick in the air. I felt my throat close a little, protesting against taking subsequent breaths.
Steph and I sat in the chairs that sat directly in front of his big walnut desk, piles of folders and books standing high on each side. It reminded me of the play-forts I had built as a kid. All it needed was a small wall, joining the towers on either side, something to rest the barrel of your pretend gun on.
“Such a terrible tragedy,” he said as he dropped his butt onto the high leather-backed chair. There was very little sympathy in his voice, sounding almost dismissive. His arrogance eclipsed any compassion he may have had, and his tone suggested the loss of one of his teachers to be more of an inconvenience than a tragedy.
“Did you know her well?” Steph asked him as he wheeled his chair closer to the desk.
“I wish I could say yes, but unfortunately Rita had only been with us a short time. She came highly recommended by Miss Tuck, another one of our third-grade teachers. They had studied together back in college and were very well acquainted.” He enunciated the very so particularly, as
