whistling softly to himself.
It took him less than half an hour to reach the school. There was a large sign at the entrance that said ‘Welcome’ in a dozen languages. The wrought iron gate was closed but not locked and McBride pushed it open. He already had two cartridges in the breech and as he walked across the playground he snapped the twin barrels into place.
A bald man in a grey suit opened the door that led to the main school offices. The deputy headmaster. Simon Etchells. Etchells frowned as he saw the shotgun in McBride’s hands. ‘Excuse me, can I help you?’ he called.
McBride continued to walk across the playground.
‘You can’t bring a gun onto school premises!’ shouted the deputy headmaster. ‘I really must ask you to leave!’
McBride shot the man in the face without breaking stride. The man fell to the ground, his face and chest a bloody mess. Three pigeons that had been sitting on the roof scattered in a flurry of wings.
He walked into the main school building. The administration offices were to the left, and beyond them was the canteen. McBride turned to the right. There were classrooms leading off both sides of the corridor. There were posters and artwork on the walls, including photographs of all the pupils with their names handwritten underneath, and above the doors in multicoloured capital letters were the names of the teachers.
McBride ignored the first two classrooms. He was humming quietly to himself. Mozart. He seized the handle of the door to his left and opened it slowly. As he stepped into the room the teacher turned to look at him. He frowned and lowered the book he was holding. There were thirty-two boys and girls sitting at tables, sharing textbooks. A few of the children were frowning but most of them were more quizzical than worried.
Grace Campbell was sitting at the table on the left of the room, between a red-haired boy and a plump girl with pigtails. McBride swung the gun up and pulled the trigger. Grace took the full force of the blast in her chest and she fell back as blood sprayed across the wall behind her.
The sound was deafening and the air was thick with acrid, choking cordite, but no one said anything. The children stared open-mouthed at McBride, unable to believe what they’d seen. The teacher, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a greying moustache, backed away, his hands up as if hoping to ward off the next shot.
McBride turned on his heel and walked out of the classroom. As he reloaded and headed across the corridor the screams began.
As McBride opened the door to the second classroom, the teacher was standing facing his class and shouting at them to be quiet. The children were talking among themselves but they immediately fell silent when they saw McBride and his shotgun. The teacher held up a hand, palm outward, as if he was a policeman stopping traffic. ‘You can’t come in here,’ said the teacher firmly, in the voice that he used to keep unruly pupils in order.
McBride brought his gun to bear on a girl sitting by the window. Her name was Ruth Glazebrook and she had arrived at school that day with invitations to her eleventh birthday party. She was only inviting girls because she still thought that boys were yucky and besides, her mother had said that she could only invite six friends because they were going to go to McDonald’s and money was tight. McBride pulled the trigger and Ruth’s face disintegrated and she slammed against the wall.
The teacher staggered backwards and he tripped over a desk and fell to the floor before scrambling on all fours and hiding behind his desk.
The children sitting at Ruth’s table stared at McBride in horror but the rest of the pupils ran to the back of the room. McBride raised the shotgun to his shoulder again, sighted on another girl and pulled the trigger. The girl’s name was Emily Smith and she died clutching the invitation that Ruth had given her just minutes earlier. McBride walked out of the classroom, ejecting the two spent cartridges. He slotted in two fresh ones as he walked to the next classroom.
2
Phillippa Pritchard had heard the first shot but it had been in the playground and she’d assumed that it had been a car backfiring. The second shot had been closer but she still hadn’t realised what it was until the screaming had started. The third and fourth shots followed in quick succession and the thirty-four children in her class all looked at her fearfully, waiting to be told what to do. The problem was, Phillippa had absolutely no idea what to tell them. She had been a teacher for almost twenty years, but nothing had prepared her for the sound of gunshots and the screaming of terrified children.
There was only one way out of the classroom and that was through the door that led to the corridor. Phillippa looked at the windows. They led out to the playing fields at the rear of the school. ‘Everyone over to the windows, quickly!’ she said. The children looked at her, too shocked to move. She clapped her hands. ‘Come on, this is a fire drill. Let’s pretend that the corridor is filled with smoke and that we have to escape through the windows.’ She walked quickly over to the nearest window. It was the sash type with a catch. She took a chair from one of the boys and stood on it. She had to stand on tiptoe to reach the catch and it was stiff but she pushed hard and forced it to the side. She stepped down off the chair and pushed the lower pane up. ‘Right, come on!’ she said, pushing a table close to the window. ‘Onto the chair and then onto the table and through the window. Come on, quickly!’
She heard a metallic click in the corridor and her stomach lurched as she realised what it was. The shotgun had been reloaded.
‘Come on everybody, let’s do this as quickly as possible!’ shouted Phillippa, fighting to keep the fear out of her voice. The first pupil was on the table, looking nervously out of the window. It was Jacob Gray, a timid boy who had a tendency to blush when spoken to. ‘Jeremy, jump, go on.’
‘It’s too high, miss,’ he said, his voice trembling.
‘Just do it, Jacob, you’re holding everyone up.’ The door handle turned slowly. Phillippa turned to look at the door, her heart in her mouth. The door opened and she saw the twin barrels of a shotgun followed by a green Wellington boot.
‘Miss, I’m scared,’ said Jacob.
‘Just jump, now!’ shouted Phillippa.
Phillippa gasped as the middle-aged man stepped into the classroom and raised the shotgun. He was grey- haired and ruddy-cheeked, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors. It was his eyes that chilled Phillippa. They were blank, almost lifeless. There was no tension in the man, no anger, no emotion at all. He just stood in the doorway looking slowly around the room, his finger on the trigger.
Phillippa took a step towards the man. She was more terrified than she’d ever been in her whole life but she knew that she had to protect the children. She put up her hands the way she’d try to calm a spooked horse and tried to maintain eye contact. ‘You need to leave,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘You need to go now. You’re frightening the children.’
The man didn’t look at her. He continued to scan the room, the twin barrels of his shotgun matching his gaze.
‘You have to go,’ said Phillippa, more forcibly this time, but still the man paid her no attention.
Jacob fell through the open window and yelped as he hit the ground outside. Phillippa took a quick look over her shoulder. Two girls were on the table and a third stood on the chair, looking anxiously at the man with the gun. Phillippa made a shooing motion with her hand then turned to look at the gunman.
He had raised his shotgun to his shoulder and Phillippa gasped as she saw his finger tighten on the trigger. He was aiming it at Paul Tomkinson, one of her favourite pupils, always eager to please and one of the first to put up his hand, no matter what the question being asked. She opened her mouth to scream but before the sound could leave her lips there was a deafening bang and the shotgun kicked in his hand. The children screamed and scattered like sheep to the back of the classroom. Phillippa realised that there was a child lying on the ground, what was left of his head touching the wall. Blood and gobs of brain were dripping down the wall.
Phillippa covered her mouth with trembling hands. The two girls on the table threw themselves through the window, screaming.
The man swung the shotgun in Phillippa’s direction and her stomach turned liquid. She felt her bladder open and a warm wetness spread around her groin but she was barely aware of it. Her legs began to shake uncontrollably and she mentally began to run through the Lord’s Prayer, Our Father, who art in Heaven, and then the shotgun swung away from her and roared again. A girl fell, her chest and face a bloody mess. Phillippa realised
