Rosamund Lupton - Afterwards

The silence around him sounded so lonely.

‘He went up to the headmistress at the front,’ you continue. ‘And he yelled at her. Called her a “ bitch ”. He said she’d made him a “ fucking scapegoat ”.

‘And then he said, and I remember it very clearly, he said, “ You can’t do this to someone, you hear me? Out there? ” and he was jabbing with his hand, gesticulating around all the pews. “ All of you, at the back? Have you got this? You won’t fucking well get away with it.”’

He sounded desperate, I’d thought, on the edge of despair; choosing to rage instead of weep.

‘Two fathers went and grabbed him,’ you continue. ‘And pulled him away from the headmistress.’

All you could hear was the scuffle as they tried to get him out of the church. Even the children – all two hundred and eighty of them – were silent.

Then, in the silence, I heard a child’s voice. ‘Let go of him.’

Adam’s voice.

I turned to see Adam – Adam of all people! – standing up, amongst the sea of seated pupils and teachers. His voice was louder now.

‘Leave him alone!’

The whole church was quiet, all staring at Adam. He was terrified, I could see that, but he continued, looking all the time at Mr Hyman.

‘It’s not fair! He didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not fair to fire him. It wasn’t Mr Hyman’s fault.’

It was extraordinary. Heroic. A shy little boy, standing up in front of the dark-suited fathers at the back, all the teachers, the headmistress who terrifies him; in front of all of them. The boy who’s afraid of getting into trouble if his homework isn’t done, scared of being five minutes late, this boy was – literally – standing up for his beloved teacher. I’d always known he was good – not a goody-goody but good – but it still astounded me.

And then it was as if Adam connected to something in Mr Hyman. As if he made Mr Hyman aware for the first time of what he was doing. Mr Hyman shrugged off the two fathers and started walking towards the door. As he passed Adam he smiled at him tenderly, and it was a signal to sit down.

I couldn’t see Adam any more, but I knew that the enormity of what he’d done would be hitting him like a steam train. But nearly all his classmates loved Mr Hyman too, so surely they’d support him?

At the door Mr Hyman turned. ‘I didn’t hurt anyone.’

On the pew beside me I saw that Maisie’s face was pale with an expression I’d never seen before.

‘That man should never have been allowed near our children,’ she said vehemently. And I saw that she loathed him, hated him even – gentle Maisie who’s usually so quick to be kind.

‘It was a clear threat,’ you say to DI Baker. ‘A violent one. You could see how much he hated the headmistress. All of us.’

‘But at the time you didn’t think it worrying enough to report it?’ asks DI Baker, his tone blandly scornful.

‘At the time I underestimated his capacity for violence. We all did. Otherwise this never would have happened. So you’ll arrest him?’

More a statement than a question.

‘We already spoke to Mr Hyman, last night,’ DI Baker retorts, sounding irritated.

‘So you were suspicious enough to question him already?’ you ask.

‘We would have spoken to anyone who may have had a grudge against the school straight away,’ Sarah says. ‘As a matter of course.’

DI Baker glares at her, not wanting her to give away state secrets. But Sarah continues, ‘The headmistress or a governor would have given us the information that he’d been fired, straight off the bat.’

‘Mr Hyman didn’t ask for a lawyer to be present. And he was happy to volunteer a sample of his DNA,’ DI Baker says. ‘In my experience, that is not the response of a guilty man.’

‘But surely-’

DI Baker interrupts you. ‘There is no reason to think Mr Hyman had anything to do with the fire. A scurrilous piece of inaccurate journalism doesn’t change that. And your account of his behaviour at prize-giving is interpretative rather than fact.

‘However, I do appreciate your anxiety, Mr Covey. And given what you are going through, and to put your mind at rest, I will get an update on our enquiry from one of my officers.’

He ostentatiously gets out his radio again, suggesting, without saying so, that you are putting him to unnecessary trouble.

‘I’ll be with my daughter,’ you say, standing up. ‘You can “update” me there.’

You leave the office, the cheap thin door banging shut behind you.

I follow you along the corridor. As I look at your broad back, I long for you to hold me; and I remember how excited I’d been about seeing you that evening at prize-giving – how long those three and a half weeks had felt.

When you first came into the church, and didn’t properly meet my eye, I’d hurriedly tried to remember if there were any of those bright, attractive BBC girls on your filming trip. I’d done that before, over the weeks you’d been gone. But I was pretty sure it was an all-male crew.

No, I didn’t suspect you. I just felt a little insecure, that’s all. I’d never have asked you or even articulated the niggling little concern. ‘Back in your box and stay there!’ bossy Nanny Voice said. Sometimes she has her uses.

When I came out of the church, I scanned the large group of parents, trying to find you. The father-crowd at the back had been first out of the church, most of them on their mobiles now, but in the dusk I couldn’t see you. The children weren’t out yet.

I was worried Adam had got into trouble, and how much he’d mind. I wanted to tell him how proud I was of him; that what he did took great courage. All around me was the hiss of gossip as the incident turned into anecdote.

Donald and Maisie were a few feet away. I thought for a moment that they were arguing, but their voices were low and quiet, so I realised I must be mistaken. Besides, Maisie says they never argue. ‘ Sometimes I think we need a jolly good row, blow some cobwebs away, but Donald’s just too good-natured .’

Donald had a cigarette, dragging hard on it, making a fiery tip in the gloomy light. Maisie had never told me he smoked. He dropped the butt onto the ground, stubbing it out with his shoe, grinding it down.

I saw Adam coming towards me. His small face looked zoned out, trying to disconnect from the world around him. As he got closer, he passed Donald lighting another cigarette and flinched from the lighter’s flame.

‘It’s OK, young sir,’ Donald said. He clicked his lighter shut.

‘Are you alright, Ads?’ Maisie asked him.

He nodded and I put my arm around him. ‘Let’s find Dad.’

I was no longer looking for my husband but Adam’s father – our identity as parents always usurping the one of husband or wife.

I finally saw you standing away from the main group of parents. You took my hand and your other arm gave Adam a hug. ‘Hello, young cub.’

No mention of what he’d done. You saw that facial signal between parents over the head of their child when one isn’t doing something right.

‘You two go on home,’ you said, ignoring my sign. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’

We hadn’t even kissed hello and our disagreement about Adam exacerbated my frisson of insecurity at your homecoming.

‘I’ll be home as soon as I can,’ you said in a masculine, commanding way. I was glad you hadn’t had any pretty-bright-young-women filming with you, but the downside was that you’d been too long in an all-male environment; it usually takes you about the same amount of time to recover from sexism as jet-lag.