Alex Gray - Glasgow Kiss

‘Julie Donaldson,’ Sandie told her as they walked together out across the car park. ‘The father’s called in and he’s going to make a formal complaint. Jack Armour’s told Eric to go home.’

‘He’s already been suspended?’

‘We think so. Manson’s wanting a full staff meeting tomorrow morning.’

‘Yes, I know. I got the note in my pigeonhole. What about Julie?’

‘She’s been told to come into school as usual tomorrow. Manson’s not going to miss her and hit the wall, believe you me. Bet it’ll all be over bar the shouting this time tomorrow.’

‘I hope so,’ Maggie replied doubtfully. But, try as she might, that knowing smirk on Myra Claythorn’s face was something she was finding hard to erase from her memory.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Ruth said, running her fingers through her husband’s blonde thatch of hair. ‘Why on earth would she say something to hurt you?’

Eric’s sigh seemed to reach his boots. ‘She came on to me at school yesterday. Said some pretty stupid things. I. .’ He shook his head as if reliving the memory. ‘I pushed her away. Not violently,’ he added hastily, seeing Ruth’s look of alarm. ‘I hardly touched her. Well, only to stop her grabbing hold of me.’ He groaned aloud. ‘Why did she make these horrible things up? I mean, how could anyone think I’d behave like that with a pupil?’

Baby Ashleigh’s cry made them both look up. The tiny scrap in their nursery had begun her nightly bawling session. Ruth sighed and rose from her seat.

‘Don’t. Let me bring her down. You stay there,’ Eric told her gently.

Watching him leave the room, Ruth Chalmers told herself for the hundredth time how lucky she was, how blessed to have a husband like Eric. They’d been so blissfully happy since Ashleigh’s birth; it was as if a halo of golden light had surrounded them all. Now this silly little girl had gone and spoiled it all. And maybe put Eric’s career into jeopardy.

She was so tired, almost too tired to think. Too tired to pray? Ruth closed her eyes, bent her head and spoke a few words into the silence. And when the door opened and Eric came in cradling the baby in his arms, she was able to give him a smile that was full of trust and love.

Nobody ever came in without knocking. That was the rule she’d established ages ago, when Mary had first come to stay. The white painted door lay between Julie and the rest of the world, she thought; it was a barrier between now and tomorrow. The girl bit her lip. What would they all say? Would they call her a slag? Or would there be enough shock value to gain her some sympathy? Sam had believed her. Eventually.

Remembering her reaction to Sam’s initial scepticism, Julie swallowed hard, feeling the prick of tears under her hot eyelids. She couldn’t lose Sam. They’d always been there for one another, she told herself, the clichй echoing characters from her favourite TV soap opera.

Julie lay back on her bed, legs splayed, feeling the cold cotton of the duvet against her bare calves. What would it really be like with him? She held the image of Eric in her mind: his smile, the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners. Making him real, coming towards her, whispering things she wanted to hear, touching her. . She shivered in anticipation as her imagination took her further and further into the story and her hand strayed towards the hem of her skirt. Would he lift it gently like this? Let his hand creep upwards to where she was wet and eager for him? Julie let out a whimper as the images came faster and thicker, her body hot and demanding.

Then that other image came back, the one where he looked at her, grim and unsmiling, telling her what a mistake she’d made, that he didn’t love her like that at all. Julie sat up suddenly, pushing her skirt back down.

Eric Chalmers would never humiliate her like that again. Never. She’d make sure of it.

W hen he woke from the dream, he found that his body was slick with sweat. Breathing long deep breaths, he let his eyes focus on what was real in the room: the lampshade on the ceiling, the stippled plasterwork, the tops of the curtains where one hook was missing and the material sagged forwards like a drunken woman’s dress, open to show her tits.

He kept on breathing, deliberately, slowly, the way he’d been taught to calm himself after one of his episodes. It was all right now. It was just a dream, that was all. There were no arms pinning him back, no eyes staring up at him accusingly. Just a dream.

Closing his eyes he saw her again, the fear and shock as he leaned harder against her windpipe, heard the snap below his knee, felt at last her body yielding below his own. Then . . but before he could remember the next bit, he opened his eyes and threw back the covers, pulling one corner of the sheet to wipe the sweat from his chest. He’d get up, wash, have some food and go about as if it was a normal day.

It would be fine. The daylight was just behind those curtains. It promised a new beginning where everything in the past was like the dream already fading from his sight.

‘D’ye hear the latest? That wee slag Donaldson’s got Mr Chalmers into trouble. Says he sexually assaulted her.’

Kyle Kerrigan slowed down to keep pace with the group of Fourth Year boys who were heading towards the milling area, listening intently to their conversation.

‘How d’ye know that?’

‘Archie’s faither’s a mate o Mr Donaldson. Telt him in the pub, didn’t he?’

‘That’s pure garbage. Julie Donaldson’s makin it all up. Bet you. Wis she no goin wi you last term, Kerrigan?’

Kyle shrugged as if to distance himself from Julie, from their gossip, but his heart was thumping nonetheless.

‘Well, we’ve got Chalmers second period,’ the lad persisted. ‘See if it’s true or no, eh?’

Kyle peeled off from the group and made towards the PE base where Finnegan would be hanging out. Finnegan (Mr Finnegan to his face) was one of the few bright spots in Kyle Kerrigan’s life at Muirpark Secondary these days. The PE teacher had recognised early on that the lad was well above average at sport and it was Finnegan who had made it his business to foster that talent. As he entered the covered walkway that led to the sports block, Kyle glanced up at the workout area, his personal haven where he spent as much time as he could get away with. It was a narrow rectangle boxed off from the upper floor of the PE department, filled with rowing machines, exercise bikes and various types of weight-training gear. Strictly speaking, anyone using the equipment had to be supervised by a member of staff but Finnegan let Kyle have free run of the place so long as he was somewhere on the premises.

The knock on the door of the PE base was answered by a rumbling cough as a tall thin man appeared. His pock-marked face creased in a grin as he saw Kyle.

‘C’mon in. Want a cuppa tea before the bell goes?’

‘Aye, why not.’ Kyle moved into the square room with its different bits of kit arranged along hooks on the wall, his nose twitching at the scent of new-cut grass coming through the open window. The PE staffroom looked out onto the vast playing fields that were the envy of every other secondary school in the district. Muirpark had been one of the lucky new builds of the seventies when spare land had been snapped up by councils eager to showcase their commitment to education. The site had been considered for private development but, in a rare moment of altruism, the City Fathers had given it over to their children. Now Muirpark, complete with an ex-boxing champion as its head teacher, was regarded as one of the schools most likely to produce tomorrow’s sporting heroes.