Simon Lelic - A Thousand Cuts

So anyway, you get the idea. Like I said, it gets worse later on. There’s more swearing and, you know. Other stuff. It gets more… more… what’s that word when you read something and you can almost see what’s happening in your head?

That’s it. Graphic. It gets more graphic. I’ll leave this open, shall I, and if you want to you can see what I mean for yourself.

Oh yeah, he must of done. He must of heard people talking. I mean, all the kids, all the teachers – everyone read it. After the game, he was only away for about a week. He came into school on crutches. And during class and that, all the kids would be dropping hints. You know, going, nice post, sir, or, how was hospital, sir, or speaking in a Polish accent and repeating the stuff they’d read. He must of known. If it’d been me I would of asked one of the other teachers what everyone was going on about cos all the teachers knew, that’s for definite. Mr Grant, he even tried to stop them. Donovan and Gideon. This is what I heard from Tracey Beckeridge. Tracey said that Grant tried to ban them using the computer lab, which I suppose is where they were writing it and uploading it and that, but Donovan and Gideon went to TJ – Mr Jones – who went to Bickle – Mr Travis – and Bickle – Mr Travis, I mean – he said they – Donovan and Gideon – oughtn’t to be banned cos IT skills were fundamental to something-or-other and pupils shouldn’t be discouraged and anyway this school didn’t practise the censorship of expressions. Something like that. That’s what Tracey Beckeridge said anyway. I don’t know how she found out but Tracey always seems to find out everything and what she says turns out to be true probably half the time at least.

Do you know what Tracey also said? She said she felt sorry for him. Bum—I mean, Mr Szajkowski. Which I didn’t really think about till she said it but that’s part of the reason I didn’t like looking at the Bumlog later on. Cos you could kind of imagine what it would be like, being him. He’s a teacher and everything and probably it didn’t even bother him but it’s not nice, is it, when it happens to you? That’s probably why Tracey said it. Cos she’s a bit of a gossip and that, which sometimes gets her in trouble herself. You know, picked on. She’s got freckles. They’re not too bad, not like on some kids, like on ginger kids, but she’s definitely got them. And last year – this is what Gabby Blake told me – last year Tracey was getting picked on so much that for a week she told her mum she was going to school but really she went and sat all day by the ponds on the common. And she bought this mirror, like one of those mirrors girls use for make-up, and she bought a cigarette lighter and she sat on a bench and put the mirror on her lap and she used the lighter to try and burn her freckles off. That’s what Gabby Blake said. And I reckon it was true cos when Tracey came back to school she had like these raw bits all round her nose. She said she got them from being scratched by her uncle’s cocker spaniel but it didn’t really look like she’d been scratched. I mean, they looked more like blisters that’d been burst, which would make sense if she did what Gabby said she did, wouldn’t it? You can still see the marks even now. They’re kind of shiny. Sometimes, in a certain light, it makes her look like she’s been crying.

No, not that much really, not any more. I mean, I was for ages, for basically my whole first year, but now I only get picked on sometimes and virtually everyone gets picked on sometimes. It’s just how it is. Actually I’m lucky cos there’s this kid I know, Elliot his name is. He’s the year below, year seven. He has this massive birthmark on his face and also he’s ginger and also he hasn’t really got any friends so he gets picked on most of all. If I stay quiet no one really notices me any more. Also, I have five friends, which helps. Actually, four and a half. No, four. It’s actually four. Vince Robins broke my PSP so I’m not friends with him any more.

Four friends isn’t that many I suppose. You’ve probably got loads more than that. Most people have. My sister, she must have like a hundred friends. They’re always round our house. It’s annoying cos they take over the lounge and I haven’t got a telly in my room. It’s embarrassing too. They blow kisses and stuff. They put on this voice and they’re like Nick-eee, oh Nick-eee. I ignore them or I tell them to shut up. I go upstairs.

So my sister’s got hundreds of friends but I only have four. I don’t mind though. It’s better than how it was. And four is enough for me. When I think about it, four friends is quite a lot. I actually feel pretty lucky. I am pretty lucky, compared to some of the other kids.

Across from the school gates,a pack of journalists lazed in the heat. They could have positioned themselves anywhere but, as hunters with a common prey, they had gravitated together. Lucia recognised some of the faces. Most of the journalists no doubt recognised hers. She approached on the opposite side of the road but still, as she drew near, those who had been sitting got to their feet. Pencils were drawn, lens covers snapped off. Cigarettes were sucked, dropped and ground with rubber soles into the pavement.

‘Inspector!’ someone called. ‘Hey, Inspector!’

‘What’s the occasion, Inspector? Come on, darling, give us something!’

She would have liked to. In spite of the ‘darling’, she would have liked to. Yet she strode on. She had almost reached the gates when another voice called out to her.

‘Inspector! What’s going on, Inspector? The Samson boy. The shooting. Some coincidence, don’t you think?’

This time Lucia stopped. She stopped before she could think.

‘Come on, Inspector.’ The same voice again. ‘You can tell us. We can keep a secret.’

There was laughter but a flutter of excitement too. The gap between Lucia and the journalists was closing. One man – the man who had spoken, Lucia assumed – was halfway across the road; his Dictaphone was even closer. He spoke again. ‘Off the record? We don’t need to use your name.’ Like a movie cop surrendering his weapon, he lifted the Dictaphone above his shoulder and made a show of switching it off.

Lucia said nothing. She turned away. She ignored the pleas that sounded behind her, the single profanity too, and continued towards the gates.

The playground was empty but there were eyes, Lucia knew, at every window. As she crossed the playground she felt the building narrow its gaze. The sun was straining through the film of cloud that had settled over the city but as Lucia approached the entrance the day seemed suddenly less bright. Hot still, oppressive still, but gloomier too, though the building today gave no discernible shadow. Lucia climbed the steps. The glass on the doors cast her back at her. No one’s home, the building seemed to say. No one’s home who wants to talk to you. Lucia pulled one of the doors wide and stepped inside.

Immediately the sensation was dispelled. A group of students trotted across the entrance hall. All girls, they were hunched together and laughing. Either they did not see Lucia or they ignored her. From distant classrooms she heard children’s voices and teachers’ voices raised over them. She heard the bangs and scrapes of a school in session: chairs sliding, books dropping, doors slamming.

From the corridor a teacher emerged: Matilda Moore, the young chemistry teacher who had started at the school at the same time as Samuel Szajkowski. A staccato of heel-steps escorted her across the parquet floor. She smiled as she drew near. ‘It’s Detective Inspector May, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Can I help you, are you waiting for someone?’

‘I’m here to see the headmaster.’