Simon Lelic: A Thousand Cuts

She picked up the television remote control. She put it down again. She always checked the listings but there was never anything on that she felt the urge to watch. Someone had told her to get Sky, to get a Freeview box at least, and she had agreed that it would probably be worth it, which was as far as she had got.

She stood up and wandered to the window. She looked out at the common and she knelt with her chin on her hands on the sill and then she got up and poured herself some more wine. In the end she gathered her case notes from her desk and returned with them to the sofa. From the pile she plucked a transcript at random. It was an interview with one of the kids. Not one of hers. A DC had taken this one. She had read it before and though she did not remember it, she knew that it said nothing. Nothing. It spoke of pain and grief and shock and more pain but from her perspective, her professional perspective, that was nothing.

She picked up the remote control again and this time flicked on the television. She hit mute and stared at the images as she thought about Szajkowski and about the children and about the upturned chairs in the hall. Then she willed herself not to. She willed herself to think about something else. For a while nothing came to her, until she remembered what she had said to the DCI, about the weekend, about her plans, and she wondered whether he had believed her.

We didn’t get on.So what? It wasn’t a secret. It’s hardly a crime. Turns out I had him down pretty good, wouldn’t you say?

Physical education, since you ask. I have a degree in sport and leisure studies from the University of Loughborough. It’s the best course of its kind in the country. Tough to get on. Even tougher to complete. Hardest damn thing I’ve ever done and I used to compete. Triathlons, Ironman, marathons sometimes. My knees put me out. My knees and my ankle.

Physical education: it’s a science. When we were at school it meant a cross-country run in our underwear. A game of rugby for the boys, hockey for the girls. No discipline, no organisation and no specialisation. Our headmaster used to take us. He would chuck us out a football and sit refereeing from the window of his office. Refereeing. Hah. He used to read the paper. He would look up if he heard a holler but otherwise he left us to it. When you fouled someone you had to foul them quietly. You had to wind them so they couldn’t yell.

There’s something to be said for it. The Darwinian approach to sport. You know Darwin, right? But you wouldn’t get away with that now. Like I say, it’s a science these days. It’s become a science. We teach them sportsmanship and skills – transferable skills, we call them – and nutrition and stuff like that. Just last week we had an hour on callisthenics. I can never say that word. Callisthenics. Callisthenics.

People assume it must be easy. There’s a lot of prejudice that surrounds my job. Szajkowski, he’s a perfect example.

We have a week, before the start of term. The headmaster’s there and all the teachers are there and we have to do this training, attend these sessions. It’s bullshit most of it, a waste of time. But part of it is a social thing. You know, everyone getting reacquainted, meeting the newbies, that sort of thing.

Anyway. So there were two new teachers last term. One of them’s Matilda Moore, she teaches chemistry. Quiet girl but nice enough. Not much into sport but she’s not ignorant about it. She’s not arrogant. The other one of course is Sam Szajkowski. Sam ‘Call me Samuel’ Szajkowski.

So it’s the end of the day and we’re in the hall and the headmaster’s laid on a spread. You know, sandwiches with their crusts chopped off, mini sausage rolls, crisps. We’re drinking wine or fruit juice or whatever and everyone’s having a nice enough time. The headmaster’s standing here, Matilda’s over there, we’re all dotted about in groups. All a bit low key for my tastes, not particularly lively, but you just get on with it, don’t you?

So I see Szajkowski on his own and though the headmaster has introduced him to everyone, I haven’t said hello myself. So I do. He’s new here, I’m thinking. The guy’s on his own. I should make an effort to make him feel welcome.

Now I realise me and him aren’t exactly alike. He’s about half my size and pasty and he looks a bit like Woody Allen but with a scraggly black beard and without the glasses and not as old or into sex. Or maybe he was, who the fuck knows? But just because we’re not alike doesn’t mean we can’t get on. Like George. George Roth. He teaches RE and we’re about the least similar people you can imagine. I mean, I’ve never set foot in a church, let alone a mosque or a temple or a Jew hall, but we get on well enough, we get along. We talk about football and he tells me football is a type of religion and I don’t suppose he’s wrong. Which would make Pelé God, right? Or Matt Le Tissier, depending on where you’re from.

But Szajkowski: right away we’re on the wrong foot. I say hi and pleased to meet you. I tell him my name and tell him to call me TJ, because everyone else does, even the kids.

He says, hello TJ. I’m Samuel. Samuel Szajkowski.

Samuel, I say. So Sam, is it? I guess people call you Sam?

And he gives this little shake of his head and kind of smiles and says, no, they call me Samuel.

And his handshake. Did I mention his handshake? You can tell a lot about a man from his handshake. You can tell a lot about a woman too. Like you. You’ve got a firm shake, a strong grip. That tells me what. It tells me that you’re a woman in a man’s job and that you can’t afford to take any shit. You’ve got cold hands, though, did you know that? It’s roasting in here but you’ve got cold hands.

Szajkowski’s grip was as limp as his… I mean, it was a faggot’s handshake. That’s just an expression, by the way. It’s not derogatory. You know exactly what I mean, don’t you? It was like this. Here, hold out your hand. Just hold it out. So I’m Szajkowski and I do this.

You see what I mean?

So after that he’s kind of got my back up already but I don’t show it. I’m just thinking what I’m thinking about the bloke and I’m thinking, you never know I might be wrong. Turns out I wasn’t, didn’t it, but that’s another story.

So I stick with it, I say, okay, Samuel. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Samuel.

Jesus Christ though. I mean, who calls themselves Samuel when that’s their name? It takes so bloody long. Sam. I would have liked the guy a whole lot better if he’d just let me call him Sam.

I’m sorry but that kind of thing just pisses me off.

Where was I?

Right. So we’re chatting and it gets to the point where he asks me what I teach. And I just know right away that he’s gonna have some attitude about it when I tell him. I mean, with him you can tell just by looking at him that he’s never run a yard or kicked a ball or even taken his top off in the sun in the whole of his entire life. He’s what my old man would have called an intellectual, which is fine, it’s not a crime, but it seems to me that he’s also a foot and a half up his own arse.

So maybe I get a bit defensive. Not aggressive or anything but I’m thinking, what right has he got to feel superior? And I think, okay, let’s see. How about a little test? And rather than tell him, I decide to let him guess.

You tell me, I say.

Sorry, he says, acting all confused.

Go on, have a guess. What do you think I teach?

Oh. I see. Let’s see.

And I’m watching him and I’m smiling and he’s smiling and we both know that he knows but he’s afraid to say.

Well, if I had to guess…

Go on, I say. Just have a guess.