In Loco Parentis (16 page)

At last I feel the screw go in and hold my breath until it's tight.

A gush of relief releases itself from somewhere inside. I clench my fists and punch the air. I'm pathetic.

When the camera's in place, I take a look through the viewer. Press record to do a little test.

Carpenter's pacing and pulling at his hair. He throws his hands up then bashes at the keyboard. He must play the note ten times. “Flat.” He screams. “B flat.” He sings the line to make the point.

“It's this one here,” Carol says, pointing at Sheena. She looks over to me, her eyes pointing like weapons fixing on their target. “One more step out of line and you'll be staying at home tonight, young lady.”

Sheena reddens. Looks like she's about to cry.

I redden too. Reckon Carol knows something about Sheena's mum and me. That or she knows Sheena's one of my faves.

“Again,” Carpenter shouts. “B flat. Sit up straight. Head voice.”

The tune begins and the air fills with some of the most beautiful singing I've ever heard.

B flat

Half past eleven and they're still bashing it out. If we don't leave soon, life will be on hold again and my much-practised speech for Emma will have to wait.

The swing band play Glenn Miller's ‘In The Mood'. It might lack some of the smoothness it needs, but it's amazingly good for a group of kids as young as 8.

I look at Carpenter, one hand on the keys, the other waving musicians in. He's a wanker, that's for sure, but he's a talented wanker.

Something goes badly wrong with the clarinets. They don't come in, then look at each other trying to pass the blame without using words.

“Sort them out,” Carol, Carpenter says.

She stomps over. I wonder how anyone with an arse that big could even consider putting on a pair of jeans. Maybe it stops the wobbles.

Towering over the wind section, she looks down and scowls.

It's time for the quiet voice, so I don't hear what she says. Carol's quiet voices come as the final chance, puts the fear of God into the hearts of children and adults alike. I don't hear what she says, but it's a threat, no doubt about it.

The kids with the clarinets drop their heads. Looks like Adam is fighting back tears as he sucks on the mouthpiece.

Carol nods over to her man and he nods back.

Counts them in and off they go again.

I'd say it's nigh on perfect.

I feel prickles on my skin as the children pull it off.

The time's a quarter-to. Still an outside chance I can meet up with Emma. Do the damage.

All eyes are on Carpenter as he sucks in his cheeks, his lips puckering while his thoughts ferment.

He turns round, doesn't speak to anyone and walks over to Carol. He gets close, puts a hand on his hip and drops his other at the wrist – it's the artist in him everyone says. He keeps his voice down and wanders off and leaves through the back door.

It's how I know we're done.

Carol gives her speech, the one about saving their voices through the afternoon, goes and puts her arms round her favourites as they group around her and I rush out to Alistair's car hoping the lunch hour traffic will treat me kindly.

storm

The sky's black. Black like the canvas of an angry child.

The rumbles of thunder were growling when I left the school. Reckon they all think I'm mad, leaving on a day like this, without so much as an umbrella.

Can't say I wasn't warned.

Soon as I get to Downshire Hill, the skies open.

I've had drier showers. And warmer ones.

Rain bounces off the pavements and the road. A car heading my way, wipers dancing like crazy, pulls up at the curb.

There's percussion in the noise the drops make, like a whole class lesson with maracas.

Water pours down my neck and gets through into my boots.

It seeps through my coat, my jumper and shirt and under my skin.

I try to look casual, hands in pockets, ambling as if it's a summer's day.

Entering the pub, I stand on the mat, wipe my feet and let the drips fall before going to our table.

“Hello there drowned rat.” It's a lady's voice, something familiar about it. Not one I can place, though.

It's the uniform I see first, PC Thin leaning on the bar. Next to him, Moira Scott, hair flat to her face exaggerating the plumpness of her cheeks.

I manage a smile. Though my heart's stopped, I manage to respond. “Detective Scott. Fancy seeing you here.” The way the words sound it doesn't feel right. Like I have something to hide.

“Nice weather for ducks, eh?” Thin says, emptying his pint glass.

Moira notices I'm watching him drink. “Lager shandy, don't worry yourself.” She holds up her own glass. “And orange juice for the brains of the outfit. Want one?”

I should, I think. Keep things smooth and all that.

Before I have time to answer, the door bursts open. Catches me on the shoulder, hard. I turn round ready to give a mouthful and see Emma. She stretches onto her toes and gives a full-blooded smacker on the lips.

Drips are running down her face even though I know she's only had to run in from her car. “Hi,” she says. Her smile is wide, her eyes look playful.

“Aye, aye,” Moira says. “I didn't see that on the lunch menu, did you Thin?”

Thin just grins.

Emma ignores them. “Sparkling water with ice.” She passes me her bag, walks over to stairs down to the toilets and disappears.

Moira and Thin let their eyes follow her all the way. When they look at each other they raise their eyebrows. “You ever find out anything that might help the case?” Moira asks.

“I was going to call.”

“So why didn't you?”

“The boy's only just back at school. ”

“We don't have much to go on.” Surely she shouldn't be telling me that. “Might have helped if that tosser from the telly hadn't tried to milk the attack. Reckon he was enjoying playing hero.”

It seems like it's about time I left the mat. I go over to the bar and the girl behind it stops pretending to read her magazine and looks at me.

“Sparkling water and a Coke, please.”

“We'll be going, now, Joe isn't it?” Must have made impression. Just for now I'm not convinced it was a good one. “Make sure you give us a call this time.” From downstairs the humming of a blow-dryer.

Moira presses a card into my hand. Looks me down and up as she gathers up her things. “Enjoy your lunch.” I have no appetite. “I would. She's bloody gorgeous.”

She claws the air and growls as she wanders over to a table by the window, Thin following close behind.

so very hard to do

I usually like it when Emma's excited. She's like a blood transfusion when she's happy, full of nutrients and tonic. This time I want her to stop, to find the switch that will turn her off.

“So he wasn't happy. Course he wasn't. But he's a grown man. Christ he's over 40. And he's been more interested in the football than me for years.” She sips at her water. There's no pause. “He'll get access to the kids and everything. He'll see more of them than ever before and it means it'll be just you and me at the weekends.”

My body shivers. I feel hot. I'm sure my face is expanding as she speaks. “Did he say anything about me?”

She takes a longer sip this time. I reckon it's a pause for thought. An internal search for the spin that will keep me cool.

“He's not your biggest fan,” which tells me nothing. “You look worried. Don't be. He's not going to come after you or anything, if that's what you're thinking.”

It's exactly what I'm thinking.

There's an ache in my kidneys and my whole body feels chilled. My brain starts crunching through the gears. My turn to find a spin that will work. First thing is I need to change the subject.

“That thing yesterday. With the lipstick and the flowers. It was cute.”

Breaking all her habits when we're on show, she sits in close and rests her head on my shoulder. She giggles, bites me neck ever so gently and thanks me.

“Are you not curious?” she asks.

“I'm always curious.”

She sits up again. “The surprise.”

She pulls the jumper over her head. Looks around to make sure the barmaid's not looking and unbuttons her blouse. I know I'm supposed to be dumping the girl, but it turns me on, even so.

She hums the stripper tune as she proceeds. ‘Da da da....' and in a sudden flurry pulls her blouse apart.

There, on the side of her perfectly formed breast, its bright reds and greens practically jumping from her pale skin, is the tattoo of a rose.

“Wow,” is all I manage.

“Like it?”

“Love it.” I move my lips down to kiss her art. To hide my face.

“Steady on. I only had it done yesterday. You can play all you like next week.”

“A tattoo.” It's clearly a ridiculous thing to say.

“For you.”

“For me?”

She nods her head.

Jeepers.

“So you better pack some things for the weekend.” I'm not sure I understand. Move my face in such a way that I hope she sees that. “He's moving out Saturday.”

“That's a shame.”

“What?”

“I need to go to Preston again.” It was the first thing I could think of.

“You've only just been.”

“Family business.”

Her teeth stick out a little as she looks bemused.

I reach over and hold her hand. She snatches it away and starts buttoning up.

“Don't tell me.” Now she's looking angry. “You met someone else at your cousin's wedding.”

The slap she gives me is totally unexpected. Gets me right on the cheek and the snap echoes round the room. Doesn't hurt, though, just embarrasses me even though Thin and Scott are out of view.

Seize the day, I think. Just tell her. It can't get any worse, surely.

“Course I didn't,” comes out of my mouth.

She calms a little. “So who gave you the ring?”

It's my turn to laugh, as if I'm off the hook. “I got it yesterday. Camden market.” My relief must be obvious. How good it feels to be telling some truth.

“Really?” she asks.

“Promise,” I say.

And she kisses me again, sliding her arm between my legs and giving me a stroke.

––––––––

post-meridian

T
he whole afternoon I've been useless.

Choosing is what we're doing. Playing and mucking around. Even the kids are bored, poor things.

I can't sit still. The tensions eating away at my insides like cancer. Anyone comes in and asks what I'm up to I'll be in the shit, that's for sure.

Pacing's best. Over to the home-corner and then to the sand, the biggest diagonal in the room.

Life's looming heavy on me, like a cloud following me around wherever I go. Wouldn't matter if the cloud was raining, either. My clothes are soaked, half of them hanging on the radiator, the enormous white cast iron thing that gives out about as much heat as a hamster running in a wheel.

I touch my brow. It's hot and clammy. I'm definitely coming down with something.

“Can we have some more red?” Bonnie's there, holding out her empty paint pot like something from Oliver Twist.

It snaps me out of my self-concern for a moment. I put my hand on her shoulder. Put out a weak smile. Get the bottle of paint from the shelf and squeeze red into the pot. The act helps.

Then I return to my thoughts.

How the hell can I finish with a woman who's had a tattoo for me and has the house up for sale? It's like a bed of nails - I made it and have to lie on it.

Can't see how I can finish with Jenny either. I don't even want to. Getting rid of her would be like cutting off an arm. No, two. And a leg. Which means running away is out of the question.

I start to pace again.

Soon as I turn I hear the door open.

“Right children,” I shout, “We need to tidy up our work so I can read our story.”

Alistair paces into the room like he owns the place. I guess to all intents and purposes, he does.

He goes straight over to Don who has black paint over both his hands and all around his nose. I imagine the question he's preparing to unleash – ‘so what have you learned in school this afternoon?'

I'm over in a flash, practically knocking Marie over as she scrunches up paper for the bin.

“Alistair,” I blurt, “Can I have a word about this evening.”

He stands up.

Mission accomplished.

“The video camera.”

He nods.

“What's the best way of cleaning the lens?”

It's a stroke of genius.

Alistair has several methods which he explains in great detail, me nodding at ever pause and every gesture with the hands to show exactly how interested I am.

––––––––

crying in the chapel

T
he orchestra is raising the roof with their version of the Dambusters theme. I close my eyes and it's like I've gone back to the war, bouncing bombs off water.

If the baby hadn't started crying, I might have fallen asleep.

Even with the symbols crashing, the kid wails like an air-raid siren.

To me it just blends in with the music, but Carpenter clearly feels differently. He tries turning round and smiling, then staring and in the end cuts the music to a halt. He walks over to the audience, cheeks bright red. Stands there pouting for a moment and begins to speak. “Ladies and gentlemen.” He sounds more well-to-do than ever. “I'd like to thank you for coming along. As you know, the children have worked extremely hard to prepare for tonight.” His hands move limply at the end of his arms. “So if you have any children who can't settle, please consider taking them outside.”

Challenging parents to take their babies into the snow doesn't seem like a good idea to me. Doesn't seem like a good idea to one member of the audience either.