My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (18 page)

Paul would often be seen in a black beanie hat, with his hands firmly shoved into his pockets, reeling off accounts from days of old when he was a mountaineer and how frostbite affected his hands and fingers considerably. He was a well-travelled, handsome man who had retired twice already. He was a true lover of work and his workmates.

Patricia entered the hall, looking taller, more upright, and she stepped up to Paul as Michael made his way to Abdul.

"Hello, miss," said Paul.

"Yes, I'm fine. Busy. Very busy." Patricia looked across the hall to fix on Michael and Abdul. "What's going on there with Abdul? Anything I should know about?"

"Nope," Paul frowned.

There was an air of some sort with Patricia. Perhaps it had always been there, but she held herself differently and looked at people differently, too.

"How was Abdul in class?" she asked.

"Okay. Talking about the Taliban a little. People joining it, I think, and a bit about wrestling," Paul said, recounting the lesson before.

"Really? Well, that's concerning." Patricia scrunched up her face.

"Not really," shrugged Paul, seeing Patricia turn and exit the hall. He turned his attention to the pupils playing Black Jack.

"Join in this game, sir," said Sinatra, pulling out a chair for Paul to sit next to him. Paul sat down with them.

Michael crouched next to Abdul in the far corner of the hall. He noticed Abdul's eyes were glassy and tearful.

"Are you okay, Abdul?"

"People think I am a rich man. The miss who interviewed me, she said two times to me that she think I am rich."

"When?" Michael frowned.

"I fly here by plane and she and other people think I am rich. I did come here by plane, but I had to walk to Iran to get to the plane. From Afghanistan to Iran, I walk. With a hundred people. All strangers to me, with bullets and guns and Taliban around me. I had to say goodbye to my mother and my Baba. I miss, you know miss? I miss my mum and dad." Abdul released a tear and immediately wiped it away. "Myself I hurt."

Michael placed a comforting hand upon Abdul's shoulder.

"You're safe now. You're safe here," Michael stated.

"Thank you."

"I mean it. I'm here to help you. All of us."

Abdul managed a smile and nodded his head. He stood and stretched, arched his back and made his way to the table where the pupils were playing Black Jack.

Sinatra glanced up to see Abdul sit down and looked back further to see Michael had followed him.

"I wouldn't trust him, man. Guy's a snake. I swear down that guy's a fucking Fed snake."

"Now, now, language, sir," Paul cautioned, eyeing his cards.

It was later that day, in Patricia's office with the door closed. PC Norman Clarke sat down with her. They sipped tea together.

He was leaning on the corner of the desk with his side practically becoming one with it.

She leaned one elbow on the desk, exposing tremendous cleavage from her enormous bosom. She crossed her legs and revealed a stocking-clad thigh. Being in Norman's company aroused her. It was no doubt the uniform as Norman had little power in his role to turn anybody on.

"Mm, good tea," observed PC Norman.

"Mm, you're not wrong." Patricia gently blew her hot beverage.

"So what's new today?" PC Norman's voice was ever so camp. It sounded similar to the cartoon character Henry's Cat, voiced and created by Bob Godfrey. Actually, it was somewhat unfair to the genius of Bob Godfrey as that would suggest Henry's Cat was boring. It was, by no means, boring, however, there was more than a mere hint of a whining nature when Henry's Cat, narrated by Godfrey, said "Ohhh." That was how PC Norman sounded. He had a monotonous, droning whine of a voice.

"Well, you know the Afghan boy?" asked Patricia.

"What's his name? Shaheen?" Norman sipped his tea.

"No, he's Iranian. He'll be moving on soon, but the Afghan lad is Abdul Rah-Maan."

"Oh. Yes. Go on, I know. I think I saw him outside when I was coming in. He pushed another boy. Might have been playing."

"No, probably not playing. Not when you hear this. He was in a classroom and talking about joining the Taliban and how he liked fighting," announced Patricia.

"Was he? Was he? Well, that's alarming."

"Isn't it?" Patricia agreed.

They sipped their tea.

Michael helped Paul unplug the laptops from the wall in his classroom, and together they placed them inside a lockable cupboard.

"Another day gone," Paul remarked, squatting to insert another computer on a shelf in the portable storage unit.

"Indeed. Odd one, as usual." Michael reached up to a plug socket and flicked the off switch.

"Don't bother unplugging it, we'll leave the leads in."

"Really? What's the point in the charging unit?" Michael asked.

"They don't bother elsewhere and well, why make it more difficult for ourselves?" Paul said as Catherine and Patricia entered and sat down.

"Shall we meet in here then?" asked Catherine. Her chin jutted out and her head nodded, in her usual wobbling fashion.

"I guess so," chuckled Paul.

"Who have you got there, Pat?" asked Catherine, who fixed on a green card file in Patricia's hand.

"Billy Ray."

"Cyrus?" chirped Paul.

"No." Patricia became incredibly serious.

"Okay," Paul shrugged and exchanged a look with Michael as they sat down. "It's nearly that time, sir," Paul continued, slouching in the comfortable chair. He rested his eyes and he placed his hands upon his belly.

"I'm whacked," said Michael.

When it got to around the two-thirty mark during the day, Paul and Michael were truly exhausted. It wasn't to say that the other staff members never felt the same, but the two thoroughly expressed it.

The days took their toll when dealing with the draining issues of the vulnerable, day in and day out.

"Before I get talking about this new referral, I'd like to discuss the Abdul issue," began Patricia.

"What Abdul issue?" asked Paul.

"Abdul said in a class today that he wanted to join the Taliban and how much he likes fighting," continued Patricia.

"Er, not really. Somewhat of a false truth," Michael sighed.

"I don't believe it is," snapped Patricia.

"How do you mean, Pat?" Catherine was confused.

"Abdul is dangerous and so I took it elsewhere," stated Patricia, with Michael and Paul frowning.

"Could you explain what happened? I'm feeling a little left out here," said Catherine.

"Nothing bloody happened!" Paul cried out.

"Oh, so an Afghan man saying he wants to join the Taliban is nothing happening, is it? Okay, okay, I'm wrong, forgive me, I'm wrong," blurted Patricia, causing more frowning and exchanging of looks between the other staff members.

"Nobody said they wanted to join the Taliban," Michael pointed out.

"You've taken it the wrong way, Pat," said Paul.

"Why didn't anyone tell me?" asked Catherine.

"Because there is nothing to tell!" Paul was flustered.

"Yes, yes there is!" Patricia was becoming angered and highly stressed by the situation.

"Patricia, I don't understand. Why are you doing this? We've never reported anything like this before," said Michael.

"Well, we've never had anyone like Norman before. He impresses me," she said, utterly content with her reply and folding her arms.

"So, what is Norman intending to do, because trust me, I know how this kind of thing pans out. Norman takes this false information to his superiors," Michael said, passionately.

Patricia interrupted, "It isn't false information!"

"It is false information. Once again: Norman takes the false information to his superiors, who will subsequently take it to a higher level. What next? The boy's house is checked, the people who made the initial nonsense into a concern are checked, and then what? The boy is questioned. We're questioned. The police leak the damn thing to the press in order to keep terror and fear in the public eye and an ever-present, constant threat in people's minds. Bloody hell, Pat, what have you done? It's not an episode of 24 you know!" Michael exclaimed, surprising Paul and Catherine, who were with him on that.

"Well, excuse me for raising the issue of a possible terrorist threat!" Patricia flung her arms into the air and stood up. She headed for the door and left the room.

Paul, Catherine and Michael looked at one another in disbelief.

"What the bloody hell has she done?" groaned Paul.

"She's nuts, I knew it. She's all about status and this relationship is a wrong one. That poor, poor boy." Michael rolled his tongue around inside his mouth, filling out his cheeks and gums, thinking.

"I don't know what to say. I have to bring this matter up at the Senior Leadership Team meeting this evening," said Catherine.

"Helen needs to know about this," added Paul.

"I'll deal with it." Catherine stood, jutting her chin out and nodding.

At the police station near to the school, Police Constable Norman Clarke was in his inspector's office, with the latter nodding his head and filling in a form of some kind.

"So I believe this issue to be a very credible threat, sir," said PC Norman.

"And you trust the information coming from the source?" asked the inspector.

"Yes. She's a very reliable and highly professional member of the teaching team," Norman replied.

"I'll fax this document to Special Branch and then it's down to them to carry out the investigation. When I receive a reply, I'll let you know."

"What could the reply be, sir?" asked Norman.

"Various details. Probably a date for them to visit the school and speak with those concerned," the inspector told him.

He took the document to a fax machine.

"Understood, sir."

"Is there anything else, Norman?"

"No, sir. That's all."

"Yes it is. Thank you." The inspector turned his back on Norman as he toyed with the fax machine on a filing cabinet, simultaneously stirring a cup of tea.

Norman tilted his head and got up from the chair. He walked the three steps to the door and grasped the door handle, turning back to the inspector.

"Cheerio," said the inspector, pressing the green 'send' button on the fax machine.

Norman fixed his eyes on the document as it slid into place and reeled down into the rollers. He opened the door and stepped out of the office, closing the door as he left.

"Bloody idiot," sighed the inspector, sipping his tea and returning to his chair.

Rebecca and Michael sat at their small dining table. They clinked their wine glasses, toasting one another.

"Cheers, my love." Michael leaned over and kissed his girlfriend on the lips. Together they took a sip of their French Bordeaux.

"Mm, that's a good one," Rebecca said, tucking into her fajitas, which Michael had prepared before she came home. "Thanks for cooking, Mikey."

"That's okay, my beauty. You cook nearly every day."

Rebecca told him about her new job. She had been there two months now. It was a far cry from the daily tears she'd endured at the recruitment firm where she was previously with the Botox-obsessed, coked-up boss.

Rebecca was now well away from that line of work and was working for an extremely successful corporate benefits company. A young, mixed team now surrounded Rebecca. Their boss regularly praised them for their hard-working and loyal approach to the business.

Michael could not get his head round what exactly the business was. All he knew and cared about was that Rebecca was now happy in her job and was no longer coming home stressed or calling him on the phone in floods of tears. He had once been equally as happy in his own workplace, until an all-round, combined foolishness of a select few people took centre stage.

"Are you okay?" Rebecca asked, looking closely at Michael's face as she gently pressed her fingertips against his frowning forehead.

"Huh? Uh, yes, no. No, not really, babe," he answered.

"What's up?"

"Just work." He sipped his wine.

"You can tell me, you know. I know the types of children you deal with each day. I know you hide the strain of it sometimes," Rebecca said, moving her hand to stroke his cheek.

"The place, it's just suddenly turned into some sort of castle of unhappiness. I can't believe what has happened. This new Afghan boy we have, Abdul, he's nice and polite and says please and thank you and is just genuinely respectful. This stereotypical chav boy, Lee, was winding him up, poking fun at him, saying 'Do you know the Taliban?' and 'Do you wanna join them?', with Abdul saying 'Taliban, I join, no. Bad.' Patricia got wind of it and goes off on one, as all her mind takes in is 'I join the Taliban.' She then tells her new boyfriend, PC Goon. It's just mental. She's undermined everyone."