Retard (5 page)

The bath steadily filled to capacity, the surface of the writhing dark mass threatening to spill over…and the movement ceased.

Wesley also stopped, worried that the show might be over.

The swirling shapes on the walls hung motionless as the spots of toothpaste on the mirror. Even the bugs in the bath sat waiting with barely a tic.

One single insect had the nerve to continue the game and scuttled up Wesley’s arm. He opened his palm, and the bug stepped to the centre of its fleshy stage. The boy brought it before his nose, staring at the minute form.

Tiny wings sprouted from the back of the insect, and in a flash, it flew upwards.

In a burst of movement that blew back Wesley’s hair, the corpus in the tub took to the air, buzzing about him in a whirlwind of tickling kisses.

Wesley beamed and span, his arms thrashing. He lost his balance and bumped into the wall. In a hysterical fit of laughter, he pounded the thin bathroom wall with both fists before continuing his dance.

“What are you doing?”

Wesley gasped and turned to the now open door, locking eyes with his mother.

“That smell… What have you been…” She stepped closer to the sink, mouth hanging open from the state of the bathroom. Sinking to her knees, she picked up a bottle of shampoo and flung it into the empty bath. The conditioner and tube of toothpaste quickly followed. “Wasted…wasted… What the fuck did you do this for?”

She grabbed the black glass bottle, previously filed with perfume, and thrust it into his face.

“Do you know how much this
cost
? Do you? You don’t give a
shit
.”

Wesley cowered back against the bath, eying the open door, knowing he had nowhere to go anyway.

His mother stood, looking at the carnage around the room. The mirror still dripped. Wesley’s dance had kicked up the puddles on the floor.

“Enough of this bullshit,” said his mother and struck.

Her open hand slap hit him hard at the side of the head, knocking him to the side and numbing his ear. The onslaught continued with two more blows, each with a wider swing than the last, forcing him to the wet floor.

Wesley clutched his head and rolled onto his side, crying.

“I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you,” screeched his mum, gripping his arm tight near the shoulder and yanking him to his feet. “Do you think we can afford this?”

She marched him from the ruined bathroom.

Wesley whimpered, walking on his toes to try and ease the pressure on his shoulder.

They reached his bedroom door, and with a hard shove his mother sent him tumbling inside. Wesley’s feet fell out from under him. He collapsed onto a pile of toys, metal cars poking into his back.

His mother paced back and forth in the doorway, suddenly out of breath. Unblinking and muttering, she looked to be talking to someone Wesley couldn’t see through his blurry streaks of tears.

“I’m so angry right now,” she growled. “So fucking furious! I can’t… Just…” A bitter grin flashed across her face, and without another word, she stepped back, slamming the door closed and leaving Wesley alone, sobbing on the toy-covered floor of his bedroom.

He dreaded her reaction when she found the other secret potion he’d made in the kitchen last week.

6.

As dawn broke over the sparkling, frost-covered streets, Christine lay in a hot bath, listening to the world slowly coming to life around the house. A milk float cruised down the street with an electric whir and clink of bottles. The morning chorus grew louder with additional birds joining the song, despite the slim pickings out in the cold.

The coming day had needed a brave face and a good hair wash, but due to Wesley’s crap the night before, Christine had settled for a rinse and a thorough scrub of her body with soap, something her son had left out of his mess.

It had taken an hour to clean the bathroom; draining the foamy sludge from the sink and using a towel to dry the floor, walls and mirror. She’d used the last of her pay to buy that stupid robot toy for the Birthday brat. How was she supposed to replace all this? The perfume had been a luxury and could wait, not like she went anywhere that required it. With no shampoo and conditioner, she’d have greasy hair for the remainder of the week, and just hope a daily bath would suffice…yet that would add to the gas bill. At least Wesley had given up on the hairspray, leaving half a can.

She thought about his mess while sitting in the school reception. The old woman behind the desk, who appeared to be doing nothing more than shuffling papers and playing with the phone cord, would occasionally glance at Christine over the spectacles perched at the tip of her thin nose.

That’s right, she thought. I’m Wesley’s mum. You all know Wesley.

“Mrs. Stephenson?” said a polite voice from the doorway.

“Miss,” said Christine, trying to return the welcoming smile. She stood and shook hands with the short, young woman.

“I’m sure you remember me, but I’m Miss. Griffith. Amber. Wesley’s teacher. Thank you for making the time to come and see me today.”

“No problem,” said Christine. “Anything for Wesley.”

“I have a relief covering, but I see from the register he isn’t in class today?”

“He’s sick,” said Christine. “Cold weather finally caught up with him. My friend Sally is watching him.”

She’s younger than me, thought Christine with sour realisation. When I was at school all the teachers were old and strict…like the glaring dinosaur behind the desk there.

Amber wore a tight black sweater that showed her small tits that pointed the right way, and beneath that a flowing violet skirt that reached her shiny leather boots. Her long, dark hair was tied with a simple band containing a clutch of bright feathers.

She looks barely out of high school herself. No wonder these kids are out of control. They need discipline in the classroom, not smiling hippies.

“I’ve booked us an office for a quick chat, if you’d like to follow me?”

Christine allowed the teacher to lead her down a short corridor, past a staff room that leaked the smells of coffee and cigarettes into the hall, and through a door at the end. The room held a simple round table with four padded chairs, a few filing cabinets and multiple colourful posters, discussing bullying to dyslexia, good diet to head lice.

“Please,” said Amber, gesturing to one of the seats.

Christine sat, clutching her handbag in her lap.

Since the phone call from the school requesting she attend this parent-teacher talk, she’d been dreading it, desperate for an excuse to postpone. The school would never let it go, she’d learned from experience, and sometimes it was better to get it over and done with. Considering the holidays were at their doorstep, at least they had time away from the class room to deal with…this.

She’d discussed her son at length with his teacher from last year. He’d been disruptive but nothing overly concerning. His old teacher, a plump woman with as many white hairs as kids that had passed through her care, thought he might have been bored.

Bored? If this one tells me he’s bored I’ll recommend giving him some perfume and razorblades to play with.

Amber opened one of the filing cabinets, flicked through the cardboard folders and deftly plucked one free.

“What’s this?” asked Christine. “Pictures he drew of mutilated bodies?” She chuckled.

Amber glanced at her. “Hardly, Miss. Stephenson. These are Wesley’s academic records, in particular, the recent runs of tests the class are required to undertake at this age.” She sat opposite and opened the file, leafing through the papers. “We had an education plan still in place for Wesley from last year but these results suggest this is no longer needed. He’s really turned things around.”

Christine released a long breath.

Is this it? They’ve called me to tell how well Wesley’s doing?

She allowed herself a genuine smile. “That’s great news.”

“He’s a smart kid,” said Amber. “Scores in the mid-seventies range for both reading and mathematics. He might not be top of the class but he’s certainly well above average. It’s more his…social attributes I’d like to discuss.”

Christine’s smile deflated. Why can’t they ever get the silver lining without the cloud?

“He’s a shy boy, yes,” said Christine. “He has no brothers or sisters at home. Spends most of his time playing on his own. I can imagine how he can be a little behind with his…” She searched for the word. “Interactions?”

“Wesley…how can I put this…” Amber toyed with the corner of the paper stack. “Wesley refuses to interact at all. I encourage him to participate in group work, and he sits almost motionless, refusing any kind of contribution. In the playground he prefers to spend his free time alone, and on a few occasions the duty teacher has needed to search for him once class resumed.”

“He…” Christine bit her bottom lip, carefully picking out her words. So far the teacher hadn’t said anything
truly
negative. Wesley refused to interact because he’d been outcast. No one wants to play with the poor retarded kid. “He has a fantastic imagination. Wesley’s a daydreamer, that’s all.”

Amber nodded. “I have to agree with you there. He has quite the fixation with The Fabled Four, doesn’t he? No matter what activity I give the class, he always finds a way to bend things back around to the cartoon. The toy he’s getting for Christmas, what is it now? Globin the Wizard? All he talks about. You’re going to have a very happy boy Christmas morning.”

Christine’s guts tightened and curled like a slug coated in salt. She cleared her throat. “Yes. He’s really excited about it.”

They shared an awkward silence.

Christine peered past the teacher out of the window. A small girl with pigtails and huge glasses on her freckled nose wandered past clutching what might be a register, doing jobs for teacher. If only Wesley would do that kind of thing, Christine thought. Play the game a little. That’s what it’s all about. It doesn’t matter how you behave in class or what your test results are, it’s your position in the game that counts. It wasn’t too late for him. Her own piece had been removed from the board, only able to watch from the side as everybody else made their moves, negotiating and conquering.

“I wouldn’t have asked you to come all the way here, especially with Wesley being sick, over a little day dreaming,” said Amber. It appeared the primary school teacher had done tiptoeing around the issue and had finally found some mettle. “I believe Wesley attended David’s Birthday party last Saturday. Did that go okay?”

“I suppose,” said Christine with a shrug. “You know kids’ parties. All pretty much the same.”

“Okay…” Amber shuffled the papers and slowly began to replace them in the file. “I guess no one mentioned an incident last week involving Kelsey Bremner, another child in the class?”

Christine stared at her blankly. “No.”

“Okay…”

She says that a lot, thought Christine. Look how nervous she is.

What the hell is going on?

Amber crossed her arms and leaned forwards. “During dinnertime last week, I think it was Thursday, the bell had sounded for afternoon classes. As I mentioned earlier, it’s not out of the ordinary for Wesley to go for a wander and not come in right on time. The duty teacher went to look for him. We know his, how can I put this, regular haunts by now. Sometimes he likes to hide in the large bush at the front of the school. I don’t know why we haven’t removed it by now. The number of kids that are scratched by the thorns… Anyway, Wesley calls it his forest and braves the thorns to crawl inside. Thankfully he always comes straight out when we find him.”

“So the problem is he crawled into a bush?”

Amber sighed and glanced out of the window herself, perhaps looking for an excuse to leave herself.

“When the teacher found him, Wesley… There’s no easy way to say this, Miss. Stephenson. He’d…taken Kelsey inside with him. He had the girl lying on her back in the dirt, his hand was inside her underwear.”

The teacher’s body sagged, the burden lifted.

Christine blinked.

“Kelsey’s parents haven’t returned her to school. With the Christmas break coming up, and Wesley being ill, I imagine them both returning in the new year, which gives us time to put a plan into place. I don’t think this is a straight forward disciplinary matter—”

“Disciplinary?” Christine spat. “Why should this be a disciplinary matter?”

Amber’s eyes grew wide. “This is a very serious incident.”

“Yes, it is. I see Wesley has been handed the shit-covered end of the stick again.”

“Excuse me, but—”

“What was the girl’s part in this? You think that Wesley just, what, picked up the girl over his shoulder and carried her inside like a rampaging Viking? Look at the size of him! Most of the girls have more muscle. But no, it was all Wesley. Again. I hope the girl is receiving the same kind of treatment, and another thing, if you know that Wesley likes to wander off, why do you let him? Why isn’t he watched?”

The teacher refused to meet her eyes and had returned to the rearrangement of paperwork. She might be a young go-getter, another piece moving up the board, but she was still just a child herself. “We have large classes and two members of staff to supervise at dinnertimes…”

“While the rest of you sit in here, talking mortgages and interest rates and holidays no doubt while kids are left to their own devices.” Christine slung her handbag strap over her shoulder. “Don’t
you dare
try and make out my son is some kind of sex pest. This place has been against him since he started. I’ll be finding a new school come next term.”

Amber shot to her feet, arms out. “Please, if you just calm down.”

Christine poised, ready to strike if the teacher had the nerve to touch her.

“This isn’t the best for Wesley. We need to talk about this. I’m
not
saying he’s a sexual threat, what I am saying is that Wesley has very special social needs we have to discuss.”

Christine stepped towards the door. If she didn’t grab a cigarette soon she’d punch the teacher anyway.