“Oh.” No cows then. Emma hated the bloody cows.
“Come on!” Olsen urged, stepping aside to let me past. His hand pushing me through the door.
Okay. Calm down.
We walked across the courtyard, and yes, there was shouting, and the assembled schoolboys were…quite a herd in themselves. Not a cow in sight. Just Emma and Jones and…a car that looked far too familiar.
And a certain…Mr Thomas Swain, holding a stupid bunch of petrol station flowers. Still in the bloody cellophane. I was surprised he hadn’t chosen a bunch with a big yellow reduced sticker on because that was his style.
For all that was good and almighty.
I sighed. And there was nothing else. No anger. No fear. No anything, because I was Fox Riley, and this was my school. And I lived here, and these were my boys and this was my…
Mine. This was all mine, and he had no right to even breathe the same air as the rest of us up here.
“Thomas,” I said sternly.
“Fox, sweetheart, this man is refusing to let me in. I need to park up inside, the verge is not large enough…”
Sweetheart? What the all-compassing…fuck?
This was me, and these were my boys, and I, for one, was nobody’s sweetheart. I was a teacher. I was the fucking headteacher.
Don’t lose your cool. All the boys are watching, and you need to handle this. Show authority.
I was breathing, but I was also… Damn. A year ago? I would have found this slightly romantic. I would have been a little pleased. Charmed by his efforts. And I realised my life was so incredibly different now and that…this was just a joke. A massive idiotic joke, and I wasn’t talking about myself.
I was Fox Riley. I was better than this. My life was better than…cheap petrol station flowers? What was he doing here anyway? And was he expecting me to go along with this…farce?
“Get back in that car and leave,” I said sternly. “There is nothing for you here. This is private property, and we have children on the premises. Leave.”
“You heard him!” someone shouted.
“Oh fuck off, Riley,” Thomas snarled. “You know this is what you want.”
“Control your language, Mr Swain. Don’t you talk to him like that.” Emma. Taking a step forward. The gate sternly in her grip. Jones on the other side, and I knew full well Thomas Swain wasn’t getting anywhere near me. Over my dead body. I took a step forward as someone stepped in front of me, holding his arm out.
“Get away from him!” Bailey Butcher, screeching at the top of his voice.
“Yeah, you need to leave.” Ortega. Senior. Built like a brick house. Arms crossed.
“Mr Riley is in charge here, mate.” Thurrock. Taking a step forward too. Arms out.
And I stood there, wondering why I always thought I was so inadequate. Here I was, and I had all these people who actually…cared. And I’d spent my savings on a holiday with people who didn’t, and I wondered what I’d been thinking. I stood there, and I laughed out loud because I couldn’t believe what I’d done to myself. Why I’d thought it had been a good idea.
“Do you want me to call the police, sir?” Armstrong, hanging on to my arm. Oh God. What was I doing to these boys? What kind of trauma wasI inflicting here? And what kind of goddamn role model was I? Seriously, Fox?
“Leave, Mr Swain. You’re not wanted here,” I repeated as Thomas fumbled with the goddamn flowers.
“Yeah, take your cheap flowers and find someone who cares,” someone shouted from behind me.
“Don’t mess with my dad.” Bailey. Oh fucking hell, kid. I put my hand on his shoulder. Squeezed tight.
“You heard the man,” Jones growled. “You have five seconds to get back in that car before I get the baton out.”
“Threats are illegal,” Thomas squealed. Fucking coward.
“Private property and you’re trespassing,” Emma said sternly. “Riley?”
