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“Ordinary Seaman Smallbone.”
A strangled guffaw from two rows back, and Mr Cresswell began squeezing his way down the line.
“Ordinary Seaman Twizzledrizzle,”
I mean, for fucks sake, they were making these up to torture us, weren’t they? A high-pitched squeak left my lips and Brenner lost it completely, snorting like a pig. From the opposite end of the row to Mr Cresswell, Mr Tucker started a nimble pincer movement. In blissful ignorance of the utter havoc he had created, the vicar burbled on.
“Ordinary Seaman Cummings, Ordinary Seaman Goodhead.”
Goodhead?I was crying, I was actually fucking crying.
“And finally, we remember MC Connor, for his services to…”
“Rave music!”
Increasingly, I was of the opinion that teachers didn’t carewhomthey punished, as long assomeonewas seen to be getting their comeuppance. Even better if thatsomeonewas a regular pain in the proverbial arse anyway. Handing thatsomeoneyet another detention no doubt gave them a sense of a job well done on the car journey home.
Thus, in short, despite the whole fucking year group comprehensively annihilating that year’s Remembrance Service, it was Brenner and yours truly who found themselves strong-armed out of the line by Mr Tucker and Mr Cresswell. Phil, with his sodding angelic face and innocent baby-blues, got away with it, as per usual. From the row in front of us, the blameless tall posh lad with the blond curls wasn’t so lucky. When Mr Tucker hauled him out alongside me and Brenner, he looked set to puke.
“You three. Detention. Mr Cartwright’s office at five this afternoon.”
Fucking teachers, how they loved lording it over you. Failed coppers, my dad called them. Failed humans, my brother Simon said. Couldn’t hack it in the adult world, so they took it out on a bunch of kids. Needless to say, Simon had a less than stellar academic record.
“Sir,” Brenner began urgently. “My mum needs me to pick up my sister Louise from the childminder. She’ll fucking kill me if I’m not there.”
Okay, so to be fair, Mr Cresswell was one of the better ones. I think that every now and again he felt the need to remind us of who was boss, that was all. Phil’s mum had told him that their neighbour had whispered that his wife was having an affair, so Cresswell’s occasional bad temper was probably down to him being sexually frustrated.
Join the fucking club.
In a nutshell, Brenner’s life was rubbish. He was a free school meals kid, which was supposed to be a secret, but everyone knew. Trotting out the time-honoured got-to-look-after-my-sister line worked like a dream, as the teachers shat themselves social services would become involved. That the school would be found to have been remiss in its duty of care or other such bullshit, and find itself headlining the front page of theStourbridge Star.
“Okay, Brenner. You can complete your detention at lunchtime. In my classroom.”
He turned to me. “Matt Leeson. No excuses. Bring a pen and don’t be late.”
The blond kid quivered next to me. I’d say it was fifty-fifty whether he puked. He’d earned himself a few Brownie points for keeping his mouth shut and not pointing out it wasn’t him though, cos Brenner and me wouldn’t have come to his aid. If I had to stay behind and miss the last direct bus, then this fucker could too, even if he hadn’t done anything wrong except stand in front of me tossing his fucking fabulous hair.
“You. Alex Valentine, isn’t it? I’m frankly astonished to find you mixed up with this lot. I expected better than that. See you at five.”
THAT JOKE ISN’T FUNNY ANYMORE
(THE SMITHS)
“Leeson. You know the drill. I have a staff meeting starting three minutes ago. And this time, no funny business.”
After thrusting yesterday’s copy ofThe Timesat me, Cartwright, head of the history department, strode off, endeavouring to look important. A considerable challenge when you stood only five-feet-two and were as camp as Christmas. Raising my chin at the blond kid to follow, I shouldered open the door to his office.
“Is it okay being in here without him?” the kid asked, still green about the gills. They were the first words he’d spoken, and his unaccented voice sounded jerky and hoarse, as though it had only just broken. Maybe it had.
“He told us to, didn’t he?” I threw him a careless shrug. “There’s nothing interesting in here anyway—I’ve already had a scout around. The important stuff he keeps locked away over there.”
I indicated the institutional grey filing cabinet next to Mr Cartwright’s equally institutional chunky pine desk, piled high with history marking. Old Cartwright wasn’t a bad sort. As a regular guest at his detentions over the last year or so, me and him had enjoyed some decent chinwags. Rumours abounded he was a homosexual, but if it were true, I could say with absolute confidence he kept nothing in his office to suggest it. Unless homos had a thing for gin miniatures (alas, all empty) and wine gums. A bumper stash had permanent residence in the top drawer of his desk. In a nonchalant fashion, I helped myself to a couple before sauntering over to the corner table to slouch in my usual plastic seat.
The blond kid watched me, eyes wide and glancing furtively back at the door. As if, any second, Mr Cartwright would walk through and call the police on me for thieving his fucking sweets. I regarded his anxious twitching coolly, narrowing my eyes and channelling my inner Keanu. I’d been practicing ever since my aunt had told me I looked a bit like him. Granted, she’d had half a bottle of Mateus Rosé inside her, but I’d take what I could get. After hesitating a second, the blond kid took the seat across from me, drew out his tin pencil case from his rucksack and placed it with precision on the table beside him. I fished a Bic biro from my back pocket and pushed the newspaper in his direction.
“What’s that for?”
A detention virgin. Cute. And probably the other kind of virgin, too. I smirked. If he’d been wetting himself all afternoon, in fearful anticipation of a jolly good caning across his arse, or being ordered to stand on one leg in the corner facing a wall for half an hour, then reality would be a horrible disappointment.
