I see him as soon as I turn the corner, his nylon tracksuit swishing down the stone corridor toward me. Time slows as I shift the weight of my school bag across my back, hold my English folder to my chest and concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. I sneak a glance as he approaches and his eyes whip me with a gloating, a flash of swagger to match his stride. I feel the heat of him in my periphery, the electric-blue arrogance, the sterile, mealy smell of him, and I hug my folder tight as if it’s body armor. And then he is there, close enough to reach out and grab me or slam me to the floor with a single strike.
“You’re not as smart a cunt as you think you are,” he whispers.
I turn to catch a glimpse of the sneer curled across his lip as he passes, his arm almost brushing my shoulder. I keep walking, eyes fixed on the Sacred Heart of Jesus that hangs over the door to the staff room ahead of me. The words pound in my head, cunt, cunt, cunt, what a thick fucking cunt you really are, and the smell of him lingers long after his footsteps have faded out of earshot.
I AVOID HIM FOR THE rest of the morning but we’ve hockey with him after lunch and I’m not even going to try and attempt that. I’m straight up to the infirmary with a grimace and a familiar sad tale of period cramps. Matron nods sympathetically. She understands she is the guardian of girls who need a break and opens her infirmary to anyone who asks. She sits on one of the two beds and pats the space beside her.
“Tell me, Lou,” she says as I sit down, “is everything OK with you? Apart from the period pain, of course.”
Matron smells of strawberries and Savlon and I want nothing more than to trust her with my secret, but I’m not ready to take that risk.
“Em, yeah. I suppose.”
“It’s just, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you seem upset when you come here on Mondays.”
I was hoping she wouldn’t remember. I’ve had period pain twice in the last month.
“Is there anything in particular you want to talk about? In complete confidence.”
I don’t know if it’s the Mancunian accent or the bold red lipstick but there’s something about her outsider status that I trust and I need unbiased advice more than anything.
“There’s this man, em, at work. He’s been hassling me.”
I stop, unsure if it’s OK to be explicit. As if naming the act is worse than doing it.
“In what way is he hassling you, Lou?”
“He touches me and kisses me and I’m scared nobody would believe me if I told them.”
Matron isn’t shocked. In fact, her expression barely changes and I’m afraid she’s thinking, is that it?
“Is this man someone in a position of power over you?” she says.
“Yes.”
She turns to me and takes my hands in hers.
“Thank you for telling me this, Lou. I believe you.”
I’m so relieved to hear those words I could hug her.
“I want you to listen to me,” she says. “This is assault. It’s not your fault and it’s not OK. You’ve taken the first step by telling me, but now you need to tell your parents or your manager or somebody else at work. Men like this, they rely on your silence and shame to get away with it and, as long as you don’t tell, they will keep doing it.”
“I don’t know if I can,” I say. “I might lose my … job.”
“Can you keep doing your job if he’s going to be there upsetting you all the time? Just think about it. And come and talk to me any time. I mean that.”
“OK, I will. Thanks.”
Matron believes me. She’ll back me up. I leave the infirmary with a lightness I haven’t felt in a long time and the certainty that all I have to do is tell my story. No entrapment, no games, just the truth.
IT’S A LONG WALK TO Sister Shannon’s office down a corridor of checkerboard tiles, and the click of my brogues reverberates in the vast, open space, announcing my arrival from a distance. I haven’t made an appointment; I don’t want her to be forewarned of what I have to say. I spent all of last night organizing my notes, the list I’ve kept of times, dates, places and actions. Every inappropriate thing he’s said and done, documented in detail. Joe’s given me the go-ahead to tell Tina’s story too. There’s so much evidence here she’ll have to listen.
Sister Shannon answers promptly after my first knock, a voice deep with authority and poise.
“Enter.”
I haven’t been in here since my interview and I’m only vaguely aware of the orderly clutter around me, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the paintings and certificates that line up against the dark, embossed wallpaper. Sister Shannon is upright in a leather chair, hands clasped on a large mahogany desk. She wears no veil, just a veneer of kindly compassion that does little to bridge the space between us. She gestures to a low chair opposite her, and I sit obediently, holding tight to my precious papers.
“How are you getting on at Highfield, Louise?”
I clear my throat and make eye contact.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” I say, my voice thin and reedy.
“Go on.”
“It’s Mr. McQueen.”
There’s no change to her benevolent pose, no indication she knows what’s coming.
“He molested me. On four separate occasions.”
She still doesn’t move, not a shift in her seat nor a tilt of her head. I look down at my notes and start to read.
“On Saturday the 4th of October, he gave me a lift to my hockey match…”
“Yes,” she interrupts, “he’s very good like that.”
I look at Sister Shannon in her elevated position across the desk and wonder which of us has misheard. I need to be absolutely clear.
“Mr. McQueen assaulted me in his car on the 4th of October on the way home from a match at St. Catherine’s. Then on the 25th of October, he—”
“Louise,” she says in a sharp voice. “Before you go any further with these … outlandish accusations, I want you to know Mr. McQueen has told me all about this already.”
It starts slowly, the dread rising from the pit of my stomach.
“And all I can say is, you’re very lucky to have a teacher that cares so much about you.”
“What?”
My breath fractures, the unease stuttering in my chest.
“Mr. McQueen is not going to make a formal complaint, nor will he be pressing any charges. His only concern is your welfare.”
“Charges? What did he say?”
She sighs, as if she really didn’t want to involve herself in the minutiae, but if I insist.
“He told me about your crush on him—”
“That’s not true.”
“And he told me about your attempts to be intimate with him.”
“It was him that kissed me.”
“That’s enough,” she shouts as she holds her hand up.
In the simmering silence that passes between us I finally understand I will never win at their game.
“Mr. McQueen also told me about your outburst at home,” she says with renewed composure. “I understand your mother witnessed that too.”
I’m on my feet now, my pages scrunched tight in my fist.
“Do you know what he was doing in my bedroom on Saturday, while I was in bed sick? He put his hand under the covers, inside my underwear, even though I told him to stop. And he raped Tina Forrester, in the storeroom behind the pool. Did you know she was pregnant when she killed herself?”
I could swear there’s a flicker in her eyes, right before she stands up and lays her palms flat on the desk.
“I’ve heard quite enough, Louise. Now, I don’t know what your game is, but I will not have you making such vile accusations against a member of staff. This ends here.”
She punctuates each of the last three words with a slap of her index finger on the table.
“If you persist in this … this slander, there will be serious repercussions. Do you understand?”
“I understand it’s not slander if it’s true.”
Sister Shannon lowers her eyes to the desk, exhales and then looks straight at me.
“We took you in here in good faith, Louise, despite your incomplete record at Santa Maria. If you continue to cause trouble for Mr. McQueen, it will be the end of your Highfield career.”
I want to tell her to shove it up her hole, but I can’t think straight and I need to get out of here.
“Just one more thing,” she says as I turn to leave. “Please tell your mother the most recent installment of your fees is now overdue.”
“I don’t pay fees,” I say. “I’m on a scholarship.”
She looks at me with bemusement, as if I’ve just told a joke.
“You were never awarded a scholarship, Louise.”
My heart clenches tight and I can’t tell if this is simply another attempt to undermine me.
“I wouldn’t be here without it, believe me.”
“I think you need to go home and have a conversation with your mother. She’s paid part of the fees for this term but there is still a sum outstanding.”
It comes to me in a smack of despair, Kenny O’Kane, his interest in me, his faux concern for Mam, and I stumble out of the room, trying to piece it all together. I don’t know who to believe anymore. All I know is I’ve been acting as if I had a free ride at Highfield when there is always a price. And mine is bound to be higher than most.
I COULD BE SUSPENDED FOR mitching off school, but I need to know. I freewheel down the hill and let the road come at me, as if letting go is a function of free will. I’m so tired of curating every move; I just want life to happen to me. Powered by Violent Femmes’ Hallowed Ground, I sail through red lights, weave in and out of traffic along the dual carriageway until the sharp sting of deceit has subsided to a dull ache. When I get home, I slam the door so hard the puckered glass rattles in the frame. Mam appears from the kitchen, a towel wrapped around her head and her eyes bleary with morning.
“What are you doing home so early?”
I let my bike fall against the radiator and she jumps with the clatter of it.
“Jesus Christ, Lou, what did you do that for?”
She picks up the bike and leans it against the side of the stairs.
“Why did you tell me I got a scholarship?”
Mam pulls her paisley dressing gown around her, as if the flimsy fabric will protect her.
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? Hmm, let me think, what could I possibly mean? I mean I did not earn a scholarship to Highfield and yet I am attending Highfield. That’s what I mean. So why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
Mam puts her hand to her mouth and lowers herself onto the stairs.
“Who told you?”
“That bitch, Sister Shannon, got great satisfaction out of telling me my fees were overdue.”
She puts her head in her hands and the towel flops forward onto her feet.
“So it’s true?” I say.
“Yes.”
“So let me guess. I wasn’t good enough so you hit Kenny O’Kane up for a loan without ever thinking of how you’d pay it all back.”
“No,” she says, and when she looks up she’s as angry as I am. “You were good enough, I know you were.”
“So why didn’t I get a scholarship?”
“Sister Shannon told me it would be a formality with your exam results. She gave me all this shite about the inclusiveness of the school and how much they value students like you. It looks good in their brochure, you know, helping the underprivileged.”
She rolls her eyes.
“And then I got a letter to say you hadn’t achieved the required results.”
“So what happened?”
“I don’t know. You’d already been offered a place, so I went into the school and told Sister Shannon herself that you’d be taking it anyway.”
She shakes her head.
“Lou, I know I’ve messed up, but it wasn’t just about my hopes for you, it was the unfairness of it. I wasn’t going to let them toss you aside because you didn’t fit their idea of a deserving pauper.”
“I know why. It’s because I’m connected to Tina, isn’t it?”
She doesn’t argue, and I know she didn’t have the heart to say it herself. I don’t tell her it’s not the stigma of Tina’s suicide that’s the problem, it’s what lurks behind it. I can’t. Mam doesn’t cope well with an emotional crisis, and I don’t have the energy to look after both of us. And if she didn’t believe me, if she even questioned one bit of it, it’d end me.
“What were you going to do?” I say. “About the fees?”
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Don’t pay them. I don’t want to go back there anyway.”
It’s only after I’ve said it that I realize it’s true. After everything that’s happened, this is a relief more than anything. But Mam grimaces and I think it must be because of my university chances.
“I’m going to college no matter where I go to school. I don’t need Highfield for that.”
She rubs her hand across her forehead.
“You’ll be staying at Highfield. Until Christmas anyway.”
“What d’ye mean? Sister Shannon said you hadn’t paid?”
“I put the money in their bank account yesterday.”
It takes a second for the full implications to hit me.
“Ah no, Mam. Please, please tell me you didn’t.”
She can’t look me in the eye and I know. It’s not just McQueen I’m going to have to face for the foreseeable, it’s Kenny O’Kane as well.