Monday morning.
Mr Cockrun’s office is neat and tidy, with some unusually secure touches.
There is, of course, the two-way glass and bars at the windows and the medicine cabinet locked with a huge padlock. But there is also a Kensington lock holding Mr Cockrun’s computer screen to the desk and a PIN entry system on a side door, which I assume to be a stationery cupboard.
A CCTV camera is mounted in one corner. On a long desk under the window is a CCTV screen, flashing with different images of the school – an empty playground, an empty corridor, an empty school field …
The children are in school right now, but you’d never know it.
There is also desk space for another person with a penholder and swivel chair.
The plants are plastic.
He says he wants to keep the children safe, I think. But what’s he really afraid of?
‘I hope you don’t mind if we make this quick, Mrs … Miss Riley,’ says Mr Cockrun, offering me a chair and smiling his spiky jester smile. ‘I know this is important to you so I’ve made time, but … well, look, how can I help?’
He takes a seat opposite and looks attentive, but I get the distinct impression he doesn’t want to help at all.
I hear myself say, ‘Yes, thank you for seeing me,’ already beaten into gratitude.
Mr Cockrun moves his computer mouse around and squints at his computer screen. ‘Where is he? Thomas, Thomas, Thomas … Kinnock.’
‘Thomas Riley,’ I correct. ‘He’s Thomas Riley now. The name should have been changed.’
Mr Cockrun looks up, nodding and smiling automatically. ‘Yes, sure, sure. We’ll get that changed. You’ve cut your hair.’
‘My husband liked long hair,’ I say, by way of explanation. ‘Now we’re separated, I have more choices.’
Mr Cockrun’s eyes fall back to his computer. ‘So what’s the issue?’
‘I’m extremely concerned,’ I say. ‘Tom came home from school with marks on his arm last week. They looked like injection marks. Blood spots with little bruises around them. He doesn’t remember how he got them. Or if he does, he won’t tell me. But Tom always tells me things. So I think he honestly doesn’t remember. School is the only place he’s away from me.’ I leave a meaningful pause.
Mr Cockrun looks at me then, and for a moment his blue eyes swim with fear. ‘Have you discussed this with anyone else?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything? I’m telling you my son had strange marks on his arms. They looked like needle marks.’
Mr Cockrun’s expression shifts to mock concern. ‘Mmm, yes. But … perhaps your imagination is running away with you just a tad?’
For a moment I’m wrong-footed and unsure, just like I was with Olly. ‘That’s what the marks looked like,’ I insist. ‘The nurse in the drop-in clinic was concerned enough to make a report.’
‘Well, I can assure you, Tom didn’t get any marks like that here.’ The headmaster stands. ‘So if that’s all—’
‘He must have got those marks here,’ I persist, resisting the urge to stand too. ‘Tom is with me every moment of the day. This is the only place he’s out of my sight.’
‘It simply couldn’t have happened here,’ says Mr Cockrun. ‘I just checked Tom’s records. There’s nothing. No mention of an injury.’
‘Are you saying you watch over each and every child every minute?’
‘We keep a very good eye on them.’
‘What about his teacher? Maybe she knows something.’
‘We’re a little short on time, Miss Riley, so if you don’t mind—’
‘I’d like to speak to Tom’s teacher,’ I say. ‘Can you bring her in here, please?’
‘I’m afraid—’
‘I won’t leave until you do,’ I say, my new haircut giving me strength.
The headmaster hesitates. Then he says, ‘Fine, wait here. I’ll get Mrs Dudley.’
He darts out of the office and returns with the greyish-haired woman I met before. Today she’s just as awkwardly dressed in a pencil-skirt suit that makes a giant pear of her sizeable behind, feet large in mismatching brogues and a fashionable hoop necklace that would look better with jeans and a T-shirt.
‘Mr Cockrun says you have some concerns.’ Although Mrs Dudley’s words seem calm, I sense tension behind them. ‘But we cleared everything up the last time we spoke.’
‘This isn’t about the playground incident,’ I say. ‘Tom came home with marks on his arm. Very odd-looking pin-prick type marks.’
Mrs Dudley and Mr Cockrun exchange a meaningful look.
‘It’s impossible marks like that could have happened at school, isn’t it?’ says Mr Cockrun.
Mrs Dudley forces a concerned frown. ‘Yes, impossible. Absolutely impossible.’
Mr Cockrun shakes his head. ‘I mean, injection marks – the implications are very heavy indeed.’
Mrs Dudley’s concern is mask-like. ‘Have you asked Tom how he got them?’
‘He doesn’t remember,’ I say. ‘And I believe him. Tom is used to blocking things out. If you knew his father, you’d understand.’
The sentence hangs in the air, an unswept cobweb.
‘Well, I hope we’ve put your mind at ease,’ says Mrs Dudley. ‘Something like that couldn’t have happened here.’
‘Indeed,’ says Mr Cockrun again, his voice firmer now. ‘We have extremely high levels of safeguarding. You only have to look at the building to know we keep the pupils protected.’
‘Mr Cockrun works very hard on safeguarding,’ says Mrs Dudley. ‘He’s turned this school around. Four years ago we were failing. Now we’re exceptional. So let’s not start accusing the school of ... well …’ She glances at Mr Cockrun. ‘Silliness. It won’t do anyone any good.’
‘Quite,’ says Mr Cockrun.
‘Some of the parents were talking about bullying,’ I say.
‘Every child here is successfully managed,’ Mr Cockrun interrupts. ‘No matter where they come from.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Mrs Dudley quickly agrees. ‘We’ve eradicated bullying in the school.’
‘Tom must have got those marks at school,’ I say, hands on hips.
‘It’s simply not possible,’ says Mr Cockrun. ‘Look, I don’t see what we can do to reassure you further.’
‘There’s nothing more we can say.’ Mrs Dudley glances at Mr Cockrun for approval. ‘My advice is that you talk to your son again.’
I glare at them.
Mr Cockrun puts his hands together and tilts his head. ‘Listen. Sometimes, when children start a new school, parents feel anxious. It’s a big change. You’re probably still adjusting yourself. I’ll bet in a few days you’ll think of an explanation for these little marks. Or Tom will tell you himself.’
‘They looked like injection marks.’
Mr Cockrun nods understandingly. ‘Probably as simple as brambles on the path. Something like that.’
‘Brambles would cause a scratch. The marks were nothing like that.’
‘Mrs Dudley will keep an extra close eye on Tom in class. Put your mind at ease.’
‘Of course, Alan,’ says Mrs Dudley. ‘You have nothing to worry about, Miss Riley. Support us and we’ll support you. I imagine Tom just needs to settle in.’
‘We’d better get on with things now, Miss Riley,’ says Mr Cockrun, sitting and placing a hand on his computer mouse. ‘Mrs Dudley will show you out.’
‘But—’
‘If you still have concerns in a month or so, we’ll talk again.’ He doesn’t look up.
Suddenly it feels like before. With social services … and no one believing me.
I’m not going to let that happen again.
You’re not taking this seriously. You all need to take this seriously …
‘No,’ I say. ‘We’re not finished. My son got these marks in your care. Yes, okay, there could be an explanation. Something less sinister than an injection needle. But until I get that explanation, I will be watching this school closely.’
Mr Cockrun smiles tightly. ‘Well, that is your right as a mother. But most of the parents here feel grateful their child has a school place.’
After I’m shown out the back entrance, I wander down the country path in a daze.
I think of Olly and everything he put us through. How fear can keep you from seeing the truth. And how the counsellor warned us that children with troubled pasts can become victims all over again.
Is someone frightening Tom into silence?
My phone bleeps and I see a text message.
Oh God. Olly’s mother, Margaret. She’s asking to see Tom. We haven’t met up since the move. It’s been months. Too long, really.
Tom loves Olly’s mum and so do I.
Margaret is very understanding about what we’ve been through, because she went through something similar with Olly’s father. She was on our side in court. She knows Olly needs help. And she and Tom are best friends when they get together, laughing and gossiping.
I’d better arrange a visit.