Why is there a police car at the school gates? My heart pounds – a memory of a very bad day with Olly. The day the frayed thread binding our family together finally snapped.
Suddenly, I’m running.
It’s Wednesday afternoon and lots of parents have arrived already, pressed up tight against the railings, curious, confused expressions on their faces.
Heart pounding, I stand on tiptoes, craning to see through gaps in the railings. I see flashes of neon and black and someone – a child – struggling on the floor.
‘Who is it?’ I demand. ‘Who are they holding down?’
‘Lloyd Neilson,’ a nearby mother whispers. ‘It’s about time.’
Recognition snaps like a rubber band, and I see Lloyd’s thick black hair and strong little body pulling and twisting under two policemen.
‘The headmaster can’t pretend there’s no trouble here now, can he?’ the mother continues.
We watch as the police handcuff Lloyd’s wrists and pull him to his feet, dragging him across the playground.
Lloyd is yelling, ‘Get your fucking hands off me. Fuck off and die, you fucking dickheads!’
The policemen stoically ignore him.
As the struggling group reach the gate, Lloyd plants his feet on the concrete and shouts: ‘If you scuff up these Nikes I’ll do you for it.’
One of the police, a grey-haired man with a large stomach, loses his temper then. He has a long, red scratch down his cheek, presumably from scuffling with Lloyd. ‘That’s enough from you, young man. I’ll throw your bloody shoes away if you don’t start walking. Send them off to forensics for testing and have them torn apart.’
Lloyd’s dark eyebrows turn into one furious line. He walks with the police then, shoes punching the tarmac, tramp, tramp, tramp.
The headmaster appears, eerily calm but unsmiling for once. He strides past the police and unlocks the school gate.
Lloyd turns, still struggling. ‘Fucking bastard. I don’t tell, you don’t tell.’
Slowly and deliberately, the headmaster turns back to Lloyd. I can’t see Mr Cockrun’s expression, but Lloyd’s angry, furrowed eyebrows lift in pure terror and he falls immediately silent.
Once the headmaster has marched back into the school building, Lloyd finds some defiance again.
‘Fucking Cockface,’ he mutters, as he’s led through the gates.
I notice Lloyd is blinking slowly, one side of his mouth hanging down. As he passes, his swimming eyes meet mine. ‘Tell Tom: nice one,’ he says, giving a thumbs-up.
I flinch.
Parents turn, eyeing me up and down.
Suddenly, I want to be a shadow again. I shouldn’t be wearing this orange scarf. Being exposed is too hard.
Why did Lloyd say that? Oh God, I need to talk to Tom. What’s going on?
Dimly, I hear the school bell ring. There’s a longer pause than usual; I imagine the teachers are keeping the kids back for a minute, making sure the police have removed Lloyd from the premises. Then the doors open and children stream out.
It takes a few minutes for Tom to appear. When he does, he’s walking with Pauly Neilson.
I wave frantically at him. ‘Tom. Tom!’
When Tom finally reaches the school gates, I grab his hand.
‘Mum?’ he says, looking alarmed.
I don’t reply, instead pulling Tom away from Pauly, through the crowd and towards the stony lane.
‘What’s wrong?’ Tom asks, grey school shoes tripping over gravel. He sounds frightened.
When we’re a little way down the path and alone, with only birdsong and green leaves for company, I say, ‘Tom, the police were here today. Lloyd Neilson was arrested. He gave me a thumbs-up and said, “Tell Tom: nice one”. Why did he say that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘The police led him right through the playground.’
‘I know. They arrested him.’
‘And you have no idea whatsoever why he would have said that?’
Tom shrugs, and I feel like I’ve taken the wrong boy home. That I’m holding Pauly Neilson’s hand.
‘Let’s start at the beginning. Why did the police take Lloyd Neilson? Did you hear anything? See anything?’
‘They said he had tablets on him. They couldn’t find them, though.’
‘One of the police searched Pauly in case Lloyd had given them to him. But they couldn’t find anything.’
‘Listen, Tom … just stay away from those Neilson boys. Stay away from them. Do you hear me? I’m going to find a way to get you out of this school.’
We walk home in silence.
When we reach the house, Tom goes straight upstairs, school bag still on his shoulders, and I’m left alone, numbly picking up leaflets from the doormat and tidying stray toys.
I notice five missed calls from my mother. She’s probably trying to arrange another visit, but I don’t have emotional space for her right now.
My head is crammed with thoughts and worries.
Why did Lloyd Neilson say that? What did he want to thank Tom for?
A thought prickles.
Tom took his school bag upstairs. He never does that. He always hangs it on the bannisters.
Suddenly I’m running, two steps at a time, onto the landing, throwing open Tom’s door and rushing into his bedroom.
Tom stands with his back to me in his reading corner. His school bag is open a few feet away. The front pocket is unzipped too, which is unusual – he never keeps anything in there.
Tom senses me in the doorway and turns.
He is surprised, an animal caught in a trap.
In his hands, he holds a bag of white tablets.