3.05 p.m.
‘Who is trying to get out of the school?’ I ask.
‘Lloyd Neilson,’ says Mr Cockrun. ‘Social services force problem children on us, Mrs Noble, and it becomes a constant struggle to remain unblemished. It’s a mystery to me why the government pressures us to get good results, then jeopardises everything with these damaged individuals. Why not send them to a failing school?’
‘The idea, Mr Cockrun, is that your outstanding school improves the behaviour of troubled children,’ I say. ‘That in a school full of well-behaved kids, children with issues can follow good examples. Make better friendships.’
‘Theories,’ says Mr Cockrun dismissively. ‘We live in the real world. A real world with boys like Lloyd Neilson. If there’s a loose railing, an open gate or a low fence, that boy will be over, under, through and out. That, Mrs Noble, is why there are holes in the school fence.’
‘So Lloyd is cutting the fence?’
Mr Cockrun nods. ‘And every time Lloyd Neilson is seen larking about in town, we’re forced to report an unauthorised absence. It’s all a matter of government record and makes it that much harder to keep our outstanding status.’
I notice the headmaster says, ‘every time Lloyd Neilson is seen’ not ‘every time he gets out’. Presumably absence records are only made when they have to be.
‘So Lloyd Neilson makes the holes, climbs out and makes a run for it?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He was seen. The caretaker watched him going at the wire. By the time we reached him he’d already cut the hole and made a run for it. The caretaker’s pliers went missing at the end of last term. We suspect Lloyd has hidden them somewhere in the school.’
‘Do other children play back here?’
‘All three Neilson boys. That goes without saying. You give those boys a rule and they break it.’
I think of my car parked on zigzag lines. ‘Anyone else?’ I ask. ‘What about Tom Kinnock? Have you ever seen him back here?’
‘No.’
I look over the hole again, assessing it for possibilities. ‘And no mention of adults lurking by the fence?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘You know about the marks on Tom Kinnock’s arm, don’t you?’ I say. ‘The pin pricks.’
‘Yes, the mother came in to make a fuss about that. I’m sure it was nothing. Boys rough and tumble. Especially boys of a certain type, if you get my meaning.’
‘Oh, you mean social services boys,’ I say. ‘Did they ever teach you about self-fulfilling prophecies, Mr Cockrun?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Self-fulfilling prophecies. Decide a child is naughty and he’ll become naughty. Not every child with social services involvement is badly behaved. Some of them are delightful.’
Mr Cockrun laughs coldly. ‘I’ve yet to meet a delightful one.’
‘Maybe you just don’t see the delightfulness. Can I ask … do you keep injection needles at school?’
Mr Cockrun doesn’t answer right away, jingling coins in his pocket.
‘Injection needles?’ I ask again. ‘Do you keep any at school?’
‘For diabetic children,’ says Mr Cockrun, turning away. ‘We keep the needles locked up, all safely managed. Tom Kinnock did not get any weird and wonderful marks at this school, Mrs Noble. And certainly not from an injection needle.’
‘Why lock up the needles? Why not just keep them out of reach of the children? This isn’t a mental health facility. It’s a school.’
‘Look, we’re going to have to call time on this for today, Mrs Noble. I’ve provided you with everything you asked for. You wanted to see the school fence and hopefully I’ve put your mind at ease.’
‘Mr Cockrun—’
‘I know you understand, Mrs Noble. Public sector employees have to manage our time efficiently. We have so little of it. So if you don’t mind, I’ll show you out.’
‘If you don’t have time now, we’ll have to meet again,’ I insist.
‘I really think we’ve covered everything.’
‘No, we haven’t.’
Mr Cockrun sighs. ‘I have a little time this Friday. After three p.m.’
This Friday I’m booked solidly from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., but … ‘Yes, okay,’ I reply. ‘3.30 p.m.?’
The headmaster nods, then notices something on the woodland floor. A small brown bottle – like a medicine bottle. Unlike the chocolate-bar wrapper, he doesn’t pick it up.
I follow his gaze.
Mr Cockrun’s head flicks up then. ‘Let me show you out.’
‘That looks like a medicine bottle,’ I say.
Mr Cockrun laughs. ‘It does a bit, doesn’t it? Someone must have thrown it over the fence. Let’s head out.’
I stoop to pick up the bottle.
Mr Cockrun watches me, and I get a sense of a bear, cornered and dangerous.
On the shiny brown plastic there’s a damp white label with computerised letters printed across it. ‘It’s prescription medicine,’ I say. ‘Look, there’s the chemist’s logo.’
‘I’d say it was fairly impossible to read,’ says Mr Cockrun, squinting. ‘As I said, someone must have thrown it over the fence.’
The writing is faint, but I can see the outline of a name. My eyes walk along the faded letters, lips moving as I sound the words:
‘Oliver Kinnock.’
This medicine belongs to Tom’s father.
Mr Cockrun turns back to the school. ‘Let’s talk in my office.’