Jamie focused on the small figures he could see at the far end of the school field. Shock etched lines onto his smooth face as he tried to hold back tears. He pressed his forehead against the cool classroom window.
Claire Quick watched him from the front of the classroom. The Head had broken the news to each class in turn, and told them that they would be sent home. Until then, he expected that they would honour Carly’s memory and be quiet and respectful. Jamie had let Claire get away with talking about Romeo, Juliet and Tudor attitudes towards love for ten whole minutes without making a single smart, rude or sexist comment. She didn’t flatter herself that her control of this particular class of sixteen-year-olds had improved that much from her previous lesson. He was far more distressed than the other upset kids in the class. He’d had a real crush on Carly.
She checked the clock for the third time. They should have been called out for their buses ten minutes ago. The class was supposed to be attempting to write an essay, but the rhythmic thumping of Jamie’s head against the window-pane made that impossible. Most of the kids were staring at the question paper or doodling and whispering amongst themselves. A couple of the girls were crying and holding hands. She wasn’t planning on telling them off.
Claire shuddered at the thought of that poor girl lying at the top of the field. It was unreal. It was every teacher’s nightmare - that no matter how much they tried, no matter what precautions they took, the kids in their care weren’t safe.
The Head had delivered the news at an emergency staff meeting, which had interrupted the first lessons of the day, but that couldn’t be helped. There had been tears and shocked disbelief. Whatever the police said about not jumping to conclusions, most of the staff knew it was Carly Braithwaite. They’d only needed to talk to the three lads who’d found her to discover her name.
I suppose they have to speak to Mr Braithwaite before they release the name, thought Claire, and good luck with that. Mr Braithwaite was banned from the premises for threatening to wallop the receptionist, Marcia. On the other hand, quite a few people had wanted to do that to Marcia Penrose.
The Head’s plan had been to recall the school buses, carry on with as normal a day as possible and let the students go, one class at a time. Carly’s friends and key staff would be interviewed before they went home. Claire felt her own tears prickle and she swallowed hard. She had to keep a lid on her emotions, at least while she was in the classroom. The kids were relying on her to provide a bit of normality. And what on earth would happen when the press got going?
Jamie stirred by the window. A couple of men in coveralls were wheeling a stretcher across the field to the waiting ambulance. The outline of a slight figure could be seen in the bag. Jamie stood up, pushing his chair back as if he was about to run after them.
‘Jamie,’ Claire called, ‘leave it. They won’t let you go with her.’
The other students stared at him, mute sympathy on their tear-streaked faces. He banged his forehead back onto the window-pane, his hands clenched into fists, and watched the stretcher until it was out of sight.
A messenger finally arrived at the door and passed Claire a note. She spoke to the class. ‘Look, I know how hard this will be for us all, but let the police find out what actually happened. Don’t start the Facebook rumours as soon as you get home. Those of you in my tutor group need to go to the meeting room and talk to the police before you go. The rest of you, take care. I’ll see you soon.’
Claire sighed, relief mingling with dread as the class left. She touched a marked essay that Carly had completed the week before, her first grade A, and realised the girl would never know about it now. There was a police officer in the meeting room waiting to interview her. Claire could feel tears waiting to overwhelm her.
Jamie’s boots sank into the red mud of the ploughed field that ran alongside the school grounds. He sidled round the edge of the field towards the old caravan in which the farmer stored feed and fertiliser. The door was locked, so he flopped down onto the small patch of concrete on which it stood, letting his back rest against the mottled plastic side panel. He opened his guitar case, moved aside history and maths books and found his tobacco pouch and Rizlas hidden under the body of the Fender copy guitar.
Jamie’s chest heaved. He battled the emotions down and rolled a cigarette, sucking the tears down with the nicotine. He ripped off his school tie and, in a practised movement, rolled his blazer small enough to squash into the case alongside the neck of the guitar and swapped it for a rolled-up grey hoodie he kept there. He couldn’t go back into school. There was no way he was talking to the police.
He smoked the roll-up down to a damp end and flicked it into the mud. He rose, a slim figure in grey hoodie, white shirt and black jeans, hefted his guitar case over his shoulder and set off to walk to the only place he could think of where he knew he could hide out.