The signature at the foot of the letter was convincing. Ivan had been practising for some time. So, when the boy handed the letter across to Mrs Risbie, the school counsellor, he was confident she would believe the session that was about to take place had parental consent. In Ivan’s view, it was in both their interests that his father wasn’t involved.
‘How are you feeling today?’ she asked.
They were sitting across from one another on cheap and worn sofas. Mrs Risbie wore her fringe like a badly closed pair of curtains. She curled one side behind her ear, which proved unsuccessful when she reached for a cup of tea on the low table between them. Ivan ignored the glass of weak squash that she had made for him.
‘I feel fine,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘What do you want to talk about?’
As a psychologist working part time in a school environment, Mrs Risbie did her level best to make her room look as informal as possible. She made no notes, preferring to maintain eye contact with anyone who came to see her.
‘Actually, I thought we’d start with an exercise,’ she said. ‘Would you like to do an exercise, Ivan?’
‘Do you want to do an exercise?’ he asked.
‘I’d like that.’ Mrs Risbie had already stashed the pack of square picture cards down the side of the sofa in readiness for the moment. She plucked out the pack and quickly thumbed through to find one to begin. ‘It’s very simple,’ she said, and selected a card to show the boy. ‘Each picture features the face of a child. I want you to look at them in turn and tell me what her expression says about how she’s feeling.’
‘Is that it?’ asked Ivan, who was already beginning to sound bored. ‘Well, seeing that she’s smiling in that one I’d say she’s happy.’
‘Very good.’ Mrs Risbie brought the next card to the front.
‘Perplexed,’ he said after a moment.
‘Excellent!’
Ivan studied the next card, and then sat back in his seat. ‘Thoughtful. Reflective, perhaps?’
Mrs Risbie smiled and nodded. The kid didn’t seem to have an issue relating to other people. Given his vocabulary, it was simply revealing a higher than average intelligence.
‘How about this one?’ she asked, and flipped around the picture of the girl with the sad face. It showed her looking down, with tear-stained cheeks and her lower lip jutting.
Ivan sat forward again. He studied the picture for a while, tipping his head one way and then the other.
‘It’s a tough one,’ he said, before looking back at Mrs Risbie again. ‘She looks like someone who can’t take a joke.’
‘Right.’ At times like this, Mrs Risbie wished she could put the pupil on pause while she rushed to write down some observations. Instead, she nodded sagely and placed the cards flat on the table. ‘Ivan, has there ever been a time when you’ve felt sad?’
The boy sat on his hands while he thought about this. He looked to the floor, pressing his lips together. Mrs Risbie couldn’t help noticing how focused he seemed. Just waiting for him to answer left her feeling tense.
‘When people don’t understand me,’ he said eventually, and looked directly into her eyes. ‘That’s when I feel angry … sorry, I mean sad.’
‘I see.’ Mrs Risbie shifted in position. Ivan wasn’t unpleasant company. He was polite. He listened. He considered every question. Even so, there was something about him she found unsettling, though she reminded herself not to entertain such unprofessional thoughts.
‘How is home life?’ she asked next, hoping to build a bigger picture. ‘Tell me about your family.’
This time, Ivan didn’t hesitate in his answer. Much to the surprise of Mrs Risbie, he sat back in his seat and provided a full and detailed description of a seemingly content, stable and supportive domestic environment. By the time he had finished, stopped by the lunch-break bell, she had drawn her own conclusions. Often kids from damaged backgrounds felt the need to protect their parents by making out that everything was fine. Ivan didn’t seem to fit into this category. It really hadn’t sounded forced or tailored, as if he had just told her what she wanted to hear. Nor were there any holes or inconsistencies in the picture he had painted. Instead, the boy had spoken in detail about each family member with heartfelt love and admiration. That had extended to Ivan’s grandfather and siblings, and though it was clear that he and Sasha liked to wind each other up, it was her considered opinion that he came from a very close unit indeed.
‘Can I go now?’ he asked, having stopped abruptly when the bell rang for break time. Mrs Risbie was surprised that Ivan didn’t want to continue, given how enthusiastically he had just been talking about their best ever holiday.
‘Well, I was enjoying your account of the safari,’ she said, keen for him to continue. ‘Looking out for all those wildebeest must’ve been fun. Animal conservation is an admirable cause.’
Ivan looked confused for a moment, as if perhaps she had misunderstood something, but nodded all the same.
‘I really should go,’ he said, and gathered his schoolbag from the floor. ‘Do I need to come back again?’
Mrs Risbie considered this for a moment. There was nothing in Ivan’s life that needed unpicking, she decided. Yes, he had some difficulties empathising with people, especially those in need of help or sympathy, but that clearly didn’t apply when it came to his life at home. The kid was just a little odd. That didn’t make him a bad apple.
‘Shall we see how you get on?’ she suggested as Ivan Savage rose to leave. ‘My door is always open to you.’
Just seconds after leaving the school counsellor’s office, Ivan had completely forgotten about his conversation with Mrs Risbie. He’d even switched off the light on his way out, despite the fact that she was still on the sofa behind him. Swinging his bag from one shoulder to the other, he made his way along the corridor with just one thing in mind. After the reception his last practical joke had earned him, the boy had something new up his sleeve. He’d ordered the device online and made some small adjustments to the way it worked. What he planned now was a public performance before class that would be sure to make him the centre of attention.
As he headed for the classroom, Ivan spotted his sister approaching. The pair made eye contact, which was about as friendly as they could be at school. It was only as he passed that Sasha glanced over her shoulder with some concern.
‘What’s he up to?’ she muttered to her friends. ‘I know that look.’
By the time the bell rang again, Ivan was waiting for his classmates to file in. They found him standing at the teacher’s desk, as if preparing to take the lesson. With his schoolbag open at his feet, he was holding an object in his hands that some of them had seen at magic shows.
‘It’s a finger guillotine,’ he announced, as people took to their seats. ‘With a difference.’
‘Here we go,’ whispered one girl to her friend.
Nobody thought that Ivan was dangerous. They just considered him to be a bit different. He wasn’t a popular boy, but nor did he easily attract enemies. If anything, most people just kept a little distance from him. On this occasion, however, Ivan had a captive audience. When no pupil accepted his invitation to volunteer, he shrugged and announced that he would perform the stunt himself.
‘Now, this could be bloody,’ he said, ignoring the groans and the sound of exercise books being opened in readiness for the teacher. Ivan was disappointed to see that only a few of his classmates were paying any attention at all. Most were pretending not to notice. With the guillotine placed on the desk, he stood behind it and slipped his index finger through the hole. ‘Observe closely,’ he announced, and raised the handle that lifted the blade. With one final glance at the class, where he was pleased to see a few more eyes on him, he squeezed his eyes shut and prepared to slam down the blade. He held his breath, counted to three in his mind, and then opened his eyes with a start when a voice commanded him to stop what he was doing right away.
‘Ivan, this is no time for tricks!’ his teacher barked, a man with a mouth that everyone said looked too large for his face. ‘Sit down right away!’
The boy glanced across at the rest of the class. Now everyone was looking at him.
‘But it isn’t a trick,’ he grumbled, and reluctantly withdrew his finger from the guillotine.
The device was to make a second appearance later that day, at the back of the school bus home. According to those who witnessed the episode, Ivan was asked to move from his seat. It wasn’t a threat, by all accounts. It’s just that’s where the Year 10 boys liked to gather. Most kids in Year 7 would’ve moved without question. Instead, Ivan showed some reluctance, and that’s when things turned nasty.
‘Am I going to have to make you move?’ growled a redheaded boy called Thomas, who had come to accept being called Ginger Tom by everyone including his teachers.
‘You can try,’ said Ivan, matter-of-factly, ‘but you’ll regret it.’
Ginger Tom looked back at his mates. He wasn’t a bad lad at all. It’s just he’d got himself into a position where he couldn’t back down. Turning back to Ivan, he saw a way that might persuade the boy to shift that didn’t involve physical force.
‘Let me help you.’ Snatching Ivan’s bag, before he could be stopped, Tom opened it up and peered inside. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, on spotting the little guillotine in among the school books.
‘Don’t play with that!’ Ivan lunged at it, but Ginger Tom was too quick for him. He jerked it away and then held it aloft, grinning.
‘There’s only one magic trick you need to perform,’ he said. ‘And that’s a disappearing act. Now give me the seat and you can have it back.’
Ivan held his gaze for a moment.
‘It isn’t a magic trick,’ he said.
‘Oh right,’ said Ginger Tom. ‘It’s for real, is it?
‘Yep.’
By now, Ginger Tom’s mates were pressing around him for a closer look.
‘Stick your finger in it,’ someone suggested. ‘Give it a go, Tom.’
Grinning, Tom rested the guillotine on top of the seat rest in front of Ivan and inserted a digit.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ said Ivan, who watched with interest nonetheless.
‘Or what? You’ll look like a liar?’
Returning his attention to the guillotine, Tom lifted the blade. A phone camera appeared over his shoulder, fired up to film the event.
‘Do it, Ginger Tom. Do it!’
He glanced at Ivan one more time, but didn’t look so gleeful any more. Tom’s attention moved back to the guillotine, with calls of encouragement still filling in his ears. One last look at the Savage boy was enough to change his mind. It was the gleam in his eye, coupled with the faint trace of a smile, that told Ginger Tom this wasn’t a good idea at all. Snatching his finger from the guillotine, much to the disappointment of the crowd, he quickly reached inside his school jacket and produced a pencil. Without a word, he jabbed it into the slot and slammed the handle down.
The blade cut through the pencil as if it was made from butter. In the brief moment it took for the sharp end to drop to the floor of the bus, every single witness had fallen silent.