‘Does the picture trouble you?’ said Dr Warren softly.
There was a hideous silence. It was broken by the door opening again, and Miss Maycock stepped in nervously, with a forlorn-looking Jeff. The headmaster nodded, and they both sat down.
‘That’s terrible,’ said Richard.
The teachers looked at him.
‘You’re jumping to the conclusion that we did that?’ said Rikki. ‘You think we smashed it?’
‘Do you deny it?’ said the headmaster.
‘Yes!’ said Rikki and Richard together.
‘I did not do that,’ said Richard. ‘And if Rikki did it, then . . . then I was asleep. But he didn’t do it. Because I haven’t been asleep.’
‘As I think I told you,’ said Dr Warren, ‘we have to anticipate times when you will be asleep, Richard. The drugs you’re taking are not helping. And it’s interesting, isn’t it, that the word that’s written here is the very word Rikki wrote first on my table? And then on my wall.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ said Rikki.
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘He’s lying to us,’ said the headmaster.
‘Rikki,’ said Mr Barlow gently. ‘This meeting does not have to be a c-confrontation. There is still time for honesty and even rec-reconciliation.’
Rikki turned and stared at him. ‘It’s pretty hard, sir, not having a confrontation when someone accuses you of smashing a stupid picture and then tells you you’re a liar!’
‘You’ve got some mess on your fingers,’ said the headmaster.
Rikki held them up. ‘We were clearing up some mess in our locker. Maybe we need to talk about that, Jeff? I don’t care, you understand me? I do not care!’
‘Rikki,’ said Mr Barlow. ‘We can avoid c-conflict if we want to. The way to avoid it is to tell only the t-truth. So I want to ask Jeff something – calmly. Jeff?’
Jeff looked up.
‘Just before Richard and R-Rikki pushed you. Just before that . . . altercation yesterday. Did you insult him or his family?’
‘No.’
‘You did,’ said Rikki. ‘You called our grandad a rotting corpse.’
Jeff gasped.
‘Please,’ said Mr Barlow. ‘I want to hear what you said, Jeff.’
‘He said he was glad he’d had a heart attack, and—’
‘Quiet!’ shouted the headmaster.
Jeff’s voice was shaking. ‘But I would never, ever say that. I was telling Richard why I didn’t want to be friends with him any more. Rikki started doing what he always does. He started telling me I was in love with Aparna. He told me I was a baby—’
‘You used the word that’s written there!’ said Rikki. He was pointing at the picture.
‘That’s a lie,’ said Jeff. ‘I don’t use language like that!’
‘Oh, aren’t you an angel?’ said Rikki, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
‘No,’ said Jeff. ‘But that language is from the gutter. My father would kill me if I ever said anything like that. And your grandad was nice! I liked him!’
‘Liar! You hated him.’
‘I used to see him, every day. We used to talk—’
‘Wait,’ said Mr Barlow. ‘Let’s keep it calm. Did you hear Jeff say those things, Richard? Is Rikki correct?’
‘Yes!’ said Richard. Then, as soon as he’d said it, he put his hand over his mouth. ‘No!’ he whispered.
‘What?’ said Dr Warren.
‘Tell the truth, Richard,’ said Rikki. ‘He cut up the wings. He smashed the plane . . .’
Richard looked at him and fought for breath. He looked at his knees, then up at Rikki again. ‘I told you, ages ago – no. I told you I would not ever, ever lie for you. You are . . . what are you doing?’ He gasped, but tried to continue. He stood up. ‘Did we do that to the picture? Why would we do that?’
‘Richard,’ said Mr Barlow, ‘we’re going to s-straighten this out.’
Richard put his hands over his face. There were tears rolling from his eyes, and his shoulders were shaking. Rikki stared around the room, but now he looked frightened.
‘Jeff did not say anything bad,’ said Richard through a sob. ‘Jeff is my friend. So is Salome. So is Aparna. We didn’t do that to the picture and I don’t know what’s happening.’
‘What about you, Rikki?’ said Dr Warren. ‘What do you say?’
Rikki laughed suddenly. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I think this is all pretty simple.’ He snarled and stared at the picture. Then he pointed at the obscenity. ‘That’s what you are, all of you.’ He said the word aloud, cruel and clear. He said it again, and the headmaster stood there, open-mouthed.
‘Oh, Rikki,’ said Mr Barlow softly.
‘I think we should end this meeting,’ said Dr Warren. ‘Continue it elsewhere.’
‘Why?’ said Rikki. ‘Where? That’s all we are, all of us.’ He said the word for a third time, and then – before anyone could stop him – he took a step forward and stamped hard through what remained of the picture. It was leaning against the desk, so his foot broke the paper and its backing. He swore again and again, as Richard sobbed. Then he stood looking down at the broken glass and splintered wood.
‘Get them out of here,’ said the headmaster. ‘They’re off the trip. Isolate them and I’ll phone their parents. Doctor Warren – you can take over from here . . . the school gives up.’
CHAPTER THREE
There was a music room beyond the playground, and that’s where Rikki and Richard were sent.
Miss Maycock brought them some reading books, and they sat for two hours. Mr Barlow made sure they got a snack and a drink, but they weren’t allowed to mix with any other children.
Richard said, ‘Excuse me, Mr Barlow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I ask you something?’
Mr Barlow nodded.
‘Is there no way . . . If we’re—’
‘Shut up, Richard,’ said Rikki.
‘If we’re really good and apologize to everyone, is there any way we can come on the residential?’
Mr Barlow shook his head. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Why would we want to go?’ laughed Rikki. ‘It’s going to be lame. It’s going to be the stupidest, boringest waste of time. Don’t humiliate us, Richard! Why would we even want to go on it?’
‘Well,’ said Mr Barlow, ‘I d-don’t think it would be easy finding a group for you at the moment. I think we’ve just got to limp towards the end of term.’
‘What about the cup final?’ said Richard. ‘Can we play in that?’
‘If it happens,’ said Rikki. ‘Your memory’s going, isn’t it? That referee was going to get the match cancelled. We won’t be in the team, anyway.’
Mr Barlow was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘It’s strange. You d-don’t have any problem playing football together, do you? Out on the football pitch, we all work quite well together. Why is that?’
Rikki shrugged.
Richard said, ‘I suppose the purpose is so simple. With a football game, you know what you’re doing and why you’re doing it. All you’ve got to do is get the ball in the net. We’re not all in competition. I mean, I’m not going to make it difficult for Salome when all I want is for her to get a goal, am I?’
Mr Barlow put his hand gently on Richard’s chin. He tilted his head back and looked at him in the light. ‘There’s a s-swelling under your eye, you know.’
‘So what?’ said Rikki.
‘You’re bruised, as well, Rikki,’ said Mr Barlow. ‘That’s not from football. What’s g-going on? At home, I mean.’
‘You’re n-not our d-d-dad, Mr Bra-low,’ stuttered Rikki. ‘You’re not even our shrink. If you want to get concerned about someone, get concerned about your own kids. If you’ve got any.’
Mr Barlow stared at him.
Rikki smiled. ‘I’ve been dying to ask you this, sir. Why do you gob all the time?’
Mr Barlow went to speak, and then stopped. He wiped his mouth with t
he back of his hand, and looked at Rikki. Rikki picked up a book and started to read it, but Richard was still looking up at Mr Barlow.
‘I had a stroke,’ he said at last. ‘You know that – everyone knows.’
‘Please,’ said Richard. ‘Rikki didn’t mean to be so horrible. I don’t know why he says stuff.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘No. But it’s true – we’re hurting each other worse than ever now. I have to hurt him somehow.’
‘Can’t you talk to the counsellor?’
‘No.’
‘He might help you, Richard—’
‘You’re spitting again!’ said Rikki. ‘You’re spitting right in my face!’
Mr Barlow paused again, and licked his lips. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Rikki,’ he said, ‘I know it’s a p-problem. I convince myself that nobody notices it, but I know everyone does. The reason’s simple—’
‘Why don’t you have your own kids?’ said Rikki suddenly.
‘I do.’
‘How many?’
‘I have two.’
‘You never talk about them, sir,’ said Richard.
‘I don’t. I tend not to bring them to work, I suppose. My boy’s called S-Sam. My daughter is called . . .’ He wiped his mouth. ‘Her name is Billie. Bryony, actually, but—’
‘Why don’t they go to this school?’
‘You send them to a posh school, don’t you?’ said Rikki. He laughed. ‘You wouldn’t want them coming here, meeting people like us.’
‘To be honest,’ said Mr Barlow, ‘I don’t see them any more. They’re grown up now, but when my wife and I went our separate ways, it was agreed . . . it was ruled . . . that I wouldn’t see them. Except once a m-month. And then they moved away, so even that lapsed. They went to Cyprus, and then I had the stroke. A stroke can, in theory, happen to anyone at any age. It’s when a b-blood vessel bursts in the brain, and puts a particular stress on some part of it. It can kill you, of course – but I was lucky. The long-term damage was to my right side – you might have noticed that my right arm isn’t as g-good as my left. And the c-control of my facial muscles on the right side – it’s better than it was, but it’s still not good. And the saliva builds up in the right side of my mouth, because the muscles there can’t drain it as efficiently as yours can, for example.’ He wiped his mouth again with the handkerchief. ‘That is the reason I spit, Rikki. I’m sorry it disgusts you.’
‘Please help me, Mr Barlow,’ said Richard suddenly. ‘Please help us.’
‘Help you do what, boy?’
Richard shook his head. Yet again, his eyes were full of tears and the book slipped from his fingers.
‘Shut up, Richard,’ said Rikki. ‘Take no notice, Mr Barlow. He thinks he’s the only one with problems. He’s started wetting himself again, by the way – every bloody night.’
‘How can I help you, Richard? Tell me.’
‘I can’t go on like this,’ said Richard. ‘It gets worse every day, and just when I think it’s getting better, I say something or do something, and I know it’s getting worse. Isn’t there a drug they can zap me with? – I mean, a better one. I don’t want to live like this.’
‘There’s no d-drug they can zap you with, no,’ said Mr Barlow. He pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘You have to face your life.’
‘Rikki’s battering me. I’m battering him—’
‘You start it!’ cried Rikki. ‘I just defend myself, bed-wetter! You’re the one!’
‘We’re not going to last!’ wailed Richard. ‘And that counsellor . . .’
‘What about him?’
‘We can’t stand him because he pretends, and he fakes it. He doesn’t care, and he pretends that everything’s going to be all right, when we both know – we all know – it isn’t. Ever! He died on the pavement, Mr Barlow! He went cold, so fast!’
‘Don’t tell him!’ said Rikki.
‘I was holding him. In my arms!’
Mr Barlow looked from Richard to Rikki, and back again. He shook his head and put his hand on Richard’s wrist.
‘I wish I knew what to say,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to pretend, boy. All I can say is that life is never easy. There are no easy answers and sometimes no explanations, are there? You know that.’
There was a pause, and Rikki suddenly laughed. It was a dry, barking laugh and the contempt in it made the old teacher wince. ‘Oh, wow,’ he said. He tugged his hand away. ‘We’ve got a philosopher with us.’
‘Rikki . . .’
‘Wait.’ He pretended to search the table for notepaper. ‘I want to get down exactly what this wise man just said. What was it? “Life is never . . .” Oh, God – it’s gone. You used a really sophisticated word.’
‘I said life’s n-never easy,’ said Mr Barlow. ‘We cope, though. We have to.’
Rikki shook his head in mock-amazement. ‘That is inspirational. How could anyone walk out on you when you had insight like that? Your kids must miss you every day – they must be lost. You have the secret of life, Bra-man.’
‘What do you want, Rikki?’ said Mr Barlow loudly. ‘Please tell me what you want.’
‘To be let go! To be out of here!’
‘To die? Is that what you’re saying?’ Rikki swore. ‘Because I need to tell you something,’ said Mr Barlow. ‘When I—’
‘No! Please God, we do not want stories about your . . . kids, or your childhood, or your time in hospital or wherever it was that you saw the light and realized life wasn’t easy!’ He looked at Richard. ‘Don’t listen – they know nothing!’
‘I knew your grandfather, Rikki. Not intimately, but—’
‘Shut up! Shut up!’
‘We talked about you, and do you know what he said?’
Rikki was on his feet, holding his ears. ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up! You have no right even to mention him. He was—’
‘What, Rikki?’ Mr Barlow stood as well. ‘What was he? Tell me.’
‘He was the best human being in the world. And he’s dead, and I wish your stroke had killed you!’
Mr Barlow reached out a hand, and Richard swung the hardest punch he’d ever thrown. He missed, and the chair fell backwards behind him. Mr Barlow went to hold him, but Rikki ducked away – just as the door burst open.
Dr Warren stepped in, and there was an orderly behind him in clean white clothing. The headmaster was behind them, and Richard and Rikki started back, frozen in their panic. The orderly took a step forward and there was a moment of terrible stillness.
‘The car’s ready,’ said Dr Warren. ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Richard.
‘We’re going to look after you.’
‘No you’re not.’
‘We have an order from the courts. Everything’s sorted.’
Richard and Rikki leaped forward then, and bolted into the corridor. They raced to the end of it, crashing through a fire exit, and the adults tore after them. The playground was full of children, and Richard and Rikki burst into the middle of them. The infants screamed like birds, and wheeled away as the teachers followed. Richard and Rikki doubled back and made for the school field. Before they could get to it, they saw their mother.
She was half running through the school gates, her face a mask of worry and pain – she looked unsteady on her feet, as if she’d been running a great distance. She was out of breath, but managed to call: ‘Richard! Rikki!’
Her son shied away from her, across the tarmac, as pupils fled and regrouped, shrieking and howling. Mark was running towards them, while Aparna was rooted to the spot, terror in her eyes. Salome stepped in front of Dr Warren, who tripped as he dodged her, and Richard and Rikki sprinted to the main hall. The orderly lunged for them, and missed by a fraction. The headmaster managed to grab an arm, but Richard and Rikki twisted, jumped and ducked, and were free again, leaping high. They seized the drainpipe, and suddenly they were climbing, hand over hand, as the grown-ups ga
thered below.
Mr Barlow shouted: ‘Rikki! No!’
Dr Warren was shouting too. ‘Richard! Rikki! Stay where you are!’
They ignored the cries, and were soon three metres above the playground. Up they went, higher and higher, wedging their feet between the wall and the pipe, as the whole school watched. They reached the top of the building in half a minute and clung to the gutter – it was three storeys high, with a wide, flat roof. In seconds they had swung a leg over onto the edge, and were upside down. They heaved themselves up and round, and then they were standing upright, holding onto nothing. They stood there, swaying, on the very edge of the roof, looking for a place to go – undecided, arms outstretched.
Every face gazed up, and there was a terrible silence.
Like a gymnast, Richard and Rikki simply threw themselves upwards in a wild somersault. They scrabbled at the air, trying to rise, but gravity held them back. They hung there for a moment, and somebody screamed. Then they fell, head first, down towards the unforgiving concrete.
Salome was under them. So was Mrs Westlake and Mr Barlow. Somehow – between them – they caught the falling boy. Rikki’s skull jarred against his mother’s, but he was gathered in by the shoulders and torso. He was laid gently on his side, his chest heaving, and Dr Warren knelt beside him. He had a sedative ready, and he injected it as quickly as he dared.
Every child watched, in horrified silence.
‘Get the car,’ said Dr Warren. He could hardly speak. ‘This boy needs care.’
‘My husband’s on his way—’
‘No. We’re taking him, Mrs Westlake.’ He looked at Salome. ‘Take your hands off. You can’t help him. He needs emergency care now – for his own safety and protection, so . . . everyone back, please. Attempted suicide: this is just what I predicted.’ He picked the boy up, helped by the orderly, and in a moment they were moving.
‘No,’ said Mrs Westlake. ‘You can’t—’
‘The paperwork’s done,’ said Dr Warren furiously. ‘There’s no other option.’
CHAPTER FOUR
They awoke in the Rechner Institute, but everything had changed.
It was a section Richard had never seen before, with red alarm buttons on the walls, and low ceilings. They’d come through the high-security gates in Dr Warren’s sleek BMW, and a trolley had been waiting with more, muscular, orderlies. Elevators had swished them up and down until it was hard to remember if they were in a deep basement or high in the sky. The doors opened to the swiping of cards and there was no sign of any nurses.