A Funeral for an Owl Page 4

  “Honest, I’m not spying.” He sulked in the way of those caught red-handed, looping the strap of the binoculars over his mother’s proffered wrist.

  “What would you call it then?” They dangled hypnotically. “I thought I told you to leave these where they were! Keeping something you find is only one step short of stealing!”

  Mrs Stevens’s disappointment was enough to make any boy hang his head. “What am I going to do with you?” Her sigh signalling a weakening, Jim grabbed the opportunity to look dog-eyed. “Find something useful to do with them, or I’ll put them back where we found them!”

  Hopping back onto the sofa with a silent celebratory Yes! Jim moved his line of vision towards the railway. Something hovering eerily white made him gasp, “It’s a ghost!”

  “Don’t talk daft. Give them here.” Jean pulled at the binoculars until he loosened his grip. Now, you’re interested, he might have said. “Nothing there. Can’t see a thing.” As Jim twisted the dials, she breathed, “My word,” a near whisper. “I haven’t seen one of them in years - and they were a rare sight then!”

  “One of what?” The boy danced impatiently.

  “That’s no ghost, love.” Her unmoving eyes were disbelieving. “It’s an owl.”

  “Give us a look, Mum,” Jim whined.

  She batted his hand away. “Just look at it!” Jim squinted, but could see little. “Ah, that’s our lot for tonight,” she said at last, glancing at her watch. “Your granddad told me that owls usually come back to the same place. If we’re lucky, our friend might be a regular. Get yourself a book on birds from the library and we’ll figure out which type he is.”

  Jim spent the following evening training the binoculars on the railway cuttings, while his mother trawled through the borrowed book. She was concentrating so hard that, for once, she barely seemed to notice the trains rumbling past below. After a while her voice became animated. “This is the one! Listen: ‘Barn Owl, Recognised by its distinctive white, heart-shaped face.’ Isn’t that a great description? ‘Golden buff upperparts with pale grey and black mottling. The female is larger with more streaking and spotting. Couples pair for life’ - ah, that’s nice. ‘Eats small mammals, frogs, birds and insects.’ That must be why they like it down by the tracks! The place is swarming. You see! It says here that they hover. And listen to this! Lots of people make the mistake of thinking they’re seeing ghosts at first.” She carried on, not expecting any response, while her son focused on the spot where he had last seen the owl.

  Sunday: “I’d like you to keep me company this afternoon.” Jim’s mother trapped him in the frame of the living room door. She had worked six days on and, contrary to instructions from on high, had spent the morning cleaning their own home.

  “But I’m playing footie down the park.” It was a lie, of course, but there was always a game to be found. A man down, it didn’t matter how weird the lads thought you were. And what did Jim care if he didn’t get to be Lineker or Gazza?

  “They’ve had you all week.” She zombie-walked him into the living room. “I’m not asking, I’m telling. And don’t Oh Mum me! There’s a film just starting I want you to see.”

  “What’s it called?” He glared dubiously at the opening credits. There wasn’t even any music.

  “Kes.” Having walked backwards, Mum levered herself onto the sofa with a groan. “It’s about a boy who keeps this hawk as a pet.”

  “What sort of a name’s Kes?” he scoffed.

  “Kes is the bird. The boy’s name is Billy.” She extended one hand towards the screen. “Look at him: he breaks my heart.”

  Jim clocked a boy, eyes set too far apart in a pinched face. A concave-chested boy, too skinny for his school uniform. “He talks funny,” he sneered, flopping down heavily.

  “He’d probably think you talk funny.” She slapped his knee, playfulness barely disguising her serious intent. “Shut up and watch.”

  Jim crushed a cushion against his chest, preparing to sulk. For the next ninety minutes he was riveted, watching this boy - the runt of a family that was like theirs in many ways. Ridiculed. Picked on. Using goalposts as a climbing frame when he should have been defending. Caned for being caught sleeping during assembly. Asked to explain himself, shrugging: ‘Dunno, Sir.’

  “Don’t know when to keep your mouth shut, that’s your problem,” Jim muttered, then caught his mother’s bemused expression. “What?”

  She held her palms up, stifling a laugh. “Did you hear me say anything?”

  But it was in protest that Jim turned to his mother when Billy’s brother killed the bird: “Ah! You can’t do that! All because he didn’t put the bet on for him?”

  Jean had clamped one hand over her mouth. She was crying. His mother only ever cried when she watched the television.

  “You upset about the bird, Mum?” he asked.

  Then the scene cut and the credits started to roll. Feeling as if he’d taken a punch in the guts, Jim protested, “That can’t be it, can it? There’s got to be a part two.” There had been no attempt to make anything come right. Billy’s dad didn’t turn up and give his bastard brother the kicking he deserved, and his mother sure as hell wasn’t going to do anything about it. She was only interested in her boyfriend.

  Mum swiped at the corners of her eyes, attempting to smile. “I didn’t remember it ending like that.”

  It was brutal, brutal enough to make Jim want to stay curled on the sofa, thoughts of football forgotten. Knees up, he put a cushion on top of his head and pulled two corners down around his ears.

  Jean’s hands were busy gathering up the foil from their Viscount biscuits. “I wanted to show you that you can rise above your background, not that it just -” She cut off, just like the film.

  Numb, Jim stared at the place on the mantelpiece where the photograph of the four of them, all laughing, used to live. Perhaps the ‘happy ending’ was only ever a Polaroid. Perhaps all stories should cut to the credits like Kes.

  “You be my exception, love,” his mother was saying.

  It hit him, then. He’d always thought Mum was trying to make things alright for him, but that wasn’t it. All along, she’d been asking him to make everything alright for her. And it was too tall an order for a small boy.

  CHAPTER 4: AYISHA - JULY 2010 - ASHFIELD COMPREHENSIVE

  Stage 1 - Deal with the disclosure as it happens; ensuring that the child’s immediate needs are met and that they feel supported.

  Accompanied by an ear-piercing wail, the ambulance left. Ayisha watched its yellow regalia disappear from view. Several blades had been discovered, secreted in socks and waistbands.

  Latex gloves held knives by the ends of their handles and dropped them into clear polythene bags, but not one had any obvious signs of blood on it. Chances were, as a police officer had speculated, the boy/s they were looking for had disappeared before Ayisha arrived on the scene. After closing ranks, eight students had been taken to the police station for questioning, their parents informed.

  “No! Not my Otis.”

  “Not my Will. You don’t understand. He’s a good boy.”

  What parent would want to believe that their son had come to school armed? But Ayisha recalled the heated discussion at the recent staff meeting. It had centred around teachers’ increased powers of search which would take effect in the autumn term. And this, the last day of the summer term!

  “One of the little buggers in every class!” Mr Baker - English Department and resident voice of doom - had railed, quoting the latest statistics about the numbers of knife-carrying children.

  “That’s the national average,” Mrs Walker, Home Economics, contributed. “In London, we can expect double. And I hardly need remind you: they have access to knives in my class -”

  The room had erupted, words flying, colliding mid-air.

  “You should count the sharps out and count them back in again!”

  “What a farce! I haven’t even got any facilities to lock them away!”
>
  “Another Risk Assessment.” As eyes flashed judiciously towards Mr Peel, the Head scribbled furiously. “Something else to look into.”

  Now, Ayisha wondered briefly if she should mention to the police the possibility that the knives might have come from within the school. No, if that was the case, it would be obvious. A set of six identical paring knives: that would be a scandal.

  Counselling was offered to those who remained, but all the kids wanted to do was filter away, arms draped heavily around one another’s shoulders. Tonight’s celebrations would be subdued. Bodies clinging to each other, offering what comfort they could. But first, they had to be prised away from friends. Reluctant voices, uncertain of allegiances, gave names and addresses, details of where they could be contacted over the next couple of weeks. As she supplied her mother’s address, it struck Ayisha that she had a legitimate excuse to postpone her visit. Almost immediately she felt sickened. Was she really contemplating how she might use this appalling situation to her advantage? A new measure of how infuriating her mother was.

  Now the grounds were virtually clear, an unsettling hush had descended. It wouldn’t have surprised Ayisha to see tumbleweed rolling across the quad, accompanied by the hollow breath of dry wind, the speciality of the Westerns her father used to fall asleep in front of on Sunday afternoons. Kneeling on the tarmac opposite Shamayal, Ayisha saw his hands on the ground, as if he needed something to hold on to. Angling her head, she lifted her eyes to his face. “You did really well back there. Are you OK?”

  Shamayal was only fourteen. How he came to be in the quad with the older boys was a mystery, but not one the police felt deserved their overstretched resources. He sniffed, sitting back on the heels of his trainers. The look he threw her suggested that she, with her flawed knowledge of first aid, was hardly the best of judges.

  “Din’t have a fat lot of choice, did I?”

  Whatever his vocabulary lacked, Shamayal’s tone compensated for. He could clothe a word in sarcasm. Disguise disdain with respect. Ignoring his tone, Ayisha conceded that the boy had a valid point: told to kneel, he had knelt. “But you didn’t panic - which is more than I can say for myself!”

  “S’pose.” He pulled the end of his nose twice, moved his mouth in a circle. “So, what happens now, Miss?”

  “Now? Once the boys’ parents have arrived, the police will question them. Hopefully, they’ll make an arrest.”

  “That’s not what I meant, is it? I want to know what happens to Jim.”

  Immediately, Ayisha felt her shoulders tense, aware of her duty to act on any suggestion that the boundaries of the teacher/pupil relationship had been breached. “If you mean Mr Stevens, he’ll be rushed into surgery.”

  “I meant exactly what I said. Jim’s my friend.”

  Not now: please don’t make a disclosure to me while Jim’s fighting for his life. Her next choice of words must be measured. Her role was to listen, not to lead. “Has Mr Stevens been assigned as your mentor?” Ayisha asked, hoping for an easy explanation.

  “Din’t you hear me?”

  We’re both in shock, she told herself. It would be a turn of phrase, no more. “Shamayal,” Ayisha was firm. “Mr Stevens is my friend. I know he’s a very helpful person to talk to but he’s your teacher -”

  “You don’t know nuffin about it! We do stuff together.” This description, combined with the boy’s indignation, implied significance. “We go places together, yeah? If you really was his friend, he’d of told you. What you are is his colleague!”

  Ayisha crushed her urge to hiss Think what you’re saying! Surely the boy wasn’t so naïve that he would be open about a friendship? Not unless there was an innocent explanation. Jim would know the boy’s family, that was it! Perhaps they attended the same church.

  Footsteps: a male police officer was approaching. Grabbing the opportunity for time out, Ayisha retrieved her ruined shoes, her paperback, and brushed her trousers to rid them of several clinging tarmac nuggets. She walked to meet him halfway.

  “How’s the boy?” he asked.

  “Shaken.” Ayisha’s smile was a wince. “He’s had a lot to take in.”

  The policeman glanced over her shoulder towards Shamayal. “I should give him a lift home. Explain the state he’s got himself into, if nothing else!” He scanned the playground. “We’re just about done here. If you want to be on your way, we’ll seal the scene.”

  Ayisha lowered her voice. “Did the kids have much to say?”

  “No one saw a thing, would you believe? To be honest, we expected as much. It’ll be easier to convince them to talk in their own homes. Your Head thought you might know if Jim Stevens has any family we can contact.” Ayisha’s eyes followed the police officer’s nod in Mr Peel’s direction. He looked up from his clipboard, meeting her gaze apologetically. “The number down for next-of-kin turned out to be an ex-girlfriend’s.”

  Ayisha looked away. What did she really know about her colleague? “And there are no contacts in his mobile?”

  “Nothing obvious. We don’t want to start calling people at random, not if we can help it.”

  Her mind strayed back to that drunken Friday evening in the Windsor Castle. She’d barely let Jim get a word in, too busy complaining about her mother.

  “According to her, my trouble is that I cut myself off.”

  “Is that true?” He’d asked, as if on cue.

  “If you must know, I want to decorate my living room. Until she mentioned it, I wasn’t aware that there was any trouble with me at all!”

  “I -”

  “You want to know what her answer was?” Ayisha was aware that she had interrupted, but wanted to finish her story. “‘Internet dating? My friend tells me there’s a very good website. I wrote it down for you: Asiandating - all one word - dot com. Have you got that?’ It’s as if everything I’ve achieved counts for nothing because I don’t have a husband.” She had nudged the leg of his stool with the toe of one shoe. “Don’t tell me your mother isn’t demanding grandchildren?”

  “I’m sure she would be.” Jim absent-mindedly picked up a beer mat and ran it through his hand, rotating it onto each of its four sides on the tabletop.

  Now, she winced at the memory. His conversation killer. “All I know is that his mother died some years ago,” she told the police officer.

  “He’s got a father and an older bruvver.”

  At the sound of Shamayal’s voice, they both pivoted. He was standing right behind them, looping the strap of an Adidas bag over his head. The square of purple sat awkwardly to one side, the strap a little too short; his blood-stained shirt untucked on one side. The boy’s feet were planted wide and his hands were folded over his chest. “Can’t stand to be within a mile of ‘em. Least, that’s what he said.”

  Ayisha’s throat tightening, she waited for the police officer’s reaction.

  “Shamayal, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” the boy elongated the simple word, nodding.

  “You’ve earned yourself a lift.”

  Feet shuffling uncomfortably, Shamayal’s trainers raked the tarmac. “No, you’re alright.”

  “Come on. You’re going to stick out like a sore thumb wandering the streets looking like that.”

  Shamayal glanced down at his shirt, surprised but apparently not shocked to find it blood-stained. “S’pose,” he said. “Don’t want to get myself arrested.”

  “You go,” Ayisha told them both. “I’ll let Mr Peel know.”

  As Shamayal dragged his feet away, Ayisha returned her attention to Mr Peel, the school’s Designated Person for child protection. She knew the protocol: she must report her exchange with Shamayal, using his precise words.

  At her approach, Mr Peel broke off from his conversation with the school manager to defer to her. “Everything under control?”

  “The police are taking Shamayal Thomas home. I need -” Her mouth had dried up. Already, after the interruption from the police officer, the boy’s words see
med less distinct. And Shamayal was in no immediate danger.

  “You were about to say?” Mr Peel prompted, his voice weary but not unkind.

  She recalled Jim’s crooked, pained smile. You. Imagine he didn’t make it. What kind of headlines would the papers print?

  “Nothing.” And with a self-deprecating smile, her decision seemed to have been made. “I mean, it’s just it’s all been…”

  Mr Peel studied her face paternally. “You look pale. Did you get yourself checked over?”

  “I’m fine. Honestly.”

  “Why don’t you get off home? We can finish up here.”

  “If you don’t need me, perhaps…” Ayisha had the strange impression of being outside herself, of watching herself go through the motions. How surprisingly easy it was to put one foot in front of the other and walk away.

  “Ayisha!”

  Heat rushed to her face. Was she really so transparent? She turned, asking, “Yes?” Her voice sounded unnatural.

  “I’ll need your report, I’m afraid.” Mr Peel’s expression was apologetic. It took Ayisha a moment to realise that it was only her first aid role he was referring to.

  “Of course.”

  “I’d love to say there’s no rush, but it’s best to write it while everything’s still fresh. Why don’t I give you my home number? Here.”

  How simple it was, the lie of omission. But with each moment’s delay, how difficult it would be to unravel.

  She took the triangular scrap of paper he offered and waved it. “I’ll be in touch.”

  CHAPTER 5: JIM - JULY 2010 - ST HELIER HOSPITAL

  Jim’s body anaesthetised, his mind was free to wander. And, in the manner of dreams, it wandered all the way back to 1992 where it lingered on a face: the golden face of Aimee White. Lying back in the grass, his stomach muscles tightened as he lifted his head a couple of inches, squinting up at her through narrowed slits. “What kept you?”

  Hands behind her back, she swung. “I’ve been busy, haven’t I?”

  At the time, as she positioned herself in the grass, unnerving him with her electrical proximity, he remembered observing that she wasn’t pretty and she wasn’t ugly, but somewhere in between. Just as well: if she’d been a Pamela Anderson - or even a Winona Ryder - she’d have frightened the crap out of him. But Aimee was still a girl, an older one at that, whose limbs exuded the scent of digestive biscuits and White Musk - from the Body Shop, so she told him. Now he contemplated that he found that face beautiful: its wide-spaced eyes, its constellation of freckles, its gap-toothed smile. Perhaps it was her youth that was attractive. She was still thirteen years old, but, from the way he was dressed in his favourite Ted Baker shirt and his size twelve Converse trainers, he appeared to be thirty.