novel

Mr Wolf had been a teacher at Fairweather School for fifteen years, and had never got used to the howls and barks that students would make behind his back as he walked across the courtyard. He tried to convince himself that they were just making fun of him because underneath it all they really liked him, but it never worked.

Fairweather School had been good to him, he thought to himself. Good job, good pay, and he did enjoy working with the students.

Today, however, he had a different problem. McManus was back. “God, no,” he said to himself wearily. “And I’ve got him for three lessons today.” Mr Wolf’s first name was Thomas, but everyone called him Mr Wolf. It was just one of those things he would have to put up with, he thought.

Mr Wolf was a tall, thin man, with elbow patches in his jacket, and three different colour pens in his top pocket. He told himself that at any time he could be asked to correct something, so he needed a red one. And he might have to scribble something to photocopy, so he needed a black one. The blue one was for everything else, like writing little notes to Mrs McManus about what her son had been up to that day. He hadn’t had to do that for three weeks now, ever since McManus was suspended for the firecrackers in the toilet bowl episode.

All the teachers gathered together in the staff room for their regular morning meeting. The Deputy was Hennaman - that’s all, just Hennaman. No Mr, no first name. He was a balding, middle-aged man with no sense of humour. The teachers soon learned that you didn’t try to make a joke with Hennaman, because either he didn’t get it, or if he did, he didn’t think it was funny. “What’s funny about that?” he would say. Either way, you were wasting his time.

“Miss Westrel is away today, sick,” said Hennaman. “There are no relief teachers around, so Barnstable, Potter, Mercurio and Wolf have picked up extras.” Mr Wolf hoped it wouldn’t be another class with McManus – three was enough for one day.

“And class 10.3 will all have to report to Room 9 at Recess to clean up the mess they left behind yesterday. Simpson, will you look after that?” Mr Simpson nodded silently, knowing they made the mess when he was supervising them anyway, so he didn’t have much choice.

“As you all know, McManus is back today.” There was a pause. “He is on a good behaviour contract.” Another pause. Hennaman’s eyes darted about at the group. “I know that many of you were upset about the previous incident…” (more darted looks)…”but I can assure you that the Major Behavioural Incident panel has discussed this matter fully, and it is in the best interest of the school and the student that he resume with us.”

Hennaman waited for it.

“What about us?” said Mr O’Farrell. “We don’t want him back. After what he did.” O’Farrell was the Biology teacher, and the other teachers all expected him to say something. Still, no one joined in.

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” said Hennaman, unconvincingly, then quickly moved on to the next topic. “The Principal will be away for three days at a Conference, so if you want anything you’ll have to see me.”

Mr Wolf left the staff meeting feeling depressed. He was always wondering if he made the right decision to become a teacher. “Bit late now,” he would say to himself. But whenever he sat back and thought about it…..

There he was. McManus was sitting outside Room 12. He was a small boy with neat spectacles and a pleasant smile. He was always in correct uniform, and even wore the right sort of shoes. He was evil.

Mr Wolf tried to ignore him as he walked to Home Room.

“Good morning, Mr Wolf,” said McManus pleasantly, as he walked past.

Mr Wolf never knew when McManus was sending him up, so he always assumed he was.

“What did you say?”

“I said “Good morning Mr Wolf”,” said McManus again, courteously.

“I know what you said,” Mr Wolf replied. “It’s the way that you said it…” His voice drifted off, as he realised how McManus was making a fool of him again. “Don’t do it again.”

McManus didn’t say anything, and Mr Wolf opened the door to the room. The cleaners had not been in overnight, so the room smelled like old sneakers. Mr Wolf started to open the windows to let in some fresh air.

“Good morning, Sir,” said Sarah Foxbridge.

“Good morning, Sarah,” said Mr Wolf, pleased to talk to a cheerful soul.

“The school’s on fire, Sir,” said Sarah, calmly.

Mr Wolf looked outside to see white smoke coming from the room next door. “Where did McManus go? He was sitting there just a minute ago..,” he thought to himself.

The fire was in a rubbish bin just inside the door. Mr Wolf ran to the Fire Hose and pulled it out. He turned the nozzle and quickly put out the fire.

“You wet my bag!” Angelo Pappas picked up his drenched belongings and unzipped the top section. He pulled out his Discman and CD wallet and checked they were still dry. They were.

“Sorry about that, Angelo,” said Mr Wolf.

“That’s OK, Sir. It’ll dry out. Bit of a mess though.”

Mr Wolf took the half-melted bin out onto the grass.

“I’ll look after it.” Skillen the gardener had arrived, attracted by the smoke. “Bit of a mess though.”

“God, what a mess!” Mrs Halfpenny, the next door Home Room teacher, had finally arrived. She was a large woman with huge breasts and no neck. When she got angry her four chins quivered, and her glasses seemed to fog up. Mr Wolf had seen this happen once. Until then he didn’t believe it was possible. She wasn’t angry now. She was in super-organised mode.

“Kieran, get a mop from the Front Office! Sally, pick up all that rubbish! Tomaso, open the windows! Yes, you! Go on!” Students with jobs hurried off, and those without jobs disappeared quickly to avoid getting one.

“Thanks, Violet.” Mr Wolf always called Mrs Halfpenny Violet, even in front of students. He knew that she always preferred to be called Violet.

Mr Wolf went back to his Home Room, and gathered his group together. He called the Roll, read out the Morning Notices, and thought about McManus.

“Weed!”

The boys scattered along well-worn paths. They knew what to do when they heard the name of the Science Teacher. It meant trouble, and if you were already in trouble, it meant more trouble. Two boys disappeared around the corner of the Science Block, but one only made it to the nearest bush.

“Come here, Smirkin.”

Smirkin emerged slowly from behind the bush.

“Me, Sir?”

“Yes, you.” Smirkin approached Weed slowly. The boys called him Weed because… well, because they had always called him Weed. His real name was Mr Partington. “Well, what have you been up to?”

“Nothing, Sir.”

“Nothing my foot! You’ve been smoking, haven’t you? And don’t lie to me, I’ve heard plenty of your lies, and they’re not normally very good ones.”

“I swear I wasn’t smoking,” Smirkin lied.

“Come here.” Mr Partington motioned Smirkin closer. “Come on, here.” Mr Partington pointed to the ground directly in front of his feet. Smirkin edged closer.

“Open your mouth.”

“Sorry?”

“I said, open your mouth.” Smirkin looked at Mr Partington. Slowly he opened his mouth.

“Breathe out.”

Smirkin breathed out. Mr Partington leant forward, his hands behind his back, till his nose was in front of Smirkin’s mouth. He could have been smelling a rose.

“Less than five minutes ago. And your clothes stink of smoke as well.”

Smirkin stood still. “Who would spend their life smelling other people’s breath?” he thought to himself.

Mr Partington stood up. He was a tall man, so it took a long time. Smirkin thought about running away at this point, but decided against it.

“See, I said you’re not a very good liar.”

Smirkin wondered whether he was supposed to be a better liar, or a worse one.

“Front Office,” Mr Partington said briskly. “And get a move on.”

Smirkin turned to leave.

“Wait a minute.” Mr Partington walked around to face Smirkin. “Who were the others?”

Smirkin had been expecting this.

“There wasn’t anyone else.”

“Yes there was. I saw two other boys running away. One was McManus, wasn’t it, Smirkin? Hmmm, wasn’t it?”

“No, Sir,” Smirkin lied again.

“Well, it will all come out in the wash, so you had better be telling me the truth now. Otherwise, you’re for Deadman.”

Smirkin’s chest shrunk when he heard the name. Deadman was bad news, even worse than Hennaman. No-one liked being grilled by Deadman, even if he was the best teacher in the school. He was a crazy man. Parents held meetings about Deadman, about how the school should get rid of him, about how their children had nightmares about his classes. But he was still there, after thirty years.

“McManus and who?” said Mr Partington, who smelled the fear on Smirkin’s skin when he mentioned the name of the dreaded Mr Deadman. “Works every time,” he smirked inwardly.

“Bolton, Sir…. but don’t tell them I told you!”

“Of course, of course,” Mr Partington grinned. “I’ll be in the Front Office in five minutes. Make sure you are there before me.”

Smirkin hurried off, to catch up with McManus and Bolton so that they could get their stories together. Time was short.

“Another win,” Mr Partington thought to himself. “Got to enjoy them while you can..”, and he hurried off to brief Hennaman.

Mr Deadman was in a hurry. He was always in a hurry, except when he wasn’t. Knots of students untangled as Deadman approached. He passed between them, and then they reformed after he had gone.

“Chrysanthemums, chrysanthemums, chrysanthemums,” he kept muttering to himself as he pushed on. He mustn’t forget chrysanthemums. “And petunias, and snapdragons.”

Mr Deadman walked up the hill towards the school. He could see the blue and ochre colours of the stone that made up the Administration Block, and the white roof with its satellite dish, TV antenna, and steep-pitched roofing iron.

He approached from around the corner where Armstrong the Art Teacher in a fit of madness one afternoon had taken all of his Junior Art students to the Back Wall and given them all a can of spray paint. The result was ghastly, agreed everyone - except the Principal, who was away at a Conference when it all happened, and had been informed on the flight back by a parent who knew about it, and who thought it was a great example of how the school was “allowing the creative juices of our students to flow.” Then the Craft Teacher –“forget her name, stupid bitch”, Mr Deadman thought to himself – got the local paper, who were always looking for a story, to photograph it. Then the school was in the paper, for good reasons, and so as far as the Principal was concerned, the wall stayed, as is.

He turned the corner. The door to the Computer Lab had been left open. Mr Deadman looked in. No-one was there. He walked on, without closing the door. “Chrysanthemums.”

Two doors further on Mr Deadman found the entrance to the Library. He swung the silver glass doors open and walked straight to the Fiction section. No-one was in the Library – it was often empty. Even the Librarian would go out every so often to have a smoke in his car.

Mr Deadman picked up a book and walked straight out of the Library again. He had more Library books than anyone in the entire school, but he didn’t know where they were. Mr Stapleton, the Librarian, had a firm opinion. “Gives them to his students to read, no doubt.” What happened to them after that he wasn’t sure.

“Morning, Deadman.”

It was Skillen. Deadman and Skillen had known each other for a long time, and each considered the other was crazy. Skillen was a short man with a face like a lizard. To add to the impression, he had a habit of poking his tongue out all the time, as if to taste the air.

“You haven’t seen Simpson about, have you?” said Skillen. “Those bloody students of his keep walking across the garden here.” He pointed to the offended area. “Spend a week putting in a concrete path, so that they don’t have to walk through the garden, and it’s a bloody waste of time.” He liked saying bloody a lot.

Deadman looked at the new path. Skillen was upset when the wet concrete was graffitied too. Someone had scrawled “DM DM DM” across the path. Skillen was not enjoying his job lately.

“What’s the book?”

“Sons and Lovers.” Deadman did not look up. “Lawrence.”

It was a conversation ender. There was a long pause. Both men were comfortable with long pauses. They stared down at the garden.

“Well, if you see Simpson, let him know I need to see him,” Skillen said as he continued on his way.

“Yeah, sure,” said Deadman, still looking at the path, lost in thought.

Three Yr 8 girls came around the corner, chatting about nothing at all. They saw Deadman and stopped talking.

“Don’t go through the bloody garden!” Deadman shouted at them. One more step and they would be through the garden and onto the verandah. “Use the path – that’s what it’s for.” The girls obediently retraced their steps and walked back to the new path. They knew Deadman was not for arguing with – some of their friends had ended up in tears when they tried to argue with him. One had her mother ring to complain, but even Deputy Hennaman was afraid of him.

Deadman walked on, back to his class.

All his students were working quietly. He often left his class to get a cup of coffee, get a book from the Library, or sit outside.

“I know what you’ve been told,” he would say to his students at the beginning of the year. “I know what they’ve said. They said I was a mean, cruel, nasty teacher who made people cry in class when they didn’t hand up their work. Well, you know something – that’s all true. They said I would throw things at people who weren’t listening – that’s true too. And don’t go saying you will tell on me. Go and tell Mum and Dad. Go and tell the Principal. Go on. I don’t care. I’ve been sacked from better places than this!” He hadn’t, of course.

Mr Deadman would pace around the room looking at each of his students intently. He knew that this was his lot – that he was too old now to change careers, even if he wanted to. He knew that teaching English to smelly boys and silly girls was his life’s calling. He surveyed his lot. There was Hunter, the computer nerd, who couldn’t string ten words together into an intelligible sentence. And Pascoe, who could, but the words were so plain that he could fall asleep reading them. Then there was Buttman, with the silly last name, and head to match. Wayang, the boy from somewhere in Indonesia, who always smiled when he looked at him, but understood almost nothing he had said.

Yes, this was his lot. But inside these walls for the duration of the lesson he was king. No-one could challenge him, or if they did he knew how to cut them down. So long as he wasn’t interrupted, he was happy.

A boy yawned.

“Am I boring you, son?” The boy looked at Deadman, wondering what he had done wrong.

Deadman spoke louder. “I said, am I boring you?”

“No, Sir,” said Pelligrino.

“Do you have a solicitor, Pelligrino? You might need one after I’m finished with you.” Deadman chuckled inwardly at his little joke – he knew Pelligrino would have no idea what a solicitor was.

“A what, Sir?”

“Now, about your assignments,” he continued, speaking to the class and ignoring Pelligrino’s question. “You have a choice. The world is full of choices. You make yours and accept the consequences. The assignment on Heroes is due on Tuesday. I know many of you have started, but no-one has finished that I know of.”

“I have, Sir”, said Alice, cheerfully.

“Well done, Alice. Can you please make sure, Alice, before you hand up your work, that you wrote it, and not http://www.cheatsville.com/, like last time.”

The class laughed, and Alice sat lower in her chair.

“You can’t laugh, Buttman. At least Alice hands things up. I’ve seen nothing from you all year.”

“I haven’t got a computer at home, Sir. It broke down.”

“Stare at the wall, and take it in.” Deadman said it almost automatically.

The class knew what this meant. Buttman stared at the wall. There was a sheet of A4 paper hanging there, stuck with Blutack. It was covered in sticky clear plastic covering, the same type that covered most of their exercise books. Stuck between the plastic and the paper was a 50 cent coin, enough to make a phone call. Below the coin was printed “Go on, ring someone who cares.”

“Yeah but…but…”

“…man?” Deadman added. He was the only one who got the joke. He was used to this – great one-liners wasted on people who don’t appreciate them.

The inner clock in Deadman told him that the bell to end the lesson was only a few seconds away. He never wore a watch – couldn’t stand the rubbing on his wrist. But having been a teacher for 24 years he knew instinctively when he had to wind up the lesson.

“So, the key thing to remember is…” he began, but was interrupted by the loudspeaker in the corner.

“Please excuse the interruption. A message from Mr Wolf about chess at lunchtime…” it started.

For Deadman, enough was enough. How could someone teach properly when they get interrupted at the most crucial time in the lesson? How could students expect to concentrate when the school Administration keeps overriding the teacher in the classroom? He had put up with the loudspeaker in the corner for long enough. It had to go.

“Right, that’s it!” Deadman strode over to the loudspeaker, grabbed a chair, stepped up, and took hold of the offending object in both hands.

“Could all students please go to…”.

Hoik! The loudspeaker was yanked off the wall, and the connecting wires snapped. The classroom was silent. Some students laughed, others sat open-mouthed.

Still standing on the chair, Mr Deadman held the loudspeaker like a trophy.

The bell went.

No-one moved.

“Well, go on, what are you waiting for?” Mr Deadman said to the students. “Remember, due Tuesday.”

“That’ll fix them. Who do they think is in charge here?” Deadman thought to himself. But he wasn’t thinking about his students, he was thinking about the real enemy, the Administration. He was still standing on the chair, and as he stepped down he thought about what he would say to Hennaman when he asked what happened to the loudspeaker. “The truth, that’s what I’ll tell them.”

Skillen the gardener was sitting on a rock, warming himself in the sun. He was waiting for the Deputy Principal to arrive to tell him what he should do with the old boxthorn outside the girl’s toilet. It was a sunny day, but the wind coming across the oval was bone chilling. Mrs Harvey was on lunchtime yard duty on the oval, and she sat on a bench, huddled in a long coat cradling a cup of coffee in her bony fingers. There was no-one in front of her as she stared dully across the grass. Now and then a student would appear around the corner of the building, survey the scene, and disappear. Mrs Harvey knew that this was the cocky, posted on duty by the girls who were smoking in the toilet to keep an eye out for approaching teachers. She knew it would be pointless to try to do anything, and anyway, it had been this way for a long time – nothing she could do would change things. Some things are best left alone.

Once upon a time, she thought that she could do something to change things, but she had lost that idealism along with a great many other things in her life. Now teaching was something she did because she enjoyed the company. Mostly she enjoyed talking to the girls about this and that. They would chat away, happy to have someone to talk to. Every now and then one of the girls would say something that worried her, but she had learned not to get too close. There was not much she could do to alter what was, so she didn’t make judgements, she just chatted away. The boys were useless – no point even trying to talk to them. Not only did they not say anything that was the slightest bit interesting, but when she said something to them, they either turned it into a smutty joke, or had nothing at all to say. “What a waste of a Y chromosome,” she would think to herself.

Her husband had got up and left three years ago, in the middle of the year. Seems he ran off with a woman he met at this conference he was attending. “She’s welcome to him,” she thought to herself at the time. He taught at the school as well. Just rang up one day and said to Hennaman “Won’t be in today. I’m quitting.” Hennaman didn’t say anything, didn’t ask why he quit, didn’t ask about what had happened. Hennaman had heard it all before.

She wasn’t sure how to let the news out at the school. When Mr. Harvey didn’t turn up at the beginning of semester, students started asking questions. Eventually the rumour spread that Mr. Harvey had left Mrs. Harvey, and one day she just said “Yes, that’s right,” as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and the students forgot about it. Not one student ever asked again. “Sometimes it’s not what happens to you that’s important, it’s how you handle what’s happened to you,” she thought to herself. She had lived by this motto ever since, refusing to get too upset, not getting too involved, keeping her distance.

McManus appeared in front of her. For a fleeting second she thought to herself “Where did he come from?” She glanced behind her to see if there was anyone there. No-one was.

“Are you alright, Miss?”

“Yes, I’m fine, thanks.”

“It’s just that.. well.. you’ve been crying.”

“No, I haven’t,” she muttered quickly as she realised that there was indeed a tear running down her cheek. She brushed it away with her hand.

“Thank you, McManus, I’m OK now.”

“Can I carry your bag for you Miss?” McManus was a picture of courtesy and consideration.

“No, I’ll be alright. Thanks anyway.”

The bell went for the beginning of the next class.

“Oh, I’d better go. You, too, I suppose.”

“I’ve got you, Miss.”

“Oh, yes, so you do.” Mrs Harvey started to think that McManus was trying to make a fool of her. “Well, we’d both better go, then.” She walked off ahead of McManus towards the staffroom. “Don’t trust that boy one bit”, she thought to herself.

Ahead she saw Carbone and Martini carrying someone who was screaming loudly. They had nearly reached the Front Office. Mrs Harvey walked towards class.

Tommy Peroni was a large boy. Not obese, just large. “I’ve got big bones,” he would say, loudly. Tommy said everything loudly. And he was especially loud now.

“Owwww… Jeeez… get your hand… don’t drop me!… don’t let go!...”

Tommy was being carried. This was no mean effort on the part of his mates. There was Rocco Martini, who was holding Tommy’s left leg. Tommy was jerking his leg about, making it difficult for Rocco to hold on. Rocco’s job was made even more difficult because he was carrying his school bag as well, slung over his shoulder, and every so often the bag would slip forward off his shoulder and crash into Tommy’s leg.

“Owwww… Jeeez…” Tommy would growl beneath his breath as this happened.

The other leg was being held up by Ozzie Carbone. Ozzie was a thin boy with the features and personality of a weasel. He was always turning his head from side to side, looking at this person, then the next, always about to say something, but never did. When he did speak, it was only to finish a sentence begun by someone else. He was incapable of independent thought.

Both boys, it seems, had carried Tommy in this fashion for quite a long distance – from behind the tennis courts to the Sick Bay, where they dropped Tommy down onto the one spare bed, on Hennaman’s orders. “Don’t go anywhere!” Hennaman barked at Carbone and Martini, knowing full well that they may be central to getting to the bottom of this. The two boys froze midstride and turned around. “You!.. (Hennaman pointed to Carbone) .. sit there!” Carbone looked at Martini, went to say something, then sat down on the chair outside Hennaman’s office. “You!... sit over there.” Martini went to sit in the visitor’s chair. “Not there!.. there!” Martini moved over to the less fancy chair outside the Sick Bay.

“What are you two doing here?” Hennaman barked at Bolton and Smirkin.

“Mr Partington asked us to wait here, Sir. He’s coming in a minute.”

“Then don’t go away.”

“What’s that smell?” Hennaman’s nose stabbed the air. He looked down at the pathetic figure of Tommy Peroni lying on the bed in the Sick Bay. “Jane, watch those two. They don’t go anywhere.” Mrs Thompson, the office lady, looked at Carbone and Martini. “Nurse, can you come inside?”

The School Nurse, Mrs Wheedle, stepped inside the room and Hennaman closed the door of the Sick Bay.

Hennaman looked at Peroni’s leg. There was a burn mark on his trousers, where the pocket once was. The room smelled of gunpowder. Peroni was groaning. “Owww… owww..”

“Oh, shut up!” said Hennaman, beginning to piece together the events. There was another smell, like acetone.

“Lighter fluid,” said Nurse Wheedle, with calm authority. “And this is the remains of a firecracker.”

Hennaman’s mind went back three weeks. “So now I’ve got you,” he thought to himself triumphantly. That was when Skillen had come to him, carrying the remains of something ceramic. “The little bastards!” Skillen said. “They’ve taken to blowing up the toilet pans!” Hennaman listened impassively as Skillen told him of how he had been cleaning the toilets, and had just stopped for a moment because… well because… well… nature called, and he was sitting down, and he had been there a couple of minutes…and …he leaned forward…and well, he was in the middle of something big, so to speak, and then there was a great explosion underneath him, and he could hear the sound of scuttling, like giant rats, behind the three-quarter wall where the cisterns were. By the time he had gathered himself together, the little bastards had gone. Skillen’s tongue was darting in and out as he got more excited.

When he surveyed the scene, Hennaman found the remains of a large firecracker that had been dropped over the wall, over the cistern and into the pan that Skillen was sitting on. “They must have been watching him, and waited till the moment he leaned forward. Even then it required exquisite timing to drop it so that it went off before it hit the water. Maybe it had a waxed wick”, he thought.

Now, three weeks later, he might have his man.

“Well, go on then – what happened?” Hennaman said to Tommy Peroni impatiently.

“Nothing, Sir….” Tommy whined through the pain.

“Well, there’s nothing seriously wrong with you. A burn, that’s all. Might need a skin graft. They’ll take the skin from some part of your body you rarely use – like your brain!” Hennaman almost smiled at his wit. Peroni looked at the Nurse for reassurance, and found none. “You stink of smoke,” he said in Peroni’s direction. “Fix him up Sister, and I’ll see him later.”

Martini was useless, but Carbone cracked as soon as the pressure was turned up. Hennaman knew Carbone well, especially his weak points. “Mum is….?” “OK, Sir.” “And Dad is…?” “At home for a while.” “Good, say hello to them for me tonight,” said Hennaman, knowing that the mere mention of Carbone’s parents would be enough to remind him that he had better tell him the truth. Dad could be an angry man when roused, as he always was when his son embarrassed the family.

“Now, when all this happened you were…” “…Having lunch, Sir.”

“I know that, Carbone, that’s why it’s called lunch time! Now, I have already spoken to Martini, and he has told me the whole story, so I know the miserable details. The only thing I’m interested in is whether you are going to tell me the truth.” Hennaman was bluffing, and Carbone stalled for a time, but eventually the pieces of the story fell together.

The boys always went to the same spot at lunchtime. They would lie down on the grass, faces facing inwards, so that from above they looked like the spokes of a wheel. This meant that when they pulled out their cigarette to share a smoke, there was always someone looking in every direction, in case a teacher appeared in view. Then they could quickly take the smoke and butt it out in the soft earth beneath the grass to avoid detection.

Tommy supplied the lighter. He had the habit of flicking the top of the lighter while he was holding it in his pocket. He did this while talking loudly, telling jokes, and generally holding court. Unfortunately for him, that morning he had also brought a firecracker to school –“to have a bit of fun”. He put the firecracker and the lighter in the same pocket, and while he was carelessly flicking the lighter it lit the firecracker. It went off in his pocket. At this, the boys stared at Tommy rolling around in pain, not knowing whether to scatter or stay, so they scattered, then returned, like seagulls around a chip. Tommy was making loud moaning noises, and was rolling from side to side. “My leg’s been blown off!” he screamed in a mixture of surprise and horror. “Get an ambulance! Get the Nurse! Get off me!” The last comment was directed at Martini who was trying to see closer into the remains of his friend’s pocket, but Tommy kept pushing him away.

Loyal to the end, Carbone and Martini knew that they couldn’t keep it a secret, because Tommy was hurt. If nothing else, Tommy couldn’t be hurt quietly – soon everyone would know about it. So, they picked him up, and carried him, screaming with pain, all the way to the Sick Bay. “Maybe,” said Martini hopefully, “Hennaman will…” “…say we did the right thing?” Martini was always annoyed when Carbone finished his sentences for him, but he didn’t have the time or strength to say anything as he lugged Peroni’s leg up the hill towards Hennaman. Now both he and Carbone were in deep trouble, and he didn’t believe he did anything.

Hennaman would deal with Carbone and Martini later, and Smirkin and Bolton would have to wait, as well. He had important business to attend to.

Sarah Foxbridge sat down on the bench. It was Tuesday morning. She had just got to school, off the bus, and had a lot to do. The night before she worked till 11pm, and didn’t get to bed till 11.30. Now she had a History assignment to finish, and she only had twenty minutes before class.

“There you are.” She recognised Bianca’s cheery voice immediately. “Are you going to the Rocks at lunch?” The Rocks was a part of the school on the other side of the oval. It was called the Rocks because when they finished building the new Science blocks they had to remove all these huge rocks to lay the foundations. They were all left in a big pile out of the way. You could sit between them and get out of the wind and not be seen by anyone. For some reason the boys never went there – it was a refuge for girls only. Some of the girls smoked, but most of the time it was just a nice quiet place to go, where you didn’t get bugged by millions of little Year 8s and 9s with their stupid singing and dancing.

“If I can get this done, I might.” Sarah hoped the hint was strong enough, but Bianca failed to spot it.

“That’s good. I’ve got something to tell you.”

Sarah was determined to get her assignment finished, but this was too much. If she didn’t find out right now what Bianca wanted to tell her then she would have to wait till recess, and by then it would be old news. Sarah wasn’t going to miss the chance of being first to know.

“Tell me what?”

“It’s OK, you’re busy.”

“No I’m not. Tell me.”

“Well…” There was a pause.

“Well what?” Sarah paused, then a look of shock and concern came across her face. “You’re not…” She didn’t know how to finish.

“Not what?”

“You know.”

“No. I don’t know. I’m not what?” Bianca was getting annoyed. She thought for a second, and then it occurred to her what Sarah was thinking. “Pregnant?!” she said, with a sudden recognition.

“You are?!” said Sarah, shocked.

“No, I’m not!”

“Is it Tim? When did you miss…when are you… ?”

“I’m not pregnant!” Bianca said loudly. Loud enough for Gossie to hear as she approached from the bus stop. “Oh no,” thought Bianca, turning away. “Now the whole school will know.” Bianca believed that Gossie was the most aptly named girl in the world. Anything you told Gossie would be whole-school property within minutes. There was never a gossip to match her in the whole history of gossipdom. She was also a first class bitch. Gossie would stab you in the back as sure as look at you. This was serious.

“Hi gang!’ said Gossie. Bianca thought she could see her ears flap and her nose twitch. She thought that was pretty weird. “What’s up? Any goss?” said Gossie.

Bianca knew Gossie had heard her tell Sarah she wasn’t pregnant, so she thought she might as well get it out in the open straight away.

“I’m not pregnant,” she said calmly and hopefully.

“Why would you be?” said Gossie. “Have you been…?”

“No, I haven’t,” said Bianca. She knew Gossie was fishing for anything to tell the mob.

“Then why would you say you’re not pregnant?” Gossie teased, then she jumped in fully clothed. “Have you had an abortion? Does anyone know? Wait till I tell the girls!”

“No, I haven’t had an abortion!” Bianca was even louder than before. “I’m not pregnant because I never was, and I never was because I never did, and I never did because I never have!” She stopped, realising she might have given a bit too much away.

There was a pause.

“Are you a virgin?!” Gossie almost leapt at her in excitement.

“None of you’re business, you bitch,” said Bianca, realising things were going from bad to worse.

“Wow! A real virgin. Well, that’s great, that’s great. Wow!” Gossie sounded less and less genuine every time she said “That’s great” and had a funny look on her face as she got up to walk away. “That’s great..” she said a third time, disappearing around the corner, increasing her speed.

“Oh God! Now that bitch is telling everyone. What will I do?” She looked imploringly in Sarah’s direction.

“She’s a bitch,” said Sarah. “Ignore her.”

“What a bitch. This is not going to be a good day. You’re not going to tell anyone, are you? I mean, you’re my best friend, you wouldn’t …”

“Tell them what. You haven’t told me what you were going to tell me. How can I tell anyone else? And I’ve got this work to finish.” By this time Sarah was about to tell Bianca to go away, but her good nature stopped her. After all, according to Bianca, she was her best friend, which was news to her until then.

“What were you going to tell me, anyway?”

“Oh yes, you know what?” said Bianca, suddenly bubbling with excitement.

“WHAT?!” said Sarah, losing her cool at last.

“I’ve got a new job! At Bubbles. At the Mall. They sell soap. Isn’t that great?”

“Oh..” said Sarah, less than impressed. “That’s it? A new job?”

“Yes. Isn’t that great?”

“Yes – I guess so. Now, I have to finish my History homework, so …I don’t want to be rude …”

“Well, you don’t have to be a bitch too...” said Bianca, getting up to walk away. “What a great day this is going to be!”

The first bell went, and Sarah got up to go to class, hurriedly folding her unfinished work.

McManus was wagging again. He often wagged. School was so boring, and there were lots more interesting things to do than listen to Mrs Harvey rambling on. Fairweather School was an easy school to get lost in. Today he just turned left when everyone else turned right, and in seconds he was alone, behind the Nursery. Then he thought he heard a familiar voice – two of them. He peered round the back of the shed. There was a table, in the sun, and two chairs. Hennaman and Skillen were deep in conversation. Whatever it was that they were discussing, it seemed to be very serious. He couldn’t hear the words, but he could see that Hennaman was poking his finger at Skillen, who was turning his face aside and poking out his tongue. McManus got down on his hands and knees and crept closer to the corner of the shed so that he could hear the conversation.

He thought he heard Hennaman say “…know who it is…” and then “…get away with it…” and “…end of him at last…”

Skillen broke in, speaking really fast because he was so excited. “youjustletmegetmyhandsonhim…” Skillen slavered. McManus could almost picture the saliva falling from his lips. “Sothisiswhatitcomesto,thelittlebastard…”

McManus wondered who it was they were talking about. He thought he’d better get out of there before his hiding place was discovered.