A Thousand Cuts

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They shat in his briefcase.

Don’t ask me when, don’t ask me how. They did it though. I saw it. I wish to God I hadn’t but I was sitting right beside him when he found it.

That was the only time I heard him swear. Usually the staffroom’s like Bill Nicholson Way on a Saturday. We have a swear box, much good it does. The money’s supposed to go to charity, to some hospice or hospital, but I don’t think they’ve ever seen a penny of it. We raid it. The teachers do. You know, for ice creams, biscuits, that sort of thing. I probably shouldn’t tell you that, should I? I’ll probably get the lot of us thrown in gaol. Janet, the headmaster’s secretary, she’s the worst. If you’re going to arrest anyone, arrest her.

Samuel, though. I’d never heard Samuel swear, not until that day. I won’t repeat what he said but you could hardly blame him. Christ knows what the kid must have been eating. I haven’t ever seen a turd that colour. I’d be at the doctor’s in a jiffy if I had. And the size of it. He must have been saving up for days. I won’t mention the smell because you can imagine the smell.

He jumps right up when he sees it, like it’s a tarantula in there or something. He jumps and he knocks the table and coffee, people’s coffee, it goes everywhere. There are a few of us, you know, scattered around on the chairs, around this big coffee table that we’ve got in there, and we’re marking papers or flicking through The Times or the Sun or whatever it is we’re doing. I was reading a book, this book I got sent from the States. It’s about the stock market, stocks and shares. It’s called How to Invest Your Salary and Make Loads of Money and Retire While You’ve Still Got a Life. Something like that. My cousin, Frank, he lives in Minnesota, he’s the one who sent it to me. Reckons he’s made a hundred k in sixteen months. Dollars he’s talking about but still. And he’s basically a moron and I teach economics, right, so I’m thinking, if he can do it, how hard can it be?

The coffee. It goes everywhere. The others start hollering, moaning at Samuel, saying Jesus Christ this, bloody hell that. But I’ve seen what he’s seen and I’m watching this turd roll on to the floor, under the table, and I’m watching Samuel’s face and I can’t help but look at this turd. The others can’t see it yet but they can smell it. Vicky, Vicky Long, she teaches drama, she’s the first. She lifts her chin and flares her nostrils and starts aiming them round the room like the barrels of a shotgun. All very theatrical. She sniffs – rapid fire, sniff sniff sniff. Then the others start doing it. Sniffing. All of them. Sniff sniff sniff. By this time I’ve got my face tucked into my shirt so as the lot of them are sniffing they also start looking at me. And I’m saying, don’t look at me, it’s got nothing to do with me, and that’s when Samuel picks it up.

He could have used a plate or something. Wrapped it in newspaper. I mean, there was a copy of the Sun just lying there and that’s about all it’s good for, right? But for whatever reason Samuel doesn’t feel the need. He just reaches down and picks it up, like maybe he’s dropped his pen, like all he’s doing is picking up his pen. He holds it up. Everyone can see it now. They can see it but that doesn’t explain it. What they’re seeing is Samuel Szajkowski, this weird little bloke with his fluffy little beard, standing in the staffroom, holding up a day-old turd.

It was in his case, I say. He found it in his case.

Because if I hadn’t said that I don’t know what the others would have done. Ran out screaming, half of them. Samuel’s not taking any notice though, he’s just staring at this thing in his hand. For some reason I think he’s going to drop it on me. Throw it to me to catch. I don’t know why. He doesn’t and he wouldn’t have but when someone’s standing over you, his fist around a great big turd, you don’t want to take any chances, do you?

We watch him, the rest of us. Or I do, Vicky does, Chrissie Hobbs does. Matilda and George, they turn away. They don’t want to see it. The rest of us don’t want to see it either but, like I said before, your attention’s kind of drawn to it.

Chrissie, she’s the first to respond. Here, she says. Let me get something.

And Vicky’s saying, don’t touch it, Samuel, put it down.

It was in his case, I say again. Someone put it in his case.

And Samuel, he doesn’t say a word.

He was almost lucky. The people who were there, they were nice people, kind people. I wouldn’t call them Samuel’s friends. Samuel didn’t really have any friends, except Maggie, although some friend Maggie turned out to be. They weren’t his friends but they would have helped him. To clean things up. To sort out his case. They would have helped.

He was almost lucky but then Terence walks in.

I call him Terence. I refuse to call him TJ. I call him TJ to his face because I don’t want to make a fuss. It’s important to him so I say let him have his little nickname. He might not be so keen on it if he knew what some of the kids say it stands for. Tosser Jones, they say. I hear them and I pretend I don’t. Toss Jism. That’s why they call him TJ. He thinks it’s because they all like him. He thinks I like him too. I don’t but what can you do? I work with him. I have to get on with him. It would be awkward for the others if I didn’t.

You’ve met Terence, right? So you’ve got a fair idea about how he might react. When Terence walks in, Samuel’s still standing where he’s standing, still holding this thing in his hand. Chrissie is in the kitchen. She’s got a carrier bag and the washing-up bowl and she doesn’t know which one to bring. I’ve moved away by now so I’m with the others, on the opposite side of the table. We turn to look at Terence and he sees the expressions on our faces and then the lot of us turn around again to look at Samuel.

Poor bugger.

Poor bugger: what am I talking about? He’s a murderer. I keep having to remind myself. He was a murderer. He shot three children. He killed a teacher, an innocent woman. And I’m feeling sorry for the bloke. This psycho nutcase maniac. I’m acting like he deserved compassion.

What’s that?

Well, I suppose that doesn’t surprise me. If he hadn’t done what he did, he might even have deserved it. The sympathy. These people you’ve talked to showing him pity. But not now.

Terence told everyone. The teachers, yes, but the teachers were always going to hear about it. Terence told the kids. He’s friendly with some of them, too friendly if you ask me. He wants to be one of the lads, you know, just a mate, which is not what he’s here for, is it? It took him a moment or two to understand, to realise what was going on, because all of us started gabbling at once. But after that he thought it was hilarious. It was like he wished he’d thought of it himself. So he tells his little buddies and his buddies spread the word and in six or seven minutes the story’s all over the school. For Donovan it was the perfect result. I mean, no one would have been able to prove it was Donovan but it was, of course it was. Even if it was Gideon who did the deed, it would have been Donovan who had the idea.

I had a word with Samuel after that. Everyone knew the kids were giving him a hard time but there’s a line to be drawn somewhere, isn’t there? I couldn’t tell you where, I couldn’t point and say, there, that’s the limit. But shitting in a man’s briefcase. It’s not the kind of thing you stand for. The line, well. It might as well be the horizon.

Go to the headmaster, I say. Tell him what’s been going on.

Samuel shakes his head. I’ve tried, he says. I’ve tried already. He makes to move past me but I hold his arm.

When? I say. What did you tell him?

Samuel just sort of shrugs. Not a lot, he says. Nothing specific. I told him I was finding it hard. I’ve told him more than once.

And?

And that was as far as we got.

But what did the headmaster say? He must have said something.

He told me it was hard. He told me teaching was hard.

Samuel, I say, that’s not good enough. You need to tell him about… about this. About everything. He’ll do something. He’ll have to. I try to make a joke, I say, you’ve got proof at least now, haven’t you? Exhibit number two, your honour.

Samuel seems to consider it. He doesn’t laugh of course but he seems to consider it. So I’m thinking he might go and speak to him but in the end he doesn’t. In the end I have to force him into it.

We’re in the staffroom. This is after lunch one day. I forget when exactly. November maybe? December? It’s me and Samuel and George, although George wanders out after a while, which leaves just me and Samuel. And we’re both minding our own, both of us just reading, when the headmaster appears at the door.

Janet? he says and takes a step into the room. He looks at me. Have you seen Janet?

I say, no, sorry, I haven’t, and he scowls, like he’s convinced that actually I have and I’m not telling him just to spite him. He takes another step and peers round the corner into the kitchen. For just a second or two he’s got his back to us and I don’t even need to think. I give Samuel a dig. I hiss at him. I say, go on, Samuel. Go on. And I give him another prod.

Samuel gets up. He looks at me. He’s trying to decide, I can tell, but he’s running out of time because the headmaster’s finished in the kitchen and he’s turning round and he’s heading for the door and he’s virtually out of the room.

I make a face and Samuel shakes his head. I clear my throat, like I’m about to say something, and I don’t know if the noise startles him or what. He says, Headmaster. Like the word was caught between his tongue and his teeth and just needed a jolt to knock it loose. Headmaster, he says again.

The headmaster stops. He turns to look. Meanwhile I get up and I say, excuse me, and I nip between them and into the kitchen like I’m going to make a coffee. Or that’s what I’m hoping it looks like. The headmaster, though – either he forgets I’m there or he doesn’t particularly care. More likely he doesn’t care. I could have settled into one of the armchairs with a Coke and a bucket of popcorn, and I doubt it would have made any difference.

Headmaster, Samuel says again and Travis says, Mr Szajkowski. What is it?

May I have a word? Just for a moment?

A word? says Travis. He checks his watch. He glances towards the door.

It’s just, I have a problem. I was hoping… I thought perhaps… I was hoping that you could help.

Travis sighs. I can’t see from where I’m standing but I can just picture him rolling his eyes. A problem, he says. But of course you do. I would hardly have expected anything else.

Samuel hesitates. For a moment he doesn’t say anything.

Well, Mr Szajkowski? Please, don’t keep me in suspense.

I’m… I’m having a spot of trouble. With the children.

Again the headmaster sighs. Trouble, he says. What sort of trouble, Mr Szajkowski? With which children?

And Samuel, the silly sod, he thinks he shouldn’t name names. It’s not important who, I don’t expect…

If it’s not important, Mr Szajkowski, then why do you feel so obligated to bring it to my attention? I’m rather busy, as you can imagine.

And for a moment Samuel doesn’t know what to say. He looks across the headmaster’s shoulder and he catches my eye. I nod at him. I nod twice.

They defecated in my briefcase.

This from Samuel. He just comes out with it, just like that.

They did what?

They defecated. In my briefcase.

Who defecated in your briefcase?

I didn’t see anyone do it. But I found it. I still have it, in fact.

You kept it?

No, no, no. I didn’t keep it. Christina Hobbs, she took it. She wrapped it up.

Mr Szajkowski. The headmaster’s pinching the bridge of his nose now. Mr Szajkowski. Perhaps you would do me the courtesy of starting your story at the customary point of departure.

Which throws Samuel completely.

The beginning. Begin, if you would, at the beginning.

So Samuel does. He tells Travis about the coughing and the swearing and that certain classes of his have become unteachable. He tells Travis that he has been tripped, shoved, abused, hounded, spat at. He tells Travis that his bicycle has been vandalised, his seat stolen, his tyres knifed. He tells Travis about the graffiti he has seen, the notes he has discovered in his pigeonhole, the text messages he has received. He tells Travis again what the kids deposited in his briefcase. And then he drops into a chair like he’s physically exhausted and the headmaster’s left standing there looking down at him.

How old are you, Mr Szajkowski?

Samuel looks up. I’m twenty-seven. I was twenty-seven just last week.

Well, congratulations. Did you have a party? Was there a cake?

I’m sorry, I’m not sure I—

Never mind. You’re twenty-seven. A fair age. Not a mature age but an adult one. You are an adult, Mr Szajkowski?

Yes. Yes, I am an adult.

I am pleased to hear it. And your tormentors. How old are they?

They’re year eleven, mainly. Year ten.

Fifteen then. Sixteen perhaps. Fourteen possibly.

That’s right. Yes. I would say that’s right.

Do you not see a discrepancy somewhere, Mr Szajkowski? Do you not sense something awry?

Samuel nods, he’s saying, yes, Headmaster, I do. But they defecated—

In your briefcase. Yes, Mr Szajkowski, you mentioned it. What of it?

Samuel is regretting having sat down, I can tell. The headmaster’s a tall man anyway and now he’s looming right over him.

What of it? Travis says again. What would you have me do? Perhaps I should summon the culprits to my office, make them apologise to you, make them promise in future to play nice. Perhaps, Mr Szajkowski, you would like me to ask them to stop picking on you. Perhaps you think that might help.

No, says Samuel. Of course not. There won’t be any need for—

Or perhaps, Mr Szajkowski – now here’s an idea – perhaps, Mr Szajkowski, you might consider for a moment your function as an employee of this establishment. You are a teacher, Mr Szajkowski. I have reminded you of that fact before but perhaps you have forgotten it. You are a teacher, which means you teach and you lead and you maintain order. You maintain order, Mr Szajkowski. You effect discipline. You do not allow yourself to become intimidated by a fifteen-year-old boy who in twelve months’ time will either be queuing for his dole money or stealing other people’s. Do not look so surprised, Mr Szajkowski. You do not name names but you do not have to. I see everything that happens within this institution. I am omniscient. Donovan Stanley is a reprobate. He will be with us only for a few months more. During that time I will not waste time or attention or resources on something as sordid and inconsequential as that boy’s shit.

And then he leaves. He doesn’t look back at Samuel and he doesn’t look over at me.

I’m standing there. I’ve got a teaspoon in my hand and I’m just standing there. I look at Samuel. I’m watching him. I feel like I should say something but I don’t know what. What can I say?

In the end I don’t say anything. Samuel doesn’t give me the chance. He stands up and he picks up his bag and he packs away his books and he’s across the room and without so much as a glance he’s out the door and he’s gone.

And that, Inspector, was that. That was that and nothing changed. I mean, I assumed that Travis would do something. I told myself that his little speech was for Samuel’s benefit. You know, a sergeant major ball-busting one of his troops. But he did nothing. He actually meant what he said. He did nothing and nothing changed.

No, that’s not quite right. Things did change. Things got worse. At the time I didn’t think it would be possible, but it was, it most definitely was. You heard about the football match, didn’t you?