Stay of Execution

14

James Andrew Skinner had been at Gullane Primary School for only a few weeks, but already, in that short time, he had made a name for himself. . two names, in fact; one as a five-year-old with a reading age of eight, and the other as the best fighter in his class. His mother had been even more appalled by the second than she had been pleased by the first.

‘He burst a kid’s lip, Bob,’ Sarah exclaimed indignantly. ‘Then when the little boy’s brother. . his two years older brother. . came in to stop the fight, he made his nose bleed.’

Bob made himself frown at the five-year-old, who was standing in the middle of the kitchen, trying to look remorseful, but not quite getting there. ‘That’s a bit excessive, Jazz,’ he said severely. ‘No Saturday television, my boy.’

‘Aw, Dad!’

‘Sorry, mate. That’s the way it is.’

He looked at his wife. ‘Why?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Did you ask him why?’

‘No, I did not. Bob, I don’t like being called to the head teacher’s office to receive an official complaint about my son’s behaviour. The evidence was there. Mrs Rogers showed me the tissues they used to wipe the blood off those kids. She said that Jazz attacked the little one, then hit his brother as well.’

He picked his son up and sat him on the work surface. The boy’s blond hair glinted in the light; he was sturdy, and big for his age. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s hear your plea in mitigation.’

‘What?’

‘Why did you hit him, son? The boy in your class, I mean. I doubt if it would be a fair fight; I don’t remember seeing any kid your size in your group when we checked you in there.’

James Andrew shook his head, his jaw set.

‘Hey,’ said his father, ‘not answering me isn’t an option. Now out with it.’

‘No,’ the boy replied.

‘Jazz,’ Bob warned him. ‘No telly for a month.’

He shook his head again.

‘I’ll tell you,’ a voice exclaimed from the doorway.

James Andrew glared furiously at his brother. ‘But not in front of Mum,’ Mark added quickly. When he had been adopted, it had been his decision to christen Bob and Sarah as Mum and Dad, but they had always made sure that the memory of his natural parents burned strong in him.

‘Wait a minute,’ Sarah exclaimed.

‘Ssh,’ said her husband, soothing her. ‘I want to get to the bottom of this. Mark’s a sensitive kid; if that’s the way he wants it, let’s go with him. Remember, he’s the reason this bruiser can read as well as he does; we owe him. Gimme a minute with the boys.’

Finally, reluctantly, Sarah nodded. She lifted Seonaid, who had been watching the exchange with obvious fascination, out of her high chair and tucked her under her arm. ‘Us girls will rejoin you when we’re good and ready,’ she said stiffly, and hefted her daughter out of the room.

Bob knew that she would probably be listening outside, but he carried on. ‘You might as well tell me yourself, Jazz.’

As he looked up at him, his younger son’s eyes blazed with an anger he had never seen in them before. ‘He called me a something stinking copper’s brat,’ he said, his voice high-pitched. ‘And he said Mum was a something Yankee something.’

‘That’s true,’ said Mark. ‘He shouted it so the whole class could hear. I made one of them tell me afterwards.’

‘So you pegged him one,’ Bob sighed.

James Andrew nodded.

‘Just the one?’

‘It was a good one,’ the boy whispered.

As he spoke his father noticed a slight bruise on his temple. ‘The brother,’ he went on. ‘The head teacher said that he tried to stop the fight. Is that all he did?’

James Andrew shook his head. ‘He punched me on the side of the face: from behind.’

‘How often did you hit him back?’

‘Three or four times. Till he started to cry,’ a gleam of satisfaction came into his eye, ‘in front of all the girls.’

‘Why didn’t you tell Mrs Rogers what happened?’

‘Didn’t want to say it. What he said about you and Mum.’

Bob felt an unfamiliar lump in his throat. ‘Well, thank you, pal,’ he murmured, and hugged him. ‘In the circumstances, television privileges are restored.’ He called over his shoulder, ‘Sarah!’

She was grim-faced as she came back into the room, with Seonaid toddling along in front of her. ‘Did you know that I’m a something stinking copper and you’re a something Yankee something?’ he asked her.

He turned back to his son. ‘Jazz, I’m not going to ask for these kids’ names. If this happens again, I want you to tell a teacher. But do no more than that; don’t go thumping any more kids. There’s a reason for this. The wrong sort of people might use it to try to hurt Mum and me; they might tell stories to the papers, stuff like that. Understand?’

‘I think so.’

Bob ruffled his hair and lifted him down from the work surface. ‘Good lad,’ he said. ‘On you go now, you can play a game with Mark till it’s time for bed.’

As the boys trotted off together Sarah looked after them. ‘God,’ she whispered, ‘he’s so like you. But he’s still so little; he’s only five. What if this is only the start? What’s going to happen once Mark goes to Fettes? What if he’s going to be bullied?’

‘In that case,’ said Bob, with a faint grin, ‘I’d better start teaching him some restraint holds, so that he isn’t just slugging kids all the time. . or to hit them where it doesn’t show, so that it’s deniable. But I don’t think that’s going to happen. Jazz is not the bullyable type, as he’s just shown with some effect. There’s more than that, though: I’ve lived in this village for a long time. I know the people here, I know the kids and I know that school. This incident’s as far from typical as you can get. It never happened to Alex when she was there, and it’s never happened to Mark. I’m pretty sure it won’t be repeated. Just to be on the safe side, though, I think you should go back to see the head teacher, and tell her the other side of the story. I don’t want things taken any further, but I’d like the staff to keep their eyes and their ears open, just in case.’

‘Don’t you want to come with me?’ She was frowning slightly.

‘I will if you insist, but I don’t think that would be a great idea. I am what I am; there’s no getting away from that. I don’t know Mrs Rogers all that well, and I wouldn’t want her thinking that the deputy chief constable’s come to lean on her. A quiet word from you would be better.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ Sarah conceded. She watched him as he took an onion, some mushrooms and a large red pepper from the fridge, and put them in the drainer section of the sink. As cold water ran on them from the column tap, he put a frying-pan on the hob, poured in a coating of olive oil and a little balsamic vinegar, added a little salt, then turned up the temperature wheel. As the pan heated, he took the vegetables from the drainer, dried them, then began to chop them, carefully, on a thick teak board. ‘What’s this?’ she asked, intrigued.

He grinned, keeping his eyes fixed on what he was doing. ‘What’s it look like? I’m cooking. It’s Trish’s night off, and the bears were fed by the time I got home, so I thought you and I would have a quiet dinner together. If you go and put the lady Seonaid to bed, I’ll be done when you are.’