Dave Coles went ‘Whay!’ when Mel Gibson said the word ‘prick’ — which everyone but me thought was really funny. I just thought it was a really good plan of Hamlet’s. He wasn’t saying ‘prick’ like a penis; he was saying it was like a needle, pricking his uncle’s guilt. I think I’m cleverer than most of them in the class because I read more and understand these things, know that words can have more than just the obvious meaning. I think its because I’m not allowed to use the computer at home (Uncle Tony’s on it most of the time). Nor do I have a mobile. Just books, really. Sometimes a bit of telly when Mum’s finished watching the soaps downstairs. But mostly, I’m just in my room, thinking and reading.
I write to Dad a lot. Tell him about school. Mum says I can’t talk about some of the stuff that goes on in the house, as it would only upset him. She says that although Uncle Tony isn’t my real uncle, he’s doing us a massive favour by staying here when Dad’s away. They used to be good mates, Dad and Uncle Tony, working at the warehouse together, going down the pub. But when it all went wrong, and the police came for Dad, they sort of fell out.
What’s really great is that Dad’s letters are getting longer each time. Just a page in the beginning, now it’s often three or four. His spelling’s really coming on, too, because of all the classes he’s been taking. He’s been well behaved, so they’ve allowed him more time to study. He says he’s taking his GCSE’s as well! Strange, isn’t it, Sir? There I am, in your class, studying Hamlet, and my Dad’s doing exactly the same thing. At thirty-eight, too. He reckons once he’s done his English, Maths and Science, he’ll do loads more subjects after that. He says one bloke further down the wing as got nineteen GCSE’s! See, Sir? They tell you all this stuff about people in prison being thick and scummy, but there’s some of them really trying to improve themselves. Dad’s still got another two years left, so I reckon he’ll have more qualifications than me when he gets out. How weird will that be?
In his last letter, he mentioned Uncle Tony, saying that even though they weren’t best mates anymore, it was good he had agreed to lodge at ours and pay the rent and stuff. He said it was the least Uncle Tony could do, as he owed Dad big time. He also said that the years would fly by, and when he finally gets released, he’s got a surprise that will keep me, Mum and him happy for years. But when I showed Mum the letter, she screwed it up and chucked it away, saying he was talking nonsense, then told me never to mention it again. I’m not sure, but I think it was to do with the robbery at the warehouse. Thing is, although the police had CCTV film of Dad loading stuff into a van when he shouldn’t have been, the actual stuff was never found. The local newspaper said it was worth over a £100,000 — but you can’t believe everything they say, can you, Sir?
Dad doesn’t like me to visit and see him where he is, so every other Saturday when Mum and Uncle Tony go out, I head for the reference library in town. It’s nice there, warm. I don’t use the computers, prefer to look through the books and old newspapers they have on this stuff called microfilm. Honestly, Sir, it’s amazing. Thousands and thousands of newspapers from all over the place, going back years. All catalogued to make searches easier. People think the internet is the place to find stuff out, but I reckon searching through old newspapers is better. There’s loads of interesting stuff, articles people can’t be bothered to upload because I guess it would maybe take too long. Can be frustrating, though, and you have to have a little bit of luck and patience.
Yeah. Luck. I guess that’s how I managed to find you, Sir. Luck and patience. And, of course, a really good reason. And you made sure you gave me plenty of those, didn’t you, Sir? Calling me a sneak, not helping when the others all laughed. I began to wonder just why you did that. Why you wouldn’t help me? And then I figured it out. Just one of those chance things that no one else saw, but I did.
It was a Wednesday, the last lesson before lunch, and we all in your classroom as Mel Gibson was waffling on about whether or not to kill himself (To be, or not to be; remember, Sir, you made us watch the bloody thing ten times that lesson). True to form, I could see Cheryl Bassington texting away in the darkness on the mobile phone under her desk. Except it wasn’t her plumber boyfriend she was texting, was it, Sir? Because when she pressed Send, you got your phone out of your pocket and tried to read it as discreetly as possible. I saw you, Sir. Watched it happen. You, Sir. Someone who should be trusted to educate us, getting secret texts from a fifteen-year-old girl. Well naturally, my conscience was ‘pricked’, as Shakespeare might have said...
I began wondering what Hamlet would do in my situation. You know, needing to find stuff out, but not wanting to be caught doing it? So, I did what he did — pretended to go loony for a bit. That lunchtime, I went and sat right next to Cheryl Bassington and started eating a bit weirdly, mixing my pudding into my pizza and making stupid noises and giggling. Very Hamlet, Sir, you’d have been proud. Anyway, I could see my plan was working, and that Cheryl and her mates couldn’t wait to get up and leave. They next bit was so easy — just as they were going and calling me all sorts of names, I suddenly leant over and clung on to Cheryl, slipping a hand into her pocket and grabbing her mobile as she yelped and tried to get me away. Mr Price came over and began shouting at us to behave, but Cheryl and her mates just swore at him and ran off. Next, I went straight to the toilet block, locked myself in and went through the phone.
They’re really quite easy to figure out, these mobile things. There’s a kind of menu with all sorts of symbols to help you. I found Cheryl’s pictures first, and let me tell you, Sir, there’s all sorts of rude stuff on there. Not just ones of the plumber, but some of you, as well. And not just shots taken in class when you weren’t watching, but others of you smiling right at the camera, in bed, with her. Well, you were there, you know the rest...
I couldn’t believe just how bloody stupid you’d been, what a crazy risk you’d been taking. If Cheryl showed any of this stuff to the wrong person — you’d be out of a job, wouldn’t you, Sir? They’d probably stick you in prison. And my Dad tells me what they do to people like you inside. Horrible things that even the wardens (he calls them ‘screws’) turn a blind eye to. Really, really stupid of you, Sir.
Next, I found the texts. Loads of them. From you to her; from her back to you. Some of them went back as far as six weeks, which considering you’ve only been here two terms, kind of makes you a pretty fast worker, I guess. They have names for people like you, Sir.
Anyway, the most recent series of texts were about meeting up on a Saturday night. At the ‘usual place’, apparently, wherever that was. You suggested half-eight, and Cheryl had replied with one of those really lame smiley-face things. Sad. And sick.
But seeing as no one else had complained, no rumours had started, I had to assume that no one else knew about you and her. Except me, of course. Which really made me think about things for a while.
Strange life you’ve led, Sir. Like I say, the reference library comes up with all sorts of stuff. One of the main reasons I went there was to find out more about what had happened to my dad. It even made one or two of the national papers, because I guess it all happened in what those newspaper people refer to as a ‘slow news week’. Seems one of the main things was that the police reckoned Dad had to have had someone helping him that night. There were two CCTV cameras covering the warehouse, but only one was trained where it was supposed to be, on the loading yard. The other was pointing across the road (and here I’m going to use a quotation just like you told me to) ‘the entrance to a nearby youth club, where a group of underage girls could be seen drinking and cavorting with young lads.’