The relative silence of the classroom was broken by a muffled yelp of pain.
It was followed by several muted giggles.
Frank Reed looked up from the book he was reading and surveyed the faces before him, or rather the tops of heads. Most of the classroom occupants were hunched over sheets of paper, hurriedly scribbling down the passage in one of their text books which he’d instructed them to copy.
He looked in the direction of the yelp and the giggles but saw nothing to alert him. Hiding a smile, he paused a moment to run an appraising gaze over his wards before continuing with his own reading.
Paul O’Brian was seated at the back of the room again, head bent so low over his desk it looked as if his forehead was resting on the wooden top.
Reed watched him for a few minutes before returning his attention to his book.
There was a loud snapping sound.
Another yelp.
More giggling.
Reed caught the slightest hint of movement out of his eye corner.
He saw one of the boys towards the back of the class turn around, saw another flick a rubber band at him.
‘Right, that’s enough,’ the teacher said, jabbing a finger towards the culprits. ‘If you want to indulge in target practice, don’t do it in my time’
he told the lad with the rubber band.
‘Sorry, Mr Reed,’ the lad said, humbly, returning to his book.
Other eyes turned in his direction. More giggles.
‘All right,’ Reed told the class. ‘The cabaret is over, get back to work.’
He noticed that Paul O’Brian hadn’t taken much interest in the disturbance. In fact, the boy hadn’t even raised his head.
And yet, he didn’t seem to be writing.
His head was still bent low over his desk, the pen still gripped in his hand.
His forehead was on the desktop.
It took Reed a second or two to realise that O’Brian wasn’t moving at all.
The teacher hurried from behind his desk and towards the back of the classroom, other eyes turning to watch.
Reed’s only concern was O’Brian.
As he drew closer he could see how pale the boy’s skin was.
His eyes were closed.
‘Paul,’ Reed said, gripping the boy’s shoulder.
He didn’t stir.
Reed squeezed harder, sucking in a deep breath as O’Brian slid to one side.
Reed managed to catch him before he slid off the chair, scooping him up into his arms, holding him as if he were some kind of lifeless doll.
The rest of the class had turned their attention fully to the scene at the back of the room now. They looked on as Reed held the boy, looking down at his milk-white face.
There were scratches on his neck. They stood out vividly against the whiteness of his skin.
‘Gary, Mark’ Reed snapped, nodding towards two boys near the front of the class. ‘Run along to Mrs Trencher now, tell her that Paul’s ill and that I’m bringing him along immediately. Go on.’
The two boys didn’t need to be told twice, both scooting to their feet and hurtling out of the door. Reed heard their footsteps pounding away up the corridor as he advanced through the rows of desks, carrying his limp cargo.
Is he dead?’ a voice called.
Reed looked down at Paul O’Brian’s gaunt face.
And the scratches.
‘No, he’s not dead,’ Reed replied, reaching the door. ‘You all just get on with your work until I get back.’
He headed out into the corridor, carrying the frail form of the boy with little difficulty. So little that he found he could run.
The school nurse’s office was about a hundred yards away but Reed sprinted along with his unconscious cargo.
O’Brian hadn’t stirred.
Reed ran a little faster.
Speed suddenly seemed important.
Forty-five
‘What happened to him?’ asked Amy Trencher, removing the cuff of the sphygmomanometer from Paul O’Brian’s arm with a sound resembling ripping fabric.
‘I haven’t got a clue’ Reed told her, looking down at the boy who was semi-conscious now, his eyes flickering open every few seconds. ‘He passed out. Blacked out. I don’t know.’
‘His blood pressure is low,’ the nurse told Reed. ‘I’d better listen to his heart.’
Reed watched as she began to undo the buttons of the boy’s shirt, gradually easing back the material on both sides.
‘Jesus,’ whispered Reed, his eyes fixed on the boy’s torso.
It was criss-crossed in several places by long, red marks.
Weals.
Scars, he noted, across the belly and close to the shoulders.
Amy hesitated a moment then pressed the stethoscope to O’Brian’s chest.
Reed also moved closer, running his gaze over the emaciated body. O’Brian’s ribs pressed so insistently against his pale flesh it seemed they must tear through the thin covering.
The boy stirred slightly, as if embarrassed by his own condition, and he pulled at one side of his shirt with a thin hand.
The nurse helped the boy to sit up, slipping the shirt from him.
There were more marks on his back, some of them vivid red against the pallidity of the skin.
Amy pressed the stethoscope to his back in several places, her brow furrowed.
Again Reed stepped closer to get a better look at the marks, reaching out to touch a dark line running from shoulder blade to lumbar region.
He felt the hard, coarse surface of a scar.
Amy was shining a pen-light at the boy’s eyes, watching as his pupils dilated and contracted with each flash of light.
‘Paul’ she said, softly. ‘We’re going to have to take you to hospital, do you understand?’
It was as if the boy had suddenly been hit by a 25,000-volt cable.
He leaped to his feet, pulling his shirt back on, anxious to cover his body, his eyes wide and staring.
‘No,’ he said, pleadingly. ‘Please. I’m all right.’
‘I want a doctor to take a look at you,’ Amy said, trying to slip an arm around him.
He pulled away violently, crashing into a trolley, overturning it.
It struck the floor, the instruments which had been laid upon it scattering over the tiles.
O’Brian backed into a corner.
‘Leave me alone,’ he said, his eyes filling with tears.
Reed took a step towards him.
‘We just want to help you, Paul,’ the teacher assured him, extending a hand.
The boy drew back even further.
‘Who did this to you?’ Reed asked.
O’Brian was panting madly, his eyes bulging wildly in their sockets as he looked anxiously from the teacher to the nurse.
‘Don’t call a doctor, please,’ he implored.
‘Why not?” Reed asked. ‘They’ll help you.’
‘No. I mustn’t tell’
‘Tell what?’ Reed asked. ‘Tell who did this to you?’
The boy was buttoning his shirt with one hand, keeping the other before him to ward off the teacher.
Reed saw bruises on the boy’s wrist. More red weals.
‘Have you been told not to tell who did this?’ the teacher persisted, taking a step back.
‘Don’t get a doctor, please,’ the boy repeated.
Reed sat down on the nearest chair, trying to keep the tone of his voice as low as he could.
‘Who told you not to tell, Paul?’ he asked, softly. ‘What do you think will happen if you do?’
O’Brian was quivering uncontrollably now, his eyes still bulging as he looked from the teacher to the nurse and back again.
Reed saw tears begin to trickle down his cheeks. ‘They told me not to tell’ he stammered.
‘Who?’ Reed demanded.
‘Please’ O’Brian sobbed.
‘Were you told something would happen to you if you told, Paul?’ Reed persisted.
The boy wiped his eyes with the back of one shaking hand.