My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (4 page)

Abdul's smile was wiped immediately to practically a wary and sudden scowl, which caused Michael to turn to where Abdul aimed his glare. 

A tall, gangly Kurdish teenager stood awkwardly in the doorway. He wore light blue jeans and brilliant white Reebok trainers with a neatly-pressed dark blue shirt. His name was Shaheen and he, too, looked older than his given fourteen years.  

Michael turned to Patricia, who had already spotted Shaheen and made her way to him. Michael met her halfway.

"Who's this?" he asked quietly, stepping up to him with a smile.  

Patricia gestured to Shaheen and then Michael.

"This is Shaheen," she said.

"Good morning, Shaheen. I'm Michael."

Michael extended his hand towards him. 

He looked at the friendly hand and gripped it.

"Shaheen." He felt uncomfortable.

"You're early, Shaheen. Three days early," Patricia chuckled.

"Early? No, I start today." Shaheen scowled and looked around the room. He fixed on the Afghans several feet away.

"Well, you can start today, Shaheen," Patricia said.

"Tomorrow Home Office." His eyes were glassy and he looked concerned. He pointed a finger at the group of Afghans nearby. "Who they?" he asked. "Afghani?"

"Yes, they're from Afghanistan," answered Patricia.

"No problem. No problem," Shaheen said. He held his palms upwards and stepped back into the corridor.

Michael turned to Patricia when Helen approached.

"What's the matter?" Helen said.

"It's uncertain yet, but he seems troubled by our Afghans," said Michael.

"How was he in the interview, Pats?" asked Helen.

"A bit unsettled. He wants to start school as soon as possible. Likes money and said he doesn't want to be near any Afghans."

"Well, that's going to be difficult," Michael remarked as he closely monitored Shaheen pacing the corridor several feet away.

"It can't be done. He has to accept everyone. We don't take demands here. Have we got all of his files, Patricia?" Helen asked, also watching Shaheen.

"Well, as much of a file as it can be. Details of his foster carers and what I quickly jotted down through the interpreter in the interview."

"I'll have a read later, but can you brief us now before he comes back in?" requested Helen.

"Arrived at Dover in the back of a lorry. He travelled alone from Iran and escaped trouble. Says he's angry. Doesn't like the US and British governments; said his father was some kind of freedom fighter. I wrote it down. I've got it here. There are a few to choose from." Patricia flicked over a couple of pages on her red clipboard and read from it. "The Kongra-Gel. Kurdistan Freedom and Democracy Congress. KADEK. Kurdistan Workers' Party. The PKK. Partiya Karkeran. Kurdistan Workers' Party People's Defence Force." She turned the page back over and noticed Michael and Helen both looking like they had a thousand thoughts running through their minds.

Michael raised his eyebrows and gritted his teeth.

"Look at him. He looks older than my twenty-four-year-old son. What do you think, Mike?" asked Helen.

He exhaled a deep breath, considering. He looked at Patricia and Helen. "Said he doesn't like the US and British governments. Maybe he got on the wrong lorry?"

"Why is he angry?" added Helen.

"I don't know," shrugged Patricia.

"I don't want any upset. We're out of our depth," Helen sighed.

"Why have we got so many at the moment?" Michael asked.

"Admissions had a new member of staff. Didn't fully understand the process," Helen replied.

"He's coming back," Michael said, watching.

"Okay. We'll see how it goes. He may just be nervous. What's his problem with Afghanis?" Helen asked Patricia.

Patricia shrugged again, not knowing what to say as Shaheen walked back in with a nervous smile. 

Patricia, Helen and Michael - tight as tight can be. Although not always sociable outside of work, in the workplace the three of them were an open book. Nothing was really withheld when it came to the politics of the Education Service. Their personal lives often exposed and discussed.

All three were trustworthy and loyal, assets to any workforce, and should probably have been renamed 'The Three Musketeers'. Wherever one went, the other two weren't too far behind, working and creating something that would benefit the young people and their own team.

It wasn't long, however, before the dreaded Cardinal Richelieu entered the room.

Catherine Riverdale was sixty years old. She was a short, white woman, with a slight hunch and a protruding chin. She resembled an archetypal school mistress of the 1950s or even, at times, a slave driver in charge of a Victorian workhouse. Riverdale was the temporary manager of a newly formed Assessment Centre. She psychologically mind-whipped fellow staff members, let alone the young, impressionable and extremely vulnerable children she was there to educate. If there was ever a spanner in the works, Riverdale was surely that very spanner.

It wasn't such a bad thing. After all, she only had one month of her temporary contract left. Her job, manager of the Assessment Centre, was definitely in a limbo state. She left colleagues stressed; mentally and emotionally exhausted on a daily basis. Her random statements, social attitude and general approach to life itself were simply peculiar. She did, however, always put the children first, despite her methods being unusual, to say the least.

Riverdale would, for instance, suddenly enter another teacher's classroom, or if Michael was in the midst of counselling a student, she would stare and point at them. She waggled her forefinger and removed them from class to the bemusement of the staff member. Riverdale took a handful of children outside to grow vegetables, rake up some grass or pull up weeds. She stood on the edge, watching each one like a prison warden. She'd return the pupils back to their classroom, grubby as hell, and expect them to settle back into their lesson, even though they would have missed the vitals.

Michael often found Catherine Riverdale sobbing at her desk or in the corner of a classroom. 

One day she explained to him that her partner of fifteen years was addicted to cannabis and it concerned her that she, also, smoked too much weed. It naturally surprised Michael to learn this, but it quickly lessened when she told him she hadn't been getting a lot of sex either. At first she reminded Michael of a troll, but then he settled on the fact that she was more of a dead-ringer of Fenella the Kettle Witch from 1970s children's animation Chorlton and the Wheelies.

"Good morning everybody," said Catherine Riverdale. She nodded and smiled with her crooked teeth at some of the children sitting in the room. She waddled, in a witch-like manner, nodding to Michael, hearing him sighing. "Morning. How are you today, on this lovely, crisp morning?"

Michael caught sight of the other staff.

Paul raised his eyebrows and also his cup of tea. He smiled and lowered his head.

"I'm good, thank you, Catherine," replied Michael. He pressed his back against the edge of the work-surface. Trapped.

Riverdale moved her head rapidly up and down, like one of those annoying nodding dogs positioned on the parcel shelves of a number of cars. Pointless. Utterly and completely. Likened only slightly to those fortune cats found in Chinese restaurants. However, at least those nodding, paw-waving cats actually had a positive purpose. To bring good luck, health and fortune.

Michael couldn't help but frown and stare at her as she nodded her head.

Riverdale jutted her chin out and looked back at him, as if he was a biological study sample. "I've never understood answers like that, Michael."

"Answers like what, Catherine?"

"Answering with the word 'good' when somebody asks how another person is. Surely 'very well, thank you' or a simple 'fine' would be just as well. I'll set that as homework for you, Michael. Ha. Get your mother to respond to my notes in your daily planner," she nodded, grinning and revealing her brown, decaying teeth, cackling an uncertain giggle. If only she was joking. At least it would be an excuse for an attempt at humour, but it wasn't a joke. She was serious. Her sole mission was to control and to gain status. Riverdale had always made it known that she left a high-profile trophy school and took a considerable significant drop in her salary in order to work here. Questionable. With everything in life there have been always three sides to every story: yours, theirs and the truth, as Michael's father always used to say.

Michael hid his face with his cup of tea, raising his eyebrows as he sipped his drink.

"Who's that then?" Riverdale said, pointing a spindly finger towards the Afghan quarter of the room.

Shaheen scowled, catching sight of her looking at him. He pointed at his own chest.

"No problem here. I have no problem. Are you making problem at me?" Shaheen called out. He suddenly kicked out from his chair and marched out the room. 

Everyone was affected by this, most notably the Afghan trio, who were tight against the back wall. 

Michael saw Abdul looking at him.

Abdul managed a smile but appeared highly concerned.

"Oh, what did I say? Something I said? Think somebody might have missed his breakfast this morning or at least woken up on the wrong side of the bed," mocked Riverdale, turning to look at Michael. "Cup of tea then, Michael."

Michael knew full well she meant for him to make her one.

She could never have brought herself to say 'please' or 'thank you', nor did she ever once make anyone a drink at all. Since her arrival at the centre ten months ago, Michael had always been treated as the lowest of the low in terms of staff hierarchy. It didn't fuss anyone else.

From Helen to Paul, Patricia and Michael, and despite their different levels of pay, they were a team. Each knew their job and there had never once been an issue of a power struggle. However, with Catherine Riverdale, there was.

Michael turned and took a step ahead, to pass her.

"Sure, go for it, Catherine. The urn's on."

He made his way past Helen, who quickly exited the room after him, leaving without Catherine noticing her due to her tea-making duty.

In the corridor outside the kitchen, Michael stood with Helen Martin. Together they watched Shaheen pace up and down, heavy footed and flustered, clenching his fists.

He caught sight of Michael and stopped to lean his back against a wall, lifting one leg to press the sole of his shoe upon the cold wall tiles.

Helen looked at Michael, whose mind raced. "What do you think, Mike? Shall we leave him?"

"Not really a good sign for a first day," he replied.

"No. It's not, is it? This one's going to be trouble. Don't you reckon?"

"I'm unsure what to think, really," Michael said.

Shaheen tightened one of his fists and thumped it against the wall behind him.

"I'll ask what's wrong, shall I?"

"Would you rather deal with him or deal with Catherine Riverdale for another month?" Helen asked, smiling.

"I'd rather deal with a dozen of these situations than one more day of...."

Michael stopped to see Shaheen suddenly launching himself towards a set of wooden double doors. He kicked them violently open, causing one to crack back on itself and shudder one of the glass panels. He then disappeared down a short series of concrete steps, rounding a corner.

"Do you think he's gone?" Helen asked.

There wasn't a need for Michael to reply as a series of repetitions of "No, fuck you," were heard from a lower level.

Michael and Helen entered a reception area where the front door of the building was sited. The door had just slammed to a close. 

Michael stepped down to the door and opened it to look out over to the street beyond. Helen joined him and together they saw Shaheen on the pavement, striding up the road.

Michael stopped and turned to see another boy nearing Shaheen.

He was a white boy. A stereotypical kind for this area. A chav, who wore the usual uniform of such a teenage male: dark blue tracksuit bottoms made of the thinnest, cheapest material, a pair of white Reebok classics, also known as 'the Pub Shoe', a dirty, fake England football shirt and, of course, the hair, shorn with zigzag shapes and lines at the back and side. He was Lee Mace, a fourteen year old who had recently been excluded from his school for persistent disruptive behaviour during class, continuous abuse towards staff, bullying pupils, selling illegal drugs on and around the school grounds, damage to school property, pushing a teacher down the stairs, punching a different teacher in the face, and lastly revealing a knife to yet another teacher and implying he would "use it" on him.

The teacher whom Lee had punched in the face just happened to be the Head Teacher and the teacher he'd pushed down the stairs, minutes before, was the Head's wife.

She was four months pregnant. Fortunately, neither teacher-wife nor the baby inside her were injured, but the violent act did, as it should, warrant a permanent exclusion for Lee from that particular school.