My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (6 page)

"I don't really understand, and your guitar voice doesn't work too well over the phone. Maybe you could form a band with that bloke from Britain's Got Talent," Rebecca said.

"What, the one who did a saxophone voice, but really just sounded like an annoying, squealing cartoon baby?"

"That's the one," said Rebecca.

"Hmm, could be good. Think I'll look him up. So yeah, that's what you heard in the background when you first spoke to me."

"So, what you're saying is that our song, whether we like it or not, is some Liverpudlian maths teacher who hummed a seventies rock anthem in the background when we first heard one another's voice? That's our song? The song that will forever remind us of one another?" Rebecca raised her eyebrows and walked into Shaftesbury Avenue.

"A song that defines our relationship. It's a classic. When played, it will fill our hearts with so much love, words will be non-existent. The only way to communicate and express ourselves to one another would be to perform the most passionate kiss ever," Michael said with a smile. He slotted the tablet into the drawer, closed the dishwasher door and pressed the start button.

"Oh. I hadn't expected that. So our song, if anybody asks, is 'Born to be Wild' by Wolf Man?" Rebecca accepted the disappointing fact.

"Steppenwolf. It's Steppenwolf. 'Born to be Wild'," Michael corrected.

"Right. OK. I've got another call. I'll see you later. I have a candidate to interview at half six, so hope to be back home by half seven or eight. Have we got potatoes?"

"I've got stuff already. I may pop to my folks for a bit, then. See you later on. Love you."

"Love you too. Byeeee."

The staffroom had worn, square, black sponge chairs. The walls were off-white, with cracks zigzagging across them. The upper half was a completely different colour: a mouldy green, pea soup shade with sections of plaster missing. Twenty-year-old John Lewis coffee tables placed next to each other were in the middle of the room, with a kitchen area in one corner.

Michael slouched against the back wall, next to Helen. A cup of tea in his grasp. He had spent the past two hours constructing a file which didn't previously exist as it consisted of the school experience of a former pupil: a boy from Nepal.

The boy had only ever received schooling from a goat herder, information that the IT course at the college he was applying for wouldn't particularly find useful or helpful.

Helen placed her cup of tea upon the table in front of her. 

Paul sat himself on a chair opposite. He wore a cheap pair of off-the-shelf glasses and started to read a newspaper clipping. Patricia plumped herself near Helen, with a green card file on her lap.

Catherine Riverdale waddled into the room. She eyed everybody. Her chin jutted out and she nodded at Helen. Riverdale formed a most peculiar smile, yet it was delivered with a slight touch of suspiciousness.

"There's a cup of tea here, Catherine," Michael informed her.

She turned her back and eyed up the work-surface. She scanned the top like a forest creature crossed with The Terminator and a hob-goblin. A bizarre mix, though an extremely uncanny and accurate description. "Hmm? Oh, I'm getting coffee, thanks. Thanks anyway, Michael." Catherine fumbled inside a cupboard and rattled a jar of Nescafé coffee. "Oh actually, I think I will have a cup of tea. Why not? Live dangerously. Break a habit, as they say."

She turned around and eyeballed the seating arrangements. The only free seat was opposite Patricia. Catherine shuffled herself right next to her.

Patricia couldn't stand her. It showed in her face and body language. She became instantly uncomfortable and crossed her left leg over her right, with her left arm across her lap, upon her card files. Patricia exchanged a quick look with Michael, who raised an eyebrow.

Catherine caught his look. "What's on the agenda then?" She fixed her gaze on Patricia's lengthy finger on the top of her file.

Patricia managed a smile. It was more of a one-hundred-mile-an-hour mouth twitch. 

The telephone rang and Michael rose to walk to the work-surface, where the telephone was.

"Hello?" he said, in a deep, peculiarly mysterious sounding voice. "Yep, we're all here. Just a mo."

Michael turned to see the team looking at him. He gritted his teeth at Helen. "That woman is on the phone."

Helen clambered up off her seat and made toward Michael, who handed her the telephone receiver.

"Can you put it through to my office? Okay, thank you." Helen replaced the receiver and an immediate ringing sounded from another room nearby. "I've got to get this. She's been trying to call me all day. She probably wanted me to be at the other site for the rest of the week. Start without me." Helen winced as she passed Michael.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Just my knee again. Bite your tongue and let me know how it goes," she whispered, as she left the room.

It was only four minutes into the staff meeting and Catherine had formed the reddest, angriest expression upon her face. Her jaw was jutting forth so much Michael was becoming transfixed by it.

"I don't really feel it's necessary for you to be here at these meetings, Patricia. It's like you're a spy for senior management. No. I dislike it. I should be the only one making telephone calls to the parents and children and foster parents and social workers," Catherine said, abruptly.

Michael instantly defended Patricia. "I can understand what you're saying, Catherine. You are the Manager and do need to know, however, to be fair to Pat, she is the first face the children and parents see and the first voice they hear, and, oddly enough, Patricia has liaison in her title."

"Oh, so we're throwing titles out now are we? Well, as your Line Manager, Michael..."

"But you're not my Line Manager, Catherine. You're the Manager of this Department, not my Line Manager," Michael blurted.

That infuriated Catherine further. Her face reddened and it spread down her neck as she bellowed out, "I AM YOUR LINE MANAGER!"

Everybody jolted.

Patricia edged away. Any further and she would be part of the wall.

She exchanged a look with Paul.

Michael raised his eyebrows and smiled, with shock. "Catherine, you're not my Line Manager. Don't worry about it. We're straying away from the initial subject."

"I am your Line Manager. Who do you think controls you?" Catherine asked.

"Nobody controls me. How do you mean, Catherine?" Michael frowned.

Riverdale searched the eyes of Patricia and Paul who each sat awkwardly, waiting anxiously for the conversation or even the day to be over. "I control you. I control you."

"No, you don't. Quit the power trip, Catherine, and let's move on."

"Who do you go to if you have a problem in work? Me. You go to me, Michael."

"Er, no, because most of the problems I have at work are you, Catherine, so I am hardly going to discuss my concerns with you and vent because you're not a neutral party. To lay down a fact, I'm managed by Helen. She's my boss. She took me on and we set it up together. Patricia then came on board, followed by Paul. You were next, and, being on a temporary eleven-month contract, you are not my Line Manager. Whoever your successor is, once the contract ends, you or someone else, they won't be my Line Manager either."

It was an arrogant move and he knew damn well Catherine could be his line manager with the click of a finger if the bosses said so. He had never warmed to her and the feeling was mutual.

Catherine stared at Michael. "I think you have an issue with authority," she said.

"Absolutely not," Michael said, calmly.

"Then maybe it's a female thing," Catherine nodded her head.

"Because I have an issue with Patricia or Helen or any other female colleague?" he said, sarcastically.

"Like our client group, I think this briefing has gone wayward," Paul chirped. He got to his feet and made for the door. He raised his hand, attempting a wave. "See you tomorrow," he said, leaving the room.

"See you, mate," Michael stood up and headed to his room.

"See you tomorrow, Mikey," Patricia called out.

"Safe journey home, Pats," Michael replied.

Catherine sipped her cup of tea and tilted her head. She gazed around the empty room. 

Michael entered Patricia's office in a lower part of the school.

She smiled at him as he sat on a spare chair next to her desk, exhaling a weary sigh.

"That woman drives me nuts," he said.

"Oh Michael, she's impossible," Patricia replied. She slid some paperwork into a file.

"Are you okay?"

"Me? Yes. You kind of get used to her bluntness after-"

"-After the hundred and eleventh time?" interrupted Michael.

Patricia laughed and opened a file on her desk. "This one's interesting. Thought it'd be up your street. It's just come through, unfortunately."

"Unfortunately how, Pats?" he asked.

"Unfortunately for Catherine so that she can't ruin the whole ethos of this nurturing, child-centred environment," responded Patricia, coldly.

Michael turned and caught sight of somebody in the office doorway.

Patricia turned and instantly turned red with embarrassment, as did the uniformed man who was standing in the office.

His name was Norman Clarke and he was the 'Safer Schools' Police Officer. Norman was a typical wally of a policeman, whose main job was to look after a school. His voice was a camp monotone. Although he wasn't an unpleasant character, nor unattractive, he was somewhat of a plank and seemed to want to prove himself capable of being a super-cop.

Michael had him checked out months ago by his father, who said he already knew of him from his own days as a police officer in the City.

Norman, once a Special Policeman. A hobby bobby given the usual jobs. He guarded concrete roadblocks, looked for illegally parked vehicles. Mostly jobs that kept him in one place and never got in the way. He once worked in a bank and tried out for the police force. He couldn't get into the City of London Police Force, so tried for the British Transport Police. They, too, turned him down. The ever faithful "we will take anybody" Metropolitan Police Service eventually accepted Norman and subsequently positioned him in a school. Usually a junkyard to rid the old and useless.

As Michael's father once put it: "They don't send Sherlock Holmes in to look after a school, they send Inspector Clouseau." It was perhaps a little unfair, but would you really and honestly put your best man in to serve and protect in a place of education?

"Hiya. Am I disturbing you? I was just passing," said Norman. He always happened to be simply 'just passing' Patricia's office. His gangly frame lingered awkwardly in the doorway.

Patricia giggled like a nervous schoolgirl and slid a piece of A4 from the file to Michael.

Michael eyed it over and started to read about the Angolan Sinatra Umbundo. He sighed an exhausted breath, having read many a similar story before. However, each one tugged his heartstrings, disappointing him time and time again.

Michael drove his car along an uneven, unmade road with potholes and weeds. His tyres churned up dust as the vehicle scrolled along with a rolling crunch. Fields either side of the road; a cornfield on the left and a neatly fenced-off section, with a couple of horses, grazing free. He passed stables, hit a stretch of tarmac and passed an enormous mansion. It was slightly obscured by trees with branches that dangled over the road. Large homes, each different in style and size.

Michael rounded a corner and drove over concrete humps in the road. Patches of tarmac outside the larger homes, dusty gravel outside others. The humps were meant to slow cars down, despite the owners of such homes being the ones who sped along the private road in their oversized jeeps and their wild and untamed children the ones hurtling out of control upon their quad bikes or scramblers.

Michael passed a slightly overweight man in his mid-forties. His face showed depression. His body hunched over and his feet shuffled along in his baggy blue tracksuit bottoms and lightweight jacket. He was white and his thinning hair danced upon his head in the breeze as he walked a black and white cross-breed dog of some sort. The man was Simon and he nodded his head to acknowledge Michael as he drove along, leaving him in a cloud of dust.

Upon the driveway of a small bungalow was a man in his mid-sixties. A kind, white face with silver hair. The man was six feet tall and that day wore a pair of army green shorts and a lighter green polo shirt. On his feet was a pair of slippers. He opened a metal gate as Michael drove his car up the drive and pulled to a stop.

Michael cut his engine and exited the car to greet the man, his father Edward Thompson, with a kiss and a hug.

"Hello Mikey. Good to see you. Leave the keys in. I'll turn the car around for you. Go in and see Mum. She's probably got a big load of fruit for you to eat."

Michael's dad took the car keys from him and clambered inside, as Michael rounded the vehicle and entered the house. Edward tutted as he retrieved a white handkerchief from his pocket and spat on it. He wiped it on the dirty, dusty and oddly sticky dashboard, freeing it from whatever it was that was on the surface. He smiled, fondly recalling a vivid memory of when his son was five years old, sitting at a kitchen table of long ago, painting a picture whilst eating a peeled pear; slippery, juicy and sticky.

"Hello, Mum? Hello?" Michael called out as he took his shoes off, entering the living room. He found his mother, kneeling upon a brown leather Chesterfield sofa.

"Oh, hello Mike. Ah. Ooh. Help. I've got pins and needles now."

"Are you okay, Mum?" Michael frowned as his mother awkwardly twisted and maneuvered herself off the sofa and hobbled over to hug her son. Her left hand grasped a yellow dusting cloth.

"Oh, sorry, son," she kissed his cheek and took a step backwards. "I'll get you something to eat."

"No, I'm OK," he responded, reluctantly. 

His mother winced as she arched her back, straightening.  "Aw eh. My bones," she laughed. "Sorry, I'm getting old, Mikey."

"Getting?" he teased as she grasped his shoulder and passed him, laughing again and leaving the room.

His mother, Violet, a sixty-three-year-old woman of Irish descent, looked at her youngest son lovingly. Being so patient, trusted and affectionate, she adored him the most and he was forever her child, no matter how old he was.

Upon the three-seater Chesterfield, Michael sipped his gigantic cup of hot chocolate. The white china cup was huge and bowl-like. Upon a plate, on the wooden coffee table and wrapped up in two sheets of kitchen paper, were two pains au chocolat - chocolate croissants to Michael and many others.

Edward sat upon the two-seater sofa nearby. "I spoke to Simon, the detective, outside a minute ago. He was walking three of his dogs."

"How many dogs does he have?" asked Michael.

"Five," answered his father. "He's really interested in your work and the types of children you have there. He said he'd be back in half an hour if you'd like to knock on his door and talk to him."

"What does he want to know?" Michael unwrapped the croissants and took a bite of one.

His father removed his gold-rimmed spectacles and looked at his son. "He's interested in gang members. He said the amount of gangs and teenagers killing each other is really worrying him. He's just been assigned a new team and I told him about the types of children at your school. It's worth talking to him. You'll get money for it."

"Money for what?" Michael asked, frowning.

"For any information you give him," his father, Edward, replied.

"Like what?"

"You could start paying off your bills with the amount of information you have on those pupils."

"What, I'd be an informant?" Michael formed a slight smirk.

His father smiled at his son.

"Like a super-grass?"

"Well, best if you speak with him first and see what he has to say," his father replied.

He always wanted to help his son out whenever he could, especially when it regarded some extra money, and if the deed caught a few criminals along the way, then that was surely a plus in his book. And his book was certainly a unique one. 

Michael nodded and chomped another bite of his croissant as his mother re-entered the room. She perched on the wooden coffee table. "How's Rebecca and her job? Are they still being horrible to her?" she asked Michael.

"Mmm. Yeah. Utterly," he said, with his mouth full. "The Botox-faced boss makes her cry every other day. Bec calls me at work crying her eyes out. Get this: the other day, everyone in the office was given special beauty treatment, manicures and facials except for Bec. How mean is that?"

"Oh that's awful!" said his mother.

"I know. She's treated like a schoolgirl."

"Why? I don't understand. What does she do to deserve such harsh treatment?"

"Nothing. That's the thing. She does more than she's required to do and she's treated and paid the worst. Last week she was flavour of the month, with Botox woman emailing her across the room to say she's received good words regarding Becca and how professional she is, but this week, it's the complete reverse."

"Sounds like the woman is bi-polar or something," chipped in his father. "Poor girl."

"She ought to get out of there," said his mother.

"If she can," said Edward.

"She's been looking and applying for anything and everything. She will," Michael responded, positively.

His parents loved Rebecca as if she were their own daughter. His mother was especially pleased for Michael to have such a wonderful girlfriend, as she cared for him so lovingly and cooked amazingly.

Violet even dreamt of Rebecca's cooking, that was how much she liked her food. Both Violet and Edward were equally relaxed and happy that Michael was happy and had finally found somebody who put as much effort and energy and love into a relationship as he did.

"Has Bec read The Secret?" she asked.

"Ha! I've read various bits of it to her and have written some of her wants and goals in the Gratitude book you bought me."

"Does anyone know of it at her work?"

"Mm, yeah, but they think it's something you simply do; a quick fix to things as opposed to a practice or way of life and constant thought," Michael said, food in his mouth once again.

"How do you mean?" his mother asked, curiously.

"Like, 'Oh, we should do The Secret on that client' someone will say in her office. As if it was a magic spell or something. Grr. I can't stand them. They're all a bunch of Ab-Fab wannabe, Botox-filled, bloated-faced fakes. There's no loyalty in that place at all." Michael was passionate about his girlfriend, Rebecca. It frustrated him that she was unhappy in her workplace.

Rebecca was somewhat envious of Michael and the varied days he had at his job and the closeness of his staff team. 

He thought about the types of students he had. His mind raced with a thousand and one thoughts. Becca disliked her job so much and if she suddenly left and handed her notice in, how would they pay their rent and other bills? Would being a police informant be of any benefit to him? To them? Could it be easy to simply tell on the teenagers at his work to the police? What would they want to know? What did he know about them anyway?

Simon was a slightly overweight white man in his mid-forties. His greying blond hair was thin and wavy and his appearance implied a man depressed and deep in thought. This was the man Michael had seen as he drove by. He walked bow-legged up the driveway to Michael's parents' home as Michael exited the house. Only the metal gate separated the two of them.

"I was just on my way to you," Michael smiled, extending his hand to shake Simon's over the gate.

The mournful-looking Simon formed an awkward half-smile. He was unsure how to initiate the conversation, looking around the driveway and everywhere else but Michael's face.

"I spoke to your Dad earlier and he said you have a lot of contact with gang members. I've got a... a special unit. A new team under my control. It's quite a secretive division. It's just a very difficult and hard task to achieve anything with any positive outcome," he rambled.

"With regards to...?" asked Michael, curiously.

"The gangs of south-east London," answered Simon, looking him in the eye for the first time.

Simon was a Detective Chief Inspector. Worn out and exhausted before his actual age commanded it to be so. Stressed out because of his job and the amount of pet dogs he and his wife had. His wife was rarely sighted, let alone seen walking the pets at all.

"There are so many guns in Thamesmead. So many automatic weapons. It's alarming. The shootings are kept out of the press, but we can't keep them out forever."

"So, what would you like from me?" Michael asked.

"I don't know until I hear what you can tell me about the types of kids you have," Simon stated.

Michael nodded his head, thinking seriously. He raised his eyebrows and looked at Simon.

"It's daily. Pretty much. T-Blok, Cherry Boys, Woolwich Boys, the stereotypical chavy racist attackers from Bexleyheath."

"The RA. We've got them all watched," Simon said.

Michael rested one arm upon the gate and assumed a more solemn expression.

"I've dealt with children who have been charged for rape, attempted murder, sexual assaults, ABH and GBH. One boy, the other week, came in with stab wounds all over his head."

"Interesting. So, would you be willing to meet some colleagues of mine in the week at all?" Simon asked.

"Sure," said Michael, positively.

"You'll be paid for any information you tell them that can be used in evidence against somebody you identify, but it has to be signed over. It's not like it was in your dad's days, where it was meeting somebody in a pub and they handed over an envelope full of cash. It has to be all recorded now. It's all quite official," Simon stated again.

Michael nodded his head. He understood.

At their top-floor conversion flat within a terrace town house in Luxor Street, Michael and Rebecca slouched on the L-shaped sofa, watching Jamie Oliver on their oversized Sony television. They sipped glasses of an Australian Pinot Noir. Always red. They loved their wine. The colours, the aromas and, of course, the taste.

Michael would dip his nose into the glass and breathe in the scent, as if he was about to duck underwater.

"Raspberry, vanilla, no licorice; maybe even cola."

Rebecca often scrunched up her nose and curled her lip. "Cola? Just smells like wine."

Michael told her he gained his wine knowledge when, in his youth, he'd worked in the beers, wines and spirits department at a local supermarket.

Rebecca believed he'd gained what he knew about wine by simply watching the movie Sideways and winging it, like everybody else.

Michael dabbed a sheet of kitchen towel against Rebecca's cheek, wiping a tear away.

"I just don't know what I have to do in order to please her anymore," she sniffed.

"She's a nutcase, Becca. You're so professional and she's not worth a single tear of yours, so don't cry, baby. I bet tomorrow will be completely different for you and she'll be singing your praises again," Michael reassured her.

"I doubt that. I'm sorry you have to see me crying when you come home and hear how crap my job is all the time. How was your day, Mikey?" she asked, as she placed her glass of wine on the black Ikea coffee table and snuggled into his arms.

"It was a little weird. The usual at work. A complete psycho kicking off. This Iranian man-boy."

"Did you see your mum and dad?"

"Yeah. You know they have a neighbour, next door but one, who's a detective?" 

"No, but carry on," replied Rebecca, hurrying him up.

"Well, there's this detective couple next door but one from Mum and Dad and they got talking to him the other day and told him I dealt with a bunch of gang kids."

"And he knows the gang kids you teach?"

"Not really. Well, maybe, I don't know. Perhaps. But he wants me to meet up with his undercover guys and discuss stuff. They've set up this new undercover police gang unit near where I work and are out of their depth. They underestimated the amount of kids with knives and guns in the area where the school is and, well, it's worth meeting up with them."