furious, optimistic swing, was blocked by the larger boy. Knees and elbows flew. A ball of desperate rage, repelled by a wall of solid violence. Sean screamed, flailed, erupted. Lionel, far more practised and efficient, chose his moments. A sickening blow took the wind out of Sean’s stomach, a needless addition broke the smaller boy’s nose.
Sean was snorting blood as they pulled him off, its vivid red splattered across a face of snot and tears. Small, careful, studious Sean: turned, just like that. Turned and suffering. Lionel towered over him, hands held out as if in complete innocence. His shirt was ruffled, but floating above it his smile was serene and his eyes shone,an animal too, not beaten but high. Wanting more.
Mr Krane stood between them, fighting to catch his breath. He paused as if he was looking for something. A mood perhaps.
‘Sean, come with me. Lionel, Mr Chalmer’s office.’
‘But I didn’t fucking do anything.’
Lionel stepped forward, closing the gap between himself and his teacher, accentuating the difference in size. Mr Krane stared back impassively.
‘Well that’s clearly not correct is it?’
‘You saw.’
‘Yes Lionel, I saw.’ Mr Krane’s face was blank, as if this was all too stupid, too predictable, to waste his life on.
‘So a little fucking white guy’s never in the wrong?’ Lionel challenged.
‘You want to accuse me of racism, Lionel, feel free to lay a complaint.’
‘With who? The white principal?’
Now at last there was a reaction from the teacher. Nothing much, just the smallest hint of a smile.
‘Yes, Lionel. Your life is the end product of a vast racist conspiracy. That is why you hit people. You are a victim. Please accept my sympathy. Now get to the deputy principal’s office.’
Lionel thought about hitting him. Sophie saw the careful calculation in his eyes. The numbers fell and he reluctantly turned, ambling towards the door.
‘And don’t go anywhere else on the way!’
Lionel raised a single finger in staunch salute. Mr Krane looked down at Sean’s beaten face.
‘And don’t you expect any sympathy either. What the hell were you thinking?’
It was, Sophie realised, the stupidest of questions. You only had to take one look at the boy’s eyes, dull and empty, watch the rapidrising and falling of his chest, or see the flaring of his crusted nostrils, to know he hadn’t been thinking anything. Surely a biology teacher didn’t need to be told that. There had been rage and now, in a slow tide of realisation, there was shame. The victim stood gingerly in a drunkard’s daze, hunched over as if his stomach was contracting, pulling him forward. A thick line of blood stretched down from his nose, its slow motion descent breaking into three neat drops which splashed onto the carpet.
‘GET CLOSER,’ AMANDA instructed. ‘We need the anger.’
In her mother’s album the activists always looked so relaxed, certain the world would tumble at nothing more than a gentle nudge and the strum of a guitar. Maybe it was the way the sun was always shining in the photographs, or her mother’s face, simultaneously eighteen and fifty at the centre of every frame, but it had all seemed so harmless.
Today’s protesters were dressed for battle, coats pulled high against the cold of the southerly which had swept in as forecast to announce the onset of afternoon. The faces in the crowd were pulled small and grim, eyes too tight for optimism, bit actors playing their small but necessary roles in the war that never ends. No longer the adventurers setting out to conquer new lands; now the defenders left at home to guard the castle, to forever fight off the gathering hordes.
‘One, two, three, four.’ The chant emerged tinny from the megaphone and was treated with disdain by the ripping air. ‘We don’t need no racist bores! Two four six eight, ignorance must lead to hate.’
There was a decent gathering; not large, but passionate. The number of
Sean was snorting blood as they pulled him off, its vivid red splattered across a face of snot and tears. Small, careful, studious Sean: turned, just like that. Turned and suffering. Lionel towered over him, hands held out as if in complete innocence. His shirt was ruffled, but floating above it his smile was serene and his eyes shone,an animal too, not beaten but high. Wanting more.
Mr Krane stood between them, fighting to catch his breath. He paused as if he was looking for something. A mood perhaps.
‘Sean, come with me. Lionel, Mr Chalmer’s office.’
‘But I didn’t fucking do anything.’
Lionel stepped forward, closing the gap between himself and his teacher, accentuating the difference in size. Mr Krane stared back impassively.
‘Well that’s clearly not correct is it?’
‘You saw.’
‘Yes Lionel, I saw.’ Mr Krane’s face was blank, as if this was all too stupid, too predictable, to waste his life on.
‘So a little fucking white guy’s never in the wrong?’ Lionel challenged.
‘You want to accuse me of racism, Lionel, feel free to lay a complaint.’
‘With who? The white principal?’
Now at last there was a reaction from the teacher. Nothing much, just the smallest hint of a smile.
‘Yes, Lionel. Your life is the end product of a vast racist conspiracy. That is why you hit people. You are a victim. Please accept my sympathy. Now get to the deputy principal’s office.’
Lionel thought about hitting him. Sophie saw the careful calculation in his eyes. The numbers fell and he reluctantly turned, ambling towards the door.
‘And don’t go anywhere else on the way!’
Lionel raised a single finger in staunch salute. Mr Krane looked down at Sean’s beaten face.
‘And don’t you expect any sympathy either. What the hell were you thinking?’
It was, Sophie realised, the stupidest of questions. You only had to take one look at the boy’s eyes, dull and empty, watch the rapidrising and falling of his chest, or see the flaring of his crusted nostrils, to know he hadn’t been thinking anything. Surely a biology teacher didn’t need to be told that. There had been rage and now, in a slow tide of realisation, there was shame. The victim stood gingerly in a drunkard’s daze, hunched over as if his stomach was contracting, pulling him forward. A thick line of blood stretched down from his nose, its slow motion descent breaking into three neat drops which splashed onto the carpet.
‘GET CLOSER,’ AMANDA instructed. ‘We need the anger.’
In her mother’s album the activists always looked so relaxed, certain the world would tumble at nothing more than a gentle nudge and the strum of a guitar. Maybe it was the way the sun was always shining in the photographs, or her mother’s face, simultaneously eighteen and fifty at the centre of every frame, but it had all seemed so harmless.
Today’s protesters were dressed for battle, coats pulled high against the cold of the southerly which had swept in as forecast to announce the onset of afternoon. The faces in the crowd were pulled small and grim, eyes too tight for optimism, bit actors playing their small but necessary roles in the war that never ends. No longer the adventurers setting out to conquer new lands; now the defenders left at home to guard the castle, to forever fight off the gathering hordes.
‘One, two, three, four.’ The chant emerged tinny from the megaphone and was treated with disdain by the ripping air. ‘We don’t need no racist bores! Two four six eight, ignorance must lead to hate.’
There was a decent gathering; not large, but passionate. The number of
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