Page 78 of Don't Tell Teacher

It takes a few minutes for Tom to appear. When he does, he’s walking with Pauly Neilson.

I wave frantically at him. ‘Tom.Tom!’

When Tom finally reaches the school gates, I grab his hand.

‘Mum?’ he says, looking alarmed.

I don’t reply, instead pulling Tom away from Pauly, through the crowd and towards the stony lane.

‘What’s wrong?’ Tom asks, grey school shoes tripping over gravel. He sounds frightened.

When we’re a little way down the path and alone, with only birdsong and green leaves for company, I say, ‘Tom, the police were here today. Lloyd Neilson was arrested. He gave me a thumbs-up and said, “Tell Tom: nice one”. Why did he say that?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘The police led him right through the playground.’

‘I know. They arrested him.’

‘And you have no idea whatsoever why he would have said that?’

Tom shrugs, and I feel like I’ve taken the wrong boy home. That I’m holding Pauly Neilson’s hand.

‘Let’s start at the beginning. Why did the police take Lloyd Neilson? Did you hear anything? See anything?’

‘They said he had tablets on him. They couldn’t find them, though.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘One of the police searched Pauly in case Lloyd had given them to him. But they couldn’t find anything.’

‘Listen, Tom … just stay away from those Neilson boys. Stay away from them. Do you hear me? I’m going to find a way to get you out of this school.’

We walk home in silence.

When we reach the house, Tom goes straight upstairs, school bag still on his shoulders, and I’m left alone, numbly picking up leaflets from the doormat and tidying stray toys.

I notice five missed calls from my mother. She’s probably trying to arrange another visit, but I don’t have emotional space for her right now.

My head is crammed with thoughts and worries.

Why did Lloyd Neilson say that? What did he want to thank Tom for?

A thought prickles.

Tom took his school bag upstairs. He never does that. He always hangs it on the bannisters.

Suddenly I’m running, two steps at a time, onto the landing, throwing open Tom’s door and rushing into his bedroom.

Tom stands with his back to me in his reading corner. His school bag is open a few feet away. The front pocket is unzipped too, which is unusual – he never keeps anything in there.

Tom senses me in the doorway and turns.

He is surprised, an animal caught in a trap.

In his hands, he holds a bag of white tablets.

Ruth

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