Page 82 of Don't Tell Teacher

I should take the tablets to the police. I will. Tomorrow.

Before I know it, the sun is coming up and it’s morning.

I go through the motions, trying to get Tom ready, finding clothes, giving him meds.

‘Mum?’ Tom asks. ‘Mum? Are you okay?’

I try for a smile. ‘Just a bit tired, love. Worrying about yesterday. Those tablets …’

‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ Tom’s eyes are wide.

‘I have to, Tom. We need to get to the bottom of this. We always used to talk, didn’t we? About everything. We’re friends. All the stuff about your dad … when you told me the truth I could fix it. I couldn’t fix it until I knew.’

‘You can’t fix this.’

Fear weaves around my stomach, a spider spinning a web. ‘Well, maybe … look, if you could justtalkto me.’

‘I can’t. You don’t get it, Mum. I just can’t.’

We walk to school in silence, me thinking, thinking about what on earth I’m going to do.

We have to move schools.

That goes without question.

But how can we, without social services marking us as cause for concern?

I squeeze Tom extra tight before he runs into the playground. ‘Look, be sensible today, okay? Play with the good kids.’

On the way home, I stop on the stony path, looking through the wire fence onto the playing field.

I can see the children through the school windows, moving between the assembly hall to their classrooms. Everything is soquiet. Not like a school at all.

It starts to rain and soon I’m soaking wet, short hair sticking to my head.

Is Tom with Pauly Neilson right now?

I step back, meaning to go, but my canvas shoes find a puddle. Cold water seeps around my feet and I hear Olly’s voice, for the first time in a while:What stupid shoes.

No, says a higher voice.You’re strong and you’re getting stronger.

The big holes in the fence grin at me, mouths in the wire woven closed with mismatched silver chain.

Who made those holes? Who?

In a school so obsessed with security. A school that padlocks the gates. With CCTV cameras. Why are holes appearing?

Iwillfind answers.

Lizzie

Why won’t he stop crying? Why? Why?

I clutch Tom to my chest, swaying him frantically from side to side.

‘I’ll take him out in the camper,’ says Olly, hobbling towards me.

‘You shouldn’t drive him around,’ I say. ‘Not with your leg the way it is.’

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