Page 90 of Don't Tell Teacher

Behind us, the school bell rings, but there are none of the usual excited noises of children being let out. It’s all too orderly. Bordering on sinister.

‘Do you see them?’ says Mr Cockrun. He points at wire mesh. ‘There. All solidly repaired.’

I stoop down, seeing cut wire repaired with coat hangers and an old bike lock. Despite the unprofessional job, the holes are most certainly secure.

‘As I say, the holes have been temporarily repaired until the Christmas holidays. I find them unsightly too, but they are no more than that. There is absolutely no security issue. None at all. Quite the opposite – we’re one of the most secure schools you could find. Very well safeguarded.’

‘With a padlock on the front gates,’ I say.

‘Well, of course,’ says Mr Cockrun. ‘I admit the padlock on the front gate is a little … old-fashioned.’

‘Yes. Most schools have an intercom system. Remote locking. And unlocking.’

‘The school building is very old,’ says Mr Cockrun. ‘A remote locking system wouldn’t work in our case. But a padlock does the job.’

‘With a padlock, I suppose you can control who has the key.’ I make the suggestion lightly, but watch Mr Cockrun’s face.

He gives nothing away.

‘We have to keep the children safe. And the staff.’

‘From what?’ I ask.

‘Look, we really care about these children,’ says Mr Cockrun, spreading his palms wide. ‘It prays on my mind, the wrong people getting in. Miss Riley has come from a very stressful situation. Divorce and so on. New house. I don’t mean to be unkind, but she’s paranoid.’

‘Why has the fence been cut in the first place?’ I ask. ‘Could someone have been trying to get into the school?’

Mr Cockrun cocks his head, clearly working out the most agreeable way to answer.

‘Mr Cockrun,’ I say. ‘Spare me the politician’s spin. Just tell me the truth. I’m not here to audit your school.’

The headmaster hesitates. Then his eyes meet mine. ‘No one is trying to get in,’ he says. ‘Actually, someone is trying to get out.’

Lizzie

‘Come on, Tom. We have to go. I promised we’d see your grandmother.’ I’m at the school gates, calling across the playground.

Tom’s pale face flicks away from Pauly. He crosses the tarmac in a few seconds.

‘Grandma?’ he asks. ‘Or Granny?’

‘Your dad’s mum.’

‘Ye-ess!’ Tom does a little air punch.

‘We’ve got to walk quickly,’ I say, taking his hand.

‘Why?’

‘We’re catching the London train.’

‘I hate going to London.’

‘It’s okay, Tom. I always plan these trips carefully. I know you’re worried about seeing Dad, but it’s a very big city. We’ll be safe.’

We head down the country path and then across the park towards the train station.

As we pass the swings, Tom says, ‘Guess what? Pauly Neilson has the same social worker we have.’

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