Page 92 of Don't Tell Teacher

‘Absolutely not.’

‘You know about the marks on Tom Kinnock’s arm, don’t you?’ I say. ‘The pin pricks.’

‘Yes, the mother came in to make a fuss about that. I’m sure it was nothing. Boys rough and tumble. Especially boys of a certain type, if you get my meaning.’

‘Oh, you mean socialservicesboys,’ I say. ‘Did they ever teach you about self-fulfilling prophecies, Mr Cockrun?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Self-fulfilling prophecies. Decide a child is naughty and he’ll become naughty. Not every child with social services involvement is badly behaved. Some of them are delightful.’

Mr Cockrun laughs coldly. ‘I’ve yet to meet a delightful one.’

‘Maybe you just don’t see the delightfulness. Can I ask … do you keep injection needles at school?’

Mr Cockrun doesn’t answer right away, jingling coins in his pocket.

‘Injection needles?’ I ask again. ‘Do you keep any at school?’

‘For diabetic children,’ says Mr Cockrun, turning away. ‘We keep the needles locked up, all safely managed. Tom Kinnock did not get any weird and wonderful marks at this school, Mrs Noble. And certainly not from an injection needle.’

‘Why lock up the needles? Why not just keep them out of reach of the children? This isn’t a mental health facility. It’s a school.’

‘Look, we’re going to have to call time on this for today, Mrs Noble. I’ve provided you with everything you asked for. You wanted to see the school fence and hopefully I’ve put your mind at ease.’

‘Mr Cockrun—’

‘I know you understand, Mrs Noble. Public sector employees have to manage our time efficiently. We have so little of it. So if you don’t mind, I’ll show you out.’

‘If you don’t have time now, we’ll have to meet again,’ I insist.

‘I really think we’ve covered everything.’

‘No, we haven’t.’

Mr Cockrun sighs. ‘I have a little time this Friday. After three p.m.’

This Friday I’m booked solidly from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., but … ‘Yes, okay,’ I reply. ‘3.30 p.m.?’

The headmaster nods, then notices something on the woodland floor. A small brown bottle – like a medicine bottle. Unlike the chocolate-bar wrapper, he doesn’t pick it up.

I follow his gaze.

Mr Cockrun’s head flicks up then. ‘Let me show you out.’

‘That looks like a medicine bottle,’ I say.

Mr Cockrun laughs. ‘It does a bit, doesn’t it? Someone must have thrown it over the fence. Let’s head out.’

I stoop to pick up the bottle.

Mr Cockrun watches me, and I get a sense of a bear, cornered and dangerous.

On the shiny brown plastic there’s a damp white label with computerised letters printed across it. ‘It’s prescription medicine,’ I say. ‘Look, there’s the chemist’s logo.’

‘I’d say it was fairly impossible to read,’ says Mr Cockrun, squinting. ‘As I said, someone must have thrown it over the fence.’

The writing is faint, but I can see the outline of a name. My eyes walk along the faded letters, lips moving as I sound the words:

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