My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay Read Free Page A

second drawer down. He placed his beige canvas bag inside, then closed and locked the cabinet. He removed his grey fleck, Dandy-style overcoat and placed it on the chair in the incredibly small box-room, more like an oversized cupboard, with a desk, an office chair and two soft chairs. A host of junk in an assortment of boxes. Varied laminated pictures lined the wall consisting of a butterfly knife, a .38 revolver, an Uzi and some drug paraphernalia. On another wall was a drawing of a Bow Street Runner. Michael adored history and storytelling. If a student gazed around the room, they would fix their eyes on something to spark a question and encourage conversation. The place was like room-bait. British Board of Film Classification symbols - U, PG, 12, 12A, 15 and 18 certificates - and the abbreviation BBFC also laminated. Everything was laminated in fact. Michael remembered the day he first met Rebecca and gave her a laminated picture of a bunch of flowers. On another wall, various gang names, their colours, races, places and crimes. Michael knew his stuff and his room was a comfortable place to be in.
     
    The large kitchen housed four classroom desks. They were pushed together to make one larger table, with ten blue plastic chairs set around it.
    Michael placed his copies of Metro down. He looked up and smiled.
    Paul Jones was a sixty-year-old white Liverpudlian man. He was a gentleman no end and brought cheer and experience wherever he stepped. Every year, near the Christmas holidays, he invited the core members of the team to his house for a meal. He always said that it was a 'thank you' to Helen, their boss, for choosing him to join such a happy, trusting, enjoyable work environment. Paul was a maths teacher and had been made redundant from a previous school as well as having retired twice. He was onto a winner and he knew it, but he was worth every penny. He was an outdoors type, often teaching the students games and taking them for walks. "I'm a mountain man and I like mountain women," he would joke. He wore dark blue corduroy trousers with a blue shirt under a mint green sweater. His hair was practically white and his kind face beamed a smile. 
    "I was wondering where the paperboy had got to. Cheers, sir," Paul said to Michael, as he sat down to read the front page of the paper. He often called his work colleagues "miss" or "sir". It saved remembering names. It saved getting names wrong. He even called the pupils "sir" or "miss". It was much simpler.
    "Tea, vicar?" Michael patted Paul on the shoulder and stepped to a sink. He plucked a mug from a cupboard.
    "Please, matron," replied Paul.
    Michael started to prepare several cups of tea. The hot water came from a fitted urn upon the wall, so there was no hanging around for a kettle to be boiled.
    "Eh, I might get an iPhone, you know. Whadya reckon, Mikey?" Paul called out.
    "I was thinking of upgrading, Paul. Could do with someone actually giving me one," Michael said.
    "I bet you could!" Paul joked. "Wor hey! I could do with someone giving me one. Especially someone like that new Countdown lass!" Paul continued. He buried his head and innuendos into the newspaper.
    Michael smiled and poured some milk into the tea. He stirred it and stepped over to Paul, placing the mug beside his paper.
    "They'll soon be in," Michael said, returning to the urn. 
    "Oh, dammit. Really? I thought I come 'ere to just hang out with you and drink tea all day," joked a smiley Paul once more.
    Helen Martin was an attractive fifty-five year old woman. She was a Deputy Head, white and originally from Liverpool too. On that day, she wore black leggings and a colourful purple dress, with maroon velvet boots. She had been Michael's boss, Line Manager and first point of call since she interviewed him and took him on as part of her team five years prior. Kind, well-travelled, firm but fair, adventurous with education, outgoing and fun, she would back you up and support you no end. She first met