Requiem Read Free

expanse of passing skin.
    At first
these were the only kinds of ghost he had to contend with, and with them, as
always, came the thickening in the throat and the fluid gathering behind the
retina. He'd been standing in his classroom, clutching the ghost-note, when he
became aware of someone standing in the doorway.
    It
was Kelly McGovern from his English class. Mothers from the estate gave their kids
American celebrity names; the boys were all Deans and Waynes ,
designated delinquents with gold-studded ears; the girls were cutesy Kellys and Jodies , hard as nails.
Kelly McGovern was fifteen. Just.
    Go away, Tom
thought viciously. Get out of here, you beautiful, diamond-bright little tart.
'Hi, Kelly,' he said with a smile.
    Hesitating at the door,
something gift-wrapped in her hand, she wore the regulation black school
blazer, short black skirt and black tights.' The school insignia stitched on to
the blazer pocket over her immature breast was a bright red rose, the petals so
embroidered that for Tom the rose would eternally spill a single drop of
crimson blood. A classical scroll beneath the rose bore the motto Nisi Dominus Frustra . His
inability to interpret that slogan meaningfully for the kids had hastened,
though not caused, his resignation.
    'It's Latin.
It comes from one of the Psalms. "Except the Lord keep the city, the
Watchman waketh in vain." It means; without God,
all is in vain.'
    'What city?'
    What city, indeed? They
asked the questions, didn't they? The city of the human fucking heart, boy. You
don't need to know what city. It's just your school motto. You don't need to
know what it means.
    'What can I do for you, Kelly?' he asked.
    'I brought you a leaving present. Here.'
    She
ventured inside the door, offering the package, unable to meet his eyes.
Instead her gaze strayed to the open store-cupboard door. He closed it, turning
the key in the lock. Then he took the package and unwrapped it.
    It was a
brand-new copy of a book of poems by the Liverpool poets, McGough ,
Henri, Patten. His own copy had been stolen by someone in the class. He'd kept
the class behind after school, telling them he was delighted. He invited them
to steal more poetry. Then he'd let them go.
    'This is kind of you. I don't know what to
say.'
    But she
still wouldn't meet his eyes. She flicked her copper-coloured hair and stood
with her ankles crossed. He felt her tension. It was catching. She seemed
reluctant to go.
    'I've got to lock up here, Kelly.'
    'OK.'
    'I have to go and see the Head. Before I
leave.'
    She
looked up at him at last, light rinsing her pale eyes of chromium and blue.
Then she turned and went out of the classroom, closing the door behind her.
With an audible sigh of relief he collected up the few items he wanted to take
away with him. Then he made his way over to Stokes's study.
    'It's not too late for you to
reconsider your resignation,' Stokes was saying. 'Even at this stage. I mean,
you're a fine teacher. I'll be sorry to lose you. We all will.'
    Tom had never liked the
Head, who was now leaning across his desk, large hands clasped almost in prayer
before him, eyes bulging as if this was the most important conversation the two
men would ever have together -which indeed it was. Stokes's bunker mentality rarely allowed him to stray from his office, and Tom despised
his educational policies. The Dovelands Head was an
ABC man: Assembly, Blazers and Curriculum, all designed to echo the ethos of
the old grammar schools.
     

He'd revived a
Christian-based assembly even though a third of the kids were Hindus, Sikhs or
Muslims; compulsory school uniform was rigorously enforced even under
sweltering conditions; and a curriculum calculated to strait-jacket even the
most creative teachers was guarded jealously.
    Tom
had committed himself to small acts of sabotage against this regime, though he
wasn't above ingratiating himself with the Head by agreeing to teach Religious Education
when no one else would. His cynical thought was