Turn a Blind Eye. Vicky Newham

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      Giggles ricochet off the metal lockers and excitement bubbles up. New things to learn, new people. But anxiety soon dampens my eagerness: I knew my class at primary school but I’m not going to know anyone here.

      Sabbir is a few steps ahead of me, his gangly legs striding forwards. He tugs the arm of my hand-me-down blazer with one hand, carrying my bag in the other.

      ‘Come on,’ he keeps urging. ‘You aren’t the only one that’s late.’

      I’m glad my brother’s with me. Not Mum, whose spokesperson I always have to be. Or Jasmina, whose poise and beauty means I may as well be invisible.

      ‘Here we are,’ Sabbir announces finally when we arrive outside one of the closed doors. He checks the room number, peers in and hands me my bag. ‘I’ll meet you at the front entrance at 3.45 p.m. Okay?’

      My guts crunch again, and I screw up my face to say don’t leave me, attempting to swallow down the panic that’s creeping into my chest. ‘How do I know what subject they’re doing?’ It’s a croak. My throat has dried out on the silent walk to school.

      Taller than me, he ruffles my hair with his hand.

      ‘Don’t.’ I dodge out of reach, smoothing the everywhere hair that I’d brushed and brushed this morning to try and get under control.

      The classroom door opens inwards, and suddenly a frowning face is in front of us, all lipstick and powdery skin. ‘Can I help you?’ The woman glances from Sabbir to me and looks me up and down.

      She’s seen the pins in my skirt. The floor draws my gaze like a magnet.

      ‘Sorry she’s late,’ Sabbir mumbles. ‘Our mother isn’t . . .’ His voice dies out.

      Inside the room I hear chatter swirl. And giddy, first-day-of-term laughter. The sounds are amplified like when we go to the public baths to have our showers.

      ‘And you are?’ The voice has an accent.

      Sabbir nudges me and I raise my head.

      She’s peering at me, as if she’s used to having her questions answered immediately.

      And now I wish Jasmina was here and then the woman would look at my sister and not me, and ask her questions instead of me. I swallow hard. You’ve practised this. Come on. ‘Rahman.’ Then louder, ‘Maya Rahman.’

      ‘Oh yes.’ The frown’s still there beneath a thick fringe. ‘The Bangladeshi girl. I wasn’t sure whether to expect you.’ She steps back. ‘You’d better come in.’ She leads me into the classroom with a swish of her patterned skirt, and Sabbir fades away as I’m swept in front of a cascade of faces, and rows of tables, not like the individual desks at primary school.

      Everyone freezes the moment they see me, halting their conversations and their carefree laughter to stare.

      ‘Now, year seven,’ the woman announces, with a chirpy lilt, ‘this is Maya Rarrrman.’ She presents me with a flourish of her hand, like I’m a stage act.

      There I stand, weighed down by dread, swamped by my sister’s old uniform, with my raggedy hair and my funny surname. And the fear leans in: you aren’t the same as them.

      On the giant pull-down board there’s writing. I can’t read it. It’s not English and it’s not Maths.

      ‘We’ve just started to introduce ourselves in French,’ the woman says, as if she read my mind. ‘Je suis Madame Bélanger. Bonjour May-a.’ Her pasted smile does little to reassure me, and all I can think about is that everyone’s still staring at me and I can’t take in a word she’s saying and I haven’t a clue what she said her name is.

      The room smells like stale crisps. I’m searching for a free seat.

      ‘Do you want to sit on the end there, next to Fatima?’ The teacher points to a grey table, wagging her finger. ‘Fatima, bougez-vous, s’il vous plaît? Voilà. You can have my chair.’ She picks up her seat, sets it down next to the wall and pats the back rest. ‘You can be friends, you two, n’est-ce pas?’

      I take my bag over and perch.

      ‘Alors, on continue,’ the woman says as she glides back to her desk and surveys the class.

      All the sounds merge together now. My senses swim and I eye the door. I can make it if I run. Throat tight, my eyes fill up. I blink and blink, determined not to dab them, and wipe my nose rather than sniff conspicuously. All the time I’m thinking, it wasn’t meant to be like this.

      And I’m wondering whether I would feel different if Mum or Dad had come with me.

Wednesday – Dan

      As soon as Dan entered Roger Allen’s scruffy office, two things struck him: Allen was out of favour, and was at the bottom of the management pecking order. Scuffed walls were crying out for a lick of paint, and two of the ceiling lights were on the blink. It gave a very different impression from the showroom of Linda Gibson’s office and the swish reception area.

      Steve Rowe cut a dejected figure in a chair behind the desk. Trackie top. A face full of stubble. Mid-to-late twenties. A rookie.

      Maya took the lead. ‘Mr Rowe? I’m DI Rahman and this is DS Maguire.’

      It was a small space and there wasn’t much choice about where to stand. On a dusty cork notice board, a newspaper article was two years out of date, and someone had pinned a flyer for a new breakfast club next to a leaflet on pregnancy advice.

      The guy was leaning over the desk, a blanket pulled round his shoulders. Dan got a waft of stale booze mixed with tinges of sick. He looked rough. All the staff were in civvies for training day but this guy could’ve just got out of bed.

      ‘I understand you found Mrs Gibson.’ Dan stood back and watched his new colleague at work. Maya’s manner was gentle. You wouldn’t mess with her, but she cared. That was obvious. ‘What made you go into her office? Weren’t you all eating lunch?’

      ‘Yes, we were, but I’d finished and I wanted to get some air. Today is my first day here and I was feeling a bit . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Overwhelmed. When Mrs Ahmed asked for a volunteer to go and fetch Mrs Gibson, I jumped at the chance. Thought I’d nip out for a fag.’

      ‘And why was Mrs Gibson not with you all?’

      ‘I’m not sure. She left the hall when we had the power cut. Said she was going to find the caretakers. I got the impression she was planning to join us in the staffroom straight after. But it took a while for the electricity to come back on and someone suggested ordering pizzas.’

      ‘I see. How well did you know Mrs Gibson?’

      Rowe frowned. ‘Hardly at all,’ he said. ‘I met her a few months ago at my interview. Would’ve been October. Then again when I came into the school for my induction day in December. And obviously today. She kicked off the staff meeting before lunch.’

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