The Girls Beneath. Ross Armstrong

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      He touches me on the shoulder.

      ‘Good man.’

      He turns as he bites his bottom lip, a tense mannerism that intrigues me already. It’s always the little things that intrigue me.

      ‘Ready?’

      ‘Yes,’ I say, my movements getting smoother all the time. I can feel myself growing already, spreading out to encompass the space the world outside my room has provided for me.

      ‘Good. Come on then,’ he says as he walks.

      You just have to say you won’t do something. That’s what they want. Little compromises. Promises. Words.

      It’s as easy as that.

      We sign our names and put on those badges with the safety pins attached that ruin jumpers and would do unfathomable things to a face.

      Then we’re in.

7

       ‘Dreams, keep rolling, through me

       Dreams of you and I,

       Dreams that drift far out to sea

       Why does my baby lie?’

      Being back here is sinister. The hallways hum with spectres. Dr Ryans said he didn’t think I’d suffer any amnesia or losses, as the bullet didn’t seem to rupture anything where my memories lie, but then the brain is unpredictable. I hear the song of distant thoughts as we walk under halogen strip-lights to the school hall. Traces of said things in half remembered classrooms pass by.

      It’s like a dream and not the good kind. Forced into your old school hall, dressed as a policeman, with a bullet in your brain. I look down and expect to see my penis but only my trouser crotch stares back at me.

      Bartu sees me staring at my own crotch and when I raise my head again our eyes meet and I smile. He does, too, trying not to let on how much I concern him.

      He makes conversation with the head of year. She is called Miss Nixon. She is all brown and grey hair and clothes she’s had a while. I write down a brief description on my face cheat sheet.

       She is Caucasian. Has church-going hair. Wears dangly earrings.

      The last one is her most distinguishing feature, in fact. If she took them off, she’d disappear.

      I start to hum a song I made up called ‘Dreams’. When my senses were kicking back in and my brain was repairing itself I found I had the overwhelming urge to make up little lullabies. Conjuring a tune and putting words to it was one of many exercises I set myself. I didn’t write them down but I won’t forget them, there must have been hundreds.

       ‘Dreams are rolling through me…’

      The cleaning fluid smells the same. Even the cold crisp door handle’s touch against my skin sings deep-held memories back to me. Along with fears that I might stumble through the wrong door and end up in a classroom some miles away, where Gary Canning pushes my would-be fiancé up against the blackboard and her back slowly rubs off what was once written on it.

      A group of kids pass us on our left, keeping their heads low, as if the sight of everything above shin level depresses the hell out of them. One of them has an unmistakeable birthmark, so distinctive that even I can’t forget it. He pretends he doesn’t see us, but he can’t fool me. Eli cold shoulders us like we’ve never met. That’s life in your home town. These instances that come and go. As fate blows us into each other’s paths like debris in the updraught.

      That childhood kiss with Sarah drifts into my mind, then blows away, escaping through my ear.

      When we get to the hall, its unmistakeable chafed parquet flooring under my feet, the kids are waiting and Emre Bartu wastes no time.

      He claps his hands, a surprisingly effective attention drawing tactic that turns their chattering heads towards him.

      ‘Hello Year Eleven! My name is PCSO Emre Bartu and it’s a real pleasure to speak to you today. We’re usually out on the street, you may have seen us about, so at this time of year it’s just nice to come in and get warm.’

      It’s not the kind of gag I would open with but he’s certainly come in with confidence. He reaches centre stage, the exact spot the headmaster stands to give out end of term awards, where Martin Humball gave his Fagin, and precisely where people were invited to stand and play clarinet or present some kind of talent if their ultimate wish was to be punched by their peers at lunch break. Bartu’s not a natural public speaker, his thumbs tucked tightly under his police vest tell me that. He needs something to hold on to for comfort. But I like Emre Bartu, and they are warming to him, too. Although I’m sure I hear someone mutter the word ‘Tosser’ as he pauses to collect his thoughts.

      ‘So why am I here? I hear you all ask. Well, myself and my friend and colleague PCSO Tom Mondrian at the back there…’ he says pointing to me.

      They turn to look. ‘Friend and colleague.’ Very kind. We’ve only just met. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do at this point. So I put my index and middle fingers to my forehead and salute. I’m not sure why.

      No one smiles. A morass of shaggy haircuts turn back to the stage. I see a grimace somewhere inside Emre Bartu. He falters.

      ‘We… me and Mondrian… PCSO Mondrian… (a cough)… wanted to talk to you about a few things you should be aware of as you lot start to taking your drivey theoring tests. Driving theory tests.’

      He reaches for the bag. He picks up the bag. He unzips the bag and puts his hand inside. I whisper to Miss Nixon, ‘Have you heard this talk before?’

      ‘Six times,’ she says.

      ‘That’s a lot,’ I say.

      ‘Mmm,’ she says. Small talk over.

      He pulls out some goggles from the bag.

      ‘Now, who would like to come and “road test”, these special goggles?’

      No hands shoot up. No enthusiasm reaches fever pitch.

      ‘Come on. Anyone? Or I’ll pick on you.’

      One hand at the front lifts with the energy of something pained and waiting to die.

      ‘There we go. Round of applause please!’

      The sad sound of twelve people clapping in a room of over a hundred. The echoing acoustic is a cruel partner to their dwindling will to live.

      ‘These are my beer goggles,’ he says. Some merciful vocal response occurs. We are underway. Bartu gets the boy to put them on.

      I think about the missing girl.

      Bartu asks the boy to tell us what he can see.

      I wonder whether she’s playing truant; most СКАЧАТЬ