In Loco Parentis

By nigel bird

Joe Campion is the kind of teacher any child would want for their class. He’s also the kind of teacher who never turns down a drink, a smoke or a lay.

When Joe finds out some of his students are suffering abuse, he doesn’t trust the system to take care of it. His impulsive nature, dedication to his pupils and love of women lead him on a long, strange and bloody trip.

Praise for IN LOCO PARENTIS:

“In Loco Parentis is terrific, start to finish.” —Charlie Stella, author of Tommy Red

“Beautiful, painful and excruciatingly brilliant writing.” —McDroll, crime fiction author

“A unique voice that sets the writing head and shoulders above and apart.” —Anonymous-9, author of Hard Bite and Bite Harder

“The writing is beautiful and spare and by the end I felt a cathartic relief. This story is a roller coaster ride of emotion, but a ride well worth taking.” —Mike Miner, author of Hurt Hawks

• Language: English
• Publisher: All Due Respect Books
• Release date: Aug 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463572641

Book preview

IN LOCO PARENTIS

Nigel Bird

PRAISE FOR IN LOCO PARENTIS

"In Loco Parentis is terrific, start to finish." —Charlie Stella, author of Tommy Red

Beautiful, painful and excruciatingly brilliant writing. —McDroll, crime fiction author

A unique voice that sets the writing head and shoulders above and apart. —Anonymous-9, author of Hard Bite and Bite Harder

The writing is beautiful and spare and by the end I felt a cathartic relief. This story is a roller coaster ride of emotion, but a ride well worth taking. —Mike Miner, author of Hurt Hawks

A dark, near masterpiece. —James Mowry

A distinctive strain of black comedy. —Rory Costello

Copyright © 2012 by Nigel Bird

Down & Out Books Edition August 2018

All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover design by JT Lindroos

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

In Loco Parentis

About the Author

Also by the Author

The Down & Out Books Publishing Family Library of Titles

Preview from Last Year’s Man by Paul D. Brazill

Preview from Flight of the Fox by Gray Basnight

Preview from Boise Longpig Hunting Club by Nick Kolakowski

for the birds

Part One

July 1999

end of term

Teaching. What a job. Nobody does it for the money, that’s for sure.

Me? I’m here to make a difference. Only way to change the system’s to get inside it.

If I ever end up like those middle-aged, sour-faced cogs in the conveyor belt, you have my permission to shoot me.

Mostly, I love it. If you don’t include the paperwork. But there are drawbacks.

Like the end of term.

You spend your whole year counting down to this moment. Soon as it comes, you’re left hollow inside.

There’s a pile of stuff on my desk. Bottles of wine neatly wrapped, chocolates, a bunch of roses filling the room with the sweetest scent. Funny thing about roses, when someone asks me my favourite smells, I always forget all about them. Think of things like fresh-ground coffee or baking bread. Sometimes perfume—the stuff that comes in a bottle shaped like a woman’s body drives me crazy.

The rest of the room’s a mausoleum compared to what it’s been all year. Gone are the displays of the Ancient Egyptians, the papier-mâché planets and the walls of words and stories. Instead, the place is stripped bare.

I feel stripped on the inside, like I’ve lost thirty of my best friends at once.

And the end of another year means more moments of reflection. More resolutions for things to come.

True enough, I screwed up big time in the last six months. Survived it, though.

Things will be different next year. It’ll be like there’s a new Joe Campion in the world.

The door slams open.

In run two smiling faces. Somehow they fill the room with life again all on their own.

We forgot our gym bags, Sheena says. Instead of going over for the cloakroom, she runs straight to me. Lucy does the same. They hit me at the same time, giving a hug that would make a boa constrictor feel inferior.

They fill me up with something I need. Love? Fuel? Company? Damned if I know.

Lucy peels off first, laughs and runs to get her bag.

Sheena follows.

Gym bags over their shoulders, they go arm in arm to the door.

Instead of leaving, they turn towards me and run back.

I get more hugs.

Come on girls, I tell them. Your mums’ll be waiting.

Do we have to? Lucy asks.

I’m afraid so.

Sheena leans her head into my stomach and they’re off again. Have a good summer, they say.

You too, I call after them and collapse back into my chair like a deflating balloon.

the girl in the black velvet dress

First day of the holidays, driving past Leicester Square.

The night’s jumping. Tourists swarm. The smells of their sun creams mingle with petrol fumes and the sweet spices of Chinese food.

A gang of lads ambles across the road ahead. Slows me down and stops me getting to the green light. And I don’t care. It’s not their city; it’s mine. Elbow sticking out of the window, I blow smoke into the evening and look at them. My CD’s pumping music at a million miles an hour, giving me the trippy edge I need to stare them down.

The kid at the end raises his middle finger as he gets to the pavement. Must feel the safety of numbers. I smile. Leave him be. It’s my night. My world.

I’ve been waiting all year for the break and no one’s going to spoil the mood.

I get to the house and the music’s loud. Lights flash through the living room curtains. It’s the last thing I need. Instead of knocking on the door, I go round the back to the garden.

Where’ve you been? Emma asks. I’ve been waiting.

It’s news to me.

Waves of red hair rest upon the shoulders of her black, velvet dress. It’s the kind of dress that needs to be stroked. The kind of hair that needs stroking, too.

Royal Court, I tell her, almost impressing myself by the way it sounds.

What did you see?

The buzz I had when driving is gone. It’s late. A drive across the city at night and I wish I’d gone home to bed instead.

"Sweetheart. About Soho in the Fifties," I tell her.

She offers me a fag. I don’t take it. Roll my own instead. Liquorice papers and a filter.

I love the theatre, she says. I let her talk. She’s good at it and I’m not. We go all the time.

We. Reminds me she’s not alone. Not single. Out of bounds. I forget to listen for a while. Think about the play. About how I felt my finger on the pulse for the first time in an age.

Sheena had a great year, she tells me. You were wonderful.

I’m not sure what to say. Doubts collect about me like flies on compost. Try to force them back, but they’re overwhelming.

I wouldn’t say that.

She thinks I’m being modest. Can’t see that it’s the truth. I could have done so much more. Cared more, planned more, kept up with the paperwork, you name it.

Everybody loved you. Her voice is slurred and it’s the first time I notice. The children and the parents.

Maybe she’s right there, but it’s not the same as being wonderful. I was supposed to teach them things. All thirty of them.

I could have done better. Just thinking about school again makes me feel cold. Bumps rise on my skin. The hairs on end. I look at them and see what I’m wearing. My favourite sleeveless with the sunglasses print. Makes me feel good. Sexy.

Emma’s staring. Opens her lips like she wants me to kiss her. There’s a shine to them. I notice the colour of her eyes—blue with flecks of grey, a tiny ring of contact lenses around the irises.

Should we go inside? I ask. It’s the only way I can think of to stop myself leaning in.

She stands up. Stumbles. Bends over to pick up the bottle, her glass, her lighter and fags. It’s too much. She drops her fags and I pick them up.

She reaches out. I take her hand and she pulls me up. We stagger even though I’m sober. Somehow she keeps a grip on all she has. We go into the kitchen, joined together like a dog and its owner, and mix.

Soon as we’re in the kitchen I wish we’d stayed outside.

Emma pours herself another drink. Her eyes strain as she tries not to miss the glass.

The old man leaning against the fridge, one hand jammed into his jeans pocket and two leather patches on the elbows of his crumpled jacket, turns towards her, leans over and whispers something I can’t make out.

I want to take her outside. Find a field. Pretend none of the rest exists.

She bends over to the man, kisses him softly on the cheek and throws her arms into the air as if she’s never been so happy.

I want to be inside you now, not moving, just inside, he says like he was born to spout shit all his life. The accent’s Irish and it’s lyrical like a poem. Even I’m charmed by the way the words come out.

Yeats? I ask, figuring it’s worth a go.

Tis one of me own, he says.

Wonderful. Emma laughs and lifts herself onto the counter. Her arm reaches behind my back. She takes my hand and squeezes. You’re a wonderful man, Tony.

I put two and two together. Maxine’s father. Published poet, drinker and ladies’ man.

Emma’s fingers find their way under my shirt. I picture them, tipped with black nail varnish, lightly scratching my skin and teasing my imagination.

I think of taking her outside. Maybe to ask her for a walk.

Now did you ever read Austen? Tony asks more to Emma than to me.

My God, she’s my favourite, Emma says.

No, I think, but keep my mouth shut.

I don’t even listen to the rest. It’s like being in a double-English class.

Once in a while they pause for breath or to fill their glasses. I’m just waiting for him to go to bed so I can pop the question.

And there was me thinking the modern generation was thick as bricklayers, Tony says. Seems like he’s coming to the end. He stubs out another fag. Turns on a tap and fills a mug with water.

I’m going to take her out. Stand her up against a tree and lift her skirt. Let her see how good life can be. Make her moan and shout and give her nails a real job to do.

Tony stands in the middle of the floor. Sways a little, like the act of thinking is taking up too much of his energy. He opens his mouth like we’re off again and closes it without speaking. He raises his mug to us, winks at me like he’s acknowledging the better man and staggers through the doorframe.

I could kiss him.

Soon as he’s gone, I turn to her. She smiles. Tilts her head. She wants it now and I’d hate to disappoint.

I lean in, my whole body tingling. She stiffens and leans away.

Something’s wrong. I sense it before I know what it is. I pick up a cloth and start wiping at the worktop like it needs a clean. When I turn round I see him. Roger. I say hi and he nods back, smiling. There’s not a hint of suspicion. He stretches and yawns to wake himself up, takes a beer from the fridge and pulls the ring. No one speaks, but it’s not uncomfortable.

Tony comes back for more. Must have sensed there was a new audience for his bollocks.

The back door opens and in walks Wolf, just back from a trip to his dealers. Throws a lump of hash onto the table and his leather jacket onto the floor.

JC, he shouts like I’m a mile away. Comes straight over and gives me one of his hugs. My spine cracks like always. Loosens me up.

Hey Wolf, I say and he puts the kettle on.

Skin up, he says.

One for the road. I look at Emma’s red hair falling down her back and want to run my fingers through it, then I look at her husband. Roger’s older than me by far. He’s going to seed, but he’s still hanging on to something, his studded belt worn loosely under his belly, his dark hair tied back. They make a good pair I think, then heat up the gear in my fingers. The flame catches my skin. Bastard, is what I say and everyone laughs. I crumble the block, do my job, smoke for a while and leave.

The sun’s coming up as I get to Highgate.

Beneath me, the city stirs.

Music fills my head with beats. I tap my toe and wait for the lights to change.

By the time I pass under Suicide Bridge, I’ve thought about her in a hundred different ways.

Didn’t lay a finger on her, though. Can be proud of that. Like I said, this year I’m going to do everything right. Here’s to it.

back in the day

Col’s having a party on Saturday. Fancy dress. The seventies. It’s only the nineties and he’s already getting nostalgic.

I know what I’m supposed to do. Buy myself some flares or a tartan scarf, maybe get hold of a wig that makes me look like I’m allergic to the barber’s shop.

Well, he can stuff that for a lark.

I click the switch on the clippers, enjoy the hum and the vibration for a moment, then set to shaving the sides of my head.

It’s not as easy as I thought it would be, getting the lines straight.

I’ve been growing it especially for the last couple of months. People have been commenting like having more than an inch of hair means I’ve changed in some way.

Bleached it all yesterday. Thought I was going to look like Billy Idol. I didn’t, of course—can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear and all that. Instead it looked more like I had a head of yellow straw and highlighted the thinning I’ve been trying to ignore.

I put more of the bleach on. Left it on for ages, till I couldn’t take the burning anymore. Still didn’t look like Billy; I just got more yellow.

Soon as I put in the purple dye I knew I’d be all right. It seemed to suit the brown of my eyes. Gave me a real punk look.

I look in the mirror as I shave, the tiny purple hairs missing the bin and covering my shoulders like I’ve got a disease.

Doesn’t make me look handsome, but it makes me look like I feel. Reflects my inner-self, a purple streak of anger.

analysis

There’s one last parking space outside Dr India’s. I manage to get into it, even though I’m a good foot from the pavement. It’ll do.

Five minutes till my appointment. I’ve never been early yet.

There’s the book programme on the radio. English romantic novels. I try and listen in case I’m ever stuck with Emma and Tony again. It’s dry talk and I’m soon drifting off, watching the world go by. Mainly it’s traffic at the roundabout and young people who look like they’re in the money.

Dr India buzzes me in as soon as I knock. There’s a two-way system, one in, one out. Stops the patients meeting.

I smile at him. I always smile, but this time it’s different. I’m waiting for him to say something about the hair. He doesn’t. Nothing but hello.

Over a year I’ve been sitting across the desk from this man and he’ll never speak until spoken to.

Maybe it’s the haircut, but I’m feeling rebellious. I decide to keep my mouth shut, too. I look at the walls, the framed certificates and the still-life pictures. He’s a man of taste, that’s for sure, and at forty pounds an hour, it’s no wonder he can afford such luxuries.

Five minutes I’ve tried, watching the second hand tick. I don’t feel rebellious; I feel like a child. A child about to get a telling off. I need to think of something to say.

I’m going to Preston, I say.

Dr India leans forward on his desk, keeps the tips of his fingers together and pushes his palms away as he rests his chin on his thumbs. He’s staring at me expectantly. I feel the need to go on.

For a party. Sadness surges through my body, a sadness I wasn’t expecting. It’s something the room does to me, I reckon. A thirtieth. Fancy dress. The seventies. I feel a monologue coming on, but he surprises me.

And how do you feel about that?

How do I feel? It’s always about the way I feel.

Looking forward to it, I say, the sadness gone like it was never there. There’ll be my friends from school and I’ll get to stay with Jenny. I think about reminding him who Jenny is, but he’s got the memory of an elephant with a laptop and so I decide not to bother. Yeah, it’ll be fun.

The bastard can see through me at a million paces. And when was the last time you were there?

Three years. Maybe four. I want to get it right. Four. It was just after Mum passed on.

Passed on? Like he wants to know where she went.

Died. You know. Four years since she died.

And has the haircut got anything to do with that?

It’s fancy dress, I remind him. Seventies.

About the death of your mother? It’s like he’s just punched me in the face and he’s pretending he didn’t do it.

I try to think of the answer, but my head’s doing loop-the-loops on the inside so I’m getting travel sick. I fall back into the chair. Let the soft leather wrap me up and cuddle me like nothing can touch me.

the girl in the pink bikini top

I was still in bed when she called. Didn’t tell her that, of course. No point letting her think I’m a lazy bastard. Been down to Camden, I said. Bought a couple of CDs and a book.

I wasn’t sure about going over when she asked. Didn’t want things to get too sticky. Wanted her to see the new me, though. The real me. We agreed I’d stop by on the way to the M1. If you turned the map on its head, it was kind of in the right direction, after all.

You’ve got purply, pinky hair, Vince announces as he opens the door. The directness of the young. No time for even a hello.

I’m being a ballerina, he says as I enter, then shouts for his mum.

I can see that. I love your leotard.

It’s a tutu, he corrects. Like Angelina. Game, set and match to the toddler.

Emma pokes her head round the door.

I walk over. Kiss her on the cheek. Try not to look at her breasts in the pink bikini top but can’t help myself. Smaller than I expect, but deliciously tantalising the way the fabric clings.

I get that melting feeling in the pit of my stomach. Allow myself to enjoy it.

Can’t stay long, I say. You look gorgeous.

She ignores the comment. Beer?

Coffee.

We go through into the kitchen.

It’s small, but with the balcony doors open and the sun streaming in it has a spacious feel.

Sheena’s there, feet up, threading beads onto a string.

The whole time she was in my class I couldn’t get her to shut up. Always last to the staffroom I was.

Wow, love the hair, she says and I’m relieved that it’s business as usual. She’s straight up onto her feet as I sit down. Comes over and gives it a stroke. Tells me all about the holidays so far.

Emma comes over as soon as she’s switched on the coffee machine. Eases Sheena out and gives the Mohawk a stroke. Runs her fingers back and forth then lets them slip down to my neck when