Dangerous Snacks: The Broughton Trilogy, #1

By A J Smith

Afflicted by a mid-life crisis, Edward King is determined to find happiness, but that's not easy when you're the head teacher of a secondary school and married to a woman like Angie.

After a bout of post-divorce depression, Sarah Pickering returns to work as Head of English at the Broughton School. She's moving on, and men definitely don't figure in the plan. But when Mr King invites her to a conference in London, she's unable to refuse.

Add to the recipe a Tupperware box filled with delicious doped-up brownies, a demented skinhead, a handful of snacks and an unhinged Secretary of State for Education …

Things can only go wrong.

Dangerous Snacks is the first book in The Broughton Trilogy: a comedy about love, hate and education.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mandy Lee
• Release date: Feb 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386132684

Book preview

Copyright

Copyright © A. J. Smith 2018 – Dangerous Snacks

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of the book.

Content

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Author’s Note

CHAPTER ONE

Monday 19th September

9.15 am

The Department for Education

It was just a door that minded its own business, lamely displaying the name and title of the Secretary of State for Education.  It was just a door, and he knew that.  But he hated it with a passion.  For a start, it didn’t slam like a proper door.  A decent, proper wooden door – solid oak, for example – would slam shut with a violent crash.  But not this door.  This door was wilfully limp.  Its fake oak laminate concealed a weightless, hollow soul. You couldn’t slam this door, because this door just couldn’t be bothered.

‘What they did was quite out of order, sir.’

Anthony Fish ignored the voice and turned his attention to the walls.  Hessian.  Who’d chosen that colour?  And why were there no pictures to break the monotony?  He hated the walls of his office almost as much as he hated the door.  Every now and then they wobbled, as if they were made of cardboard.  They weren’t solid, that much was certain.  One more hurricane, or maybe just a heavy gale, and the whole fucking lot would come crashing down.  He strained his eyes, examined the bland stretches of creamy shit that flanked him, and wondered if the Prime Minister was behind the decor, secretly plotting to make life as unbearable as possible.  He wouldn’t put it past the bastard.

‘They insulted you, sir.  Made you look like an utter fool.’

The voice was persistent, but he wasn’t ready to acknowledge it yet.  He was still too busy thinking about the office.  There was still some quality, hate-filled obsessing to be done.  And while he was obsessing over his office, he wouldn’t have to think about ‘the incident’.  He examined the glass wall that separated his space from the hallway.  Was that really such a good idea?  It meant he was forced to sit at his desk and watch every idiot in the department scuttle up and down the corridor, loaded with files, desperately trying to look busy.  He was sure they did it on purpose.  He was sure they lined up further down the corridor, taking it in turns to parade past the glass frontage – probably with the same set of files – in the vague hope he’d notice them and understand they were hard workers, busy, busy people who really shouldn’t be fired.

‘Sir, you wanted some action on the conference.’

Oh, that fucking voice!  Would it never give up?  He swivelled round in his chair and fixed his eyes on the senior aide who’d been standing by his desk for almost ten minutes now.

‘Yes, Bob,’ he snapped.  ‘I wanted some fucking action on that fucking conference!’

‘Well, sir, what action?’

‘Just action!’

He slammed his fist onto the desk.  His stomach began to churn and his bowels cramped.  The hate-o-meter was rising in his guts.  Fucking teachers.  He knew they’d be trouble.  His stomach tightened further as he thought about the previous Friday night.  ‘The incident’ had been bad enough, but then there’d been the fallout: the press attention, the ridicule, the Prime Minister’s furious phone call.  He’d spent the entire weekend dealing with this crock of shit and he was exhausted from it all.  He shuffled about on his seat.  He was beginning to need the toilet.

‘I’ll get those shits,’ he muttered.

‘But how, sir?’

‘What?  You heard that?’  He swallowed hard and glared at his aide.  The bastard must have bionic hearing.

‘How will you get those shits, sir?’

‘I don’t know, Bob.  Somehow.  I’m Secretary of State for Education, for Christ’s sake.  I may have a shitty office in a shitty building, with a crappy door, and shit coloured walls, but I still have powers.’

‘I know that, sir.  And like I said, what they did was out of order.’

‘It was more than that.  It was more than bloody out of order.’

‘I should say so.’

‘It was unprofessional, to say the least.  It was crass and childish.’  He watched his own spittle fly across the desk.  ‘It was a ridiculous display.  It showed an utter lack of self-control.  Those fuckers need to be taught a fucking lesson!’

Gasping for breath, he grabbed a Department for Education notepad and pulled his favourite pen from his pocket.  He swivelled the pen in his fingers, watching its golden jacket glimmer in the morning sunlight.  He’d been given this pen by Margaret Thatcher herself, when he was still a fresh-faced, eighteen-year-old hopeful at his first-ever party conference.  She’d leaned in to him and whispered in his ear.  ‘One day, you’ll be a great man, Anthony.’  She sent him on his way then, wide-eyed and doughy-brained, and he’d carried those words with him in his head – and the pen in his pocket – throughout the long ensuing years of crap: frozen days spent canvassing on the streets; half-hearted speeches delivered to smoky rooms; painstaking hours in MPs’ surgeries, listening with fake, concerned smiles to the endless complaints of moronic constituents.  The words had seen him through it all, buffeted him over the bumps and nudged him on relentlessly towards the top.  He smiled at the pen, remembered the words.  And then the smile faded.  He glanced up at Bob Andrews, gazed around at the cheap decor of the Department for Education.  Here he was, at the grand old age of forty-eight, hair thinning, opportunities fading, lording it over a bunch of lunatics and cretins.

‘How the fuck is this the top?’ he demanded.

‘Pardon, sir?  The top?  This is the seventh floor.’

‘Oh, forget it!’  He rammed the pen back in his pocket and turned his attention to the matter in hand.  ‘I’ve never before encountered such a fucking display.  Not at a fucking conference with head teachers and senior managers from all over the fucking country.’

‘And for that sort of fucking carry on, sir.’

‘Mind your language.’  Anthony Fish shot his senior aide an ill-tempered glare.

Bob Andrews silenced himself with a cough.

‘The simple fact of the matter is that two of those delegates were drunk.  They were loud, boisterous and irreverent.’

‘And he threw peanuts, sir.’

Anthony Fish squirmed at the memory.  The two delegates had sat at the front of the conference hall: a woman in her early forties dressed in a nondescript dark suit, and a man who’d seemed slightly older, a tall fucker with a bald patch.  Both of them had been giggling when the Secretary of State made his entrance to deliver the keynote speech.  And as he sailed through the crowd, maintaining an air of quiet superiority, the giggles had grown louder, building in force like a wave.  And then as he passed by their table, he felt a nip at the back of his neck.  And then another.

‘And he called you a wanker, sir.’

‘I know what he fucking called me, Bob,’ he seethed.  ‘I don’t need to be fucking reminded!  Do we have the names of this pair?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘Why not?’

‘They ran away, sir, very quickly.  Well, quite quickly.  The man fell into a table as he tried to leave.  He took down three head teachers from Surrey.  The woman rescued him, and they were out of the door.’

‘But surely somebody must know who they are.  Somebody on their table.’

‘No, sir.  They didn’t have their name tags on at the time.  They didn’t speak to any of the other delegates.  Nobody recognised them.’

‘Nobody?’

‘Nobody, sir.  They must have been from the Midlands ... or the North.’

‘Yes, I see ...’  Anthony Fish shook his head.  ‘But they were bona fide delegates?’

‘It seems so, sir.  We’re trying to find out who they were via a process of eradication.’

‘Elimination.’

‘I should say so, sir.’

Anthony Fish sighed.  Why was it he’d been landed with the biggest cretin the Department for Education had to offer?  If his father could see him now, he’d turn in his expensive, solid oak coffin.  A High Court Judge and finally a Law Lord, he’d risen to the heights of his profession.  ‘You’ve got to make your mark, young man,’ he’d instructed his seven-year-old son the first time he packed him off to boarding school.  ‘Make your mark.  It doesn’t matter how.  Just make it.’  And thirty-two years later, on his death-bed, the old bastard had said it again.  Anthony Fish wondered where the heartless fucker was now.  Probably down below, chewing the legal fat with Satan himself.

‘CCTV.  Have we looked at that?’

‘It’s only in the lobby, sir.  It’s a bit grainy.’

‘I’m the Secretary of State for Education, for fuck’s sake.  There should be CCTV set up everywhere I go.  Especially where bloody teachers are concerned!  And what about the bodyguards?’

‘They were caught a little off guard, sir.’

‘Off guard?  Off guard?  It’s in the fucking name, Bob.  Bodyguards are supposed to be on guard.  They’re bloody trained to protect me!’

‘They weren’t exactly expecting trouble from a conference of senior educational managers.’

‘I bet they weren’t.’

‘And, well, sir, you weren’t exactly in any real danger.’

‘A man was throwing projectiles at me.  Peanuts, for fuck’s sake!’

‘And pretzels.’

Anthony Fish paused.

‘At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter which particular type of snack was aimed at my head, does it?  I mean, it could have been a bomb for all anyone knew.’

Bob Andrews seemed confused.  He rubbed his head.  ‘A very small bomb, sir.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Do you want us to find them, sir?’

‘Of course I want you to fucking find them!  I want some action!’

‘We just need a little time.  We can check the delegate list.  There are witnesses we can talk to.  What we’re looking for is certainly a head teacher with a low profile, one who’s not attended many national conferences, and he’s well over six feet tall.  That must narrow it down quite a bit.’

‘Then get on with it.  Find him.  Find them both.’

‘Yes, sir.  I’ll get straight onto it.’

Vaguely satisfied he’d finally decided on a course of action, Anthony Fish glared out of the glass frontage.

‘If I may change the subject,’ Bob continued.  ‘You’ve got the Chief Inspector of Schools waiting to see you.’

‘Who?’

‘The Ofsted man.  Nigel Forehead.’

‘Nigel Forehead!’  He spat out the name.  ‘What sort of fucking name is that?  Why did we ever give him the job?’

‘Because he seems to know what he’s doing, sir.’

‘Yes, well ... go and get him.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Bob Andrews nodded briskly and turned on his heels.  He made a swift exit from the office, leaving the door to close with a slight rasp.  Anthony Fish stared at the back of it, grimaced once more at the thought of the cheap decor, got up from his chair, and caught sight of his reflection in a glass cabinet.  Secretary of State for Education.  How on Earth had he ever bagged that one?  Foreign Secretary would have been more like it, or Home Secretary, or Chancellor.  But Secretary of State for Education?  Please.  This wasn’t the top.

But he still had to make his mark ...

Tipping his head forward, he examined his hair.  It had already started to thin out, and someday soon he’d have a bald patch of his own, just like that tall bastard at the conference.  He raised his head and scowled at his face.  He’d never been a looker, never a charmer.  He’d never been particularly renowned for his intellect.  So what did he have going for him?

‘Tenacity.’  He winked at his dark reflection.  ‘And if that pair of fuckers think they’ve got away with this, they’ve got another think coming.’

CHAPTER TWO

Monday 29th August

7.43 am

Leicester

She turned the model in her hands and thought about the first time her fingers had touched it nearly ten years earlier.  They’d got pissed in a grotty nightclub, braved the seafront in sub-zero temperatures, mooched about through late night souvenir shops and then, after buying this little piece of plastic, gone back to their dirty hotel room and had dirty, drunken sex ... five dirty times.  She’d found the model in a kitchen drawer, the second drawer down, the one where she dumped all the crap.  She’d been looking for a lighter, rummaging through the junk when her fingers had touched it again.  How had it slipped through the net?  She’d gone through the house twice now, raking every drawer and cupboard for reminders of the bastard ex.  But the tiny, gold-coloured model of Blackpool Tower had escaped the purge.

Flipping open the bin lid, Sarah Pickering raised her hand, ready to throw away one more piece of the past, when the sight of a packet of cigarettes and a purple lighter lounging on top of the remnants of last night’s dinner stopped her in her tracks.  Quickly, she shoved Blackpool Tower into her trouser pocket and set about retrieving the cigarettes and lighter.  Smothered in ketchup, they were lodged between a clump of oven chips and the mangled end of a fish finger.  What had she been doing last night?  She’d had one too many glasses of wine – that much was a given – but still ...  She grabbed a piece of kitchen towel, wiped the lighter and flicked the wheel.  It worked.  If she was going to slip in a quick fag before school, she’d have to do it before Laura came downstairs.  With a new sense of urgency, she tugged open the back door and stepped out into the garden.

‘Mum!  What the hell’s this?’  Laura’s voice came from deep within the house.

Ignoring it, she pulled a cigarette from the packet and realised there was ketchup all over her fingers.  With no time to go back into the kitchen, she decided to cut her losses.  She licked her fingers clean and lit the cigarette.

‘In your drawer, Mum?  Is this a ...’

Sarah cringed.  There was only one item that could cause this sort of a reaction from the teenage daughter: Laura had laid her hands on ‘the thing.’  Knowing there was an inquisition on the way, she took a quick drag on the cigarette, flicked it towards a plant pot, and missed.  One day, she told herself, she’d visit a garden centre and buy a car boot full of pansies, or whatever the hell you were supposed to put in these things.  One day, there’d be plants in these damn pots, not just spiders’ webs and fag ends.

‘Put it away,’ Sarah called, stepping back into the kitchen and slamming the door.

‘But, Mum!  What the fuck!’

‘Don’t swear!  And put it back!’

An uncomfortable silence descended, broken only by an electronic ping.  She scanned the kitchen, knowing her mobile was lying somewhere on the worktop, nestling amongst the mess of unwashed pots.  Carefully navigating a labyrinth of filthy plates, she finally discovered the phone behind a frying pan.  A tiny yellow envelope occupied the top left-hand corner of the screen.  Passing her index finger over the message icon, she felt a prick of disappointment.  The message was from Carol, short and concise as ever.

How is the depressed twat?

How is the depressed twat?  What sort of question was that?  Just for once in her life, she wished the so-called friend could show a little more understanding, and maybe even a hint of humanity.  Sarah Pickering was suffering from depression, and that was a fact.  She’d been diagnosed by a real-life, honest-to-God doctor and everything.  She gazed at the phone, remembering how she’d laughed at that point, informing the real-life, honest-to-God doctor she simply wasn’t the kind of person to get depressed.  And then she’d sobbed.  And while she sobbed, he’d tried his best to convince her that divorce was a loss, and because she was experiencing a loss, she was experiencing grief.  She’d laughed again.  And then sobbed some more.  And while she sobbed some more, he explained there were five stages to the grieving process.  Denial.  Anger.  Bargaining.  Depression.  Acceptance.  And she might not experience them all, he said, and they might not come in that particular order, but this was definitely what she was going through, and there was no doubt about it.

‘Mum, is this a vibrator?’

‘I said put it back.’

When she thought about it later, sobbing in a queue at the chemists and clutching a prescription for some sort of antidepressant, she realised the real-life, honest-to-God doctor had been right.  She’d already had a visit from each of the five stages of grief, all apart from one.  Acceptance.  And even now, a full three months later, the miserable sod still hadn’t bothered to show its face.

‘But, Mum!’

‘Look, you’re fourteen.  It is what you think it is.  Put it away.’

She typed her reply to Carol (Fine, thank you), fired it into the ether and stood for a moment, staring at the screen saver: a bland, computer-generated image of a bright green meadow, dotted with rabbits and flowers and butterflies.  How did you change these things, she wondered.  It couldn’t be that difficult.  Tonight, after work, she’d give it a go, search out the instructions, plough through the endless pages of geek speak and personalise the front screen with a photo of a car crash ... or a dustbin ... or a dog turd.

‘Mum, it is a vibrator!’

With dyed purple hair sticking out in all directions, Laura Pickering appeared in the doorway, eyes wide with astonishment.  She held ‘the thing’ gingerly between her thumb and forefinger, suspending it upside down by the handle.

‘It is, isn’t it?’ she breathed dramatically.

‘Get ready, Laura.  You’ll miss the bus.’

‘But where did you get it from?  When did you get it?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes.  I need to know.  I have a right to know ...’

There was no point attempting to deflect the question.  When the angry teenage daughter demanded the facts, the angry teenage daughter should be given the facts.  There was no other way around it.

‘I got it about a month ago.  Well, I didn’t get it.  Carol got it for me.’

‘She’s a bad influence on you.’

‘And that’s coming from a teenager?’

Laura held ‘the thing’ in front of her eyes.  Turning it round, she examined its curious shape, the side arm, the on/off mechanism.  She raised a finger, momentarily tempted to touch the shaft.  Then, thinking better of it, she pulled a face and recoiled.

‘So have you used it yet?’

‘Is it any of your business?’

‘I’m living in the same house, Mum.’

‘No.  I’ve not used it.’

‘I bet you have.  Come to think of it, I’ve heard some buzzing.’

‘That’s next door’s washing machine.’

‘At night?’

‘They’re on an economy tariff.  Look, I haven’t used it.’

‘But it’s out of its box.’

‘Carol made me get it out of its box.’

‘If Carol made you walk over the edge of a cliff, would you do that?’

‘It’s hardly the same.’

Laura dropped ‘the thing’ to her side and stared at her mother.

‘This is just proper sick, Mum.  I want you to know I’m disappointed in you.’  She disappeared back up the stairs.

Sarah shook her head, trying to block out all thoughts of ‘the thing.’  She really hadn’t used it at all, but the angry teenage daughter would never believe that.  And the night-time buzzing noise was the neighbour’s washing machine.  They really were on an economy tariff.  Maureen and Trevor had explained it all.  They’d even tried to persuade Sarah to switch to the same scheme.  ‘Now you’re on your own,’ they said, ‘you’ll need to look after the pennies.’  But what did it matter?  Now Laura believed her sad, depression-riddled mother was not only addicted to wine and cigarettes and box sets of DVDs – she was also addicted to orgasms.  And all of this was Carol’s fault.  Carol, who’d turned up one night, flushed with excitement, announcing she’d visited a ‘special’ internet site, and informed Sarah that just because she had no man in her life, it didn’t mean her lady parts should atrophy.  She’d presented Sarah with the box, and the batteries, smiled broadly, and ordered her to get on with it.

A low buzzing sound came from upstairs, followed by a stifled giggle.

‘Put it back!’ Sarah yelled.  ‘Get ready for school!’

The phone screen lit up again.  One more tiny yellow envelope materialised in the corner of the meadow.  Wishing the world would just leave her alone, she checked the message.  Carol again.  Put some make-up on.  Use a mirror.  That’s the shiny thing on the wall.  Without replying, Sarah went out to the hall and stuffed the phone into her bag.

She hadn’t looked at herself in weeks, not properly, as Carol knew only too well.  She stood by the front door, staring at her shoes, a new pair of black moccasins bought by the parents.  They’d presented her with the hideous things the previous day, slinging her old shoes into the dustbin.  ‘You’ve got to take pride in your appearance,’ her mother said.  ‘You’ve got to pull yourself together.  It’s all very well, this depression stuff.  But it’s gone on long enough.’  Sarah tried to explain that she was, in fact, trying her very best to pull herself together but it was, in fact, quite difficult.  Her mother had simply pursed her lips and waved a hand.  ‘It’ll pass,’ she said dismissively, as though they were talking about a bad case of wind.  ‘Everything does in the end.’

Sarah shook her head, trying to knock her mother’s voice out of her brain, and decided to take half of Carol’s advice.

Slowly, she looked up from the hideous black moccasins to the shiny thing on the wall.  Christ, she was looking gaunt.  Yes, that was the word for it.  Gaunt.  Leaning forward slightly, she inspected the face.  There was still no