Jenna
Jenna
Jenna sits in the darkened auditorium, watching the sixth-form production of Macbeth . On stage, students she knows by sight but not by name stride across the floor, brimming with confidence, enunciating every syllable as though they’re reading the ten o’clock news.
Next to her, Callum fidgets in his seat, and Jenna wonders whether she was right to insist they came. Even though Callum helped build the scenery, he’d been resistant to attending the performance; he’d said he wanted to keep a low profile, that it was bad enough half the year were still recycling the same old news about his previous joyriding offence. He didn’t want to spend his free time surrounded by jackals skirting the carcass of school gossip, awaiting their turn to feed. But Jenna thought it important they show their faces, that their absence didn’t fuel further speculation. She wanted to prove they had nothing to hide, that they deserve to be part of the school community, however Sisyphean a task it may seem.
An actor on stage begins one of the few soliloquies Jenna recognises – Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow – and Jenna finds her attention wandering, her eyes flitting about the auditorium.
Three rows in front of her sit Abby and Nicole, side by side as they invariably are at school events. Jenna is surprised to see Abby. It is less than five weeks since Isla was killed, and Jenna had assumed Abby would avoid sixth-form events for the remainder of the year. But Abby has always taken her role as head of the parents’ association seriously, treats the voluntary position with all the gravitas of a full-time executive job. If Jenna had known Abby would be there, she might have been as keen as Callum to give the play a wide berth. Instead, she had faced an awkward moment in the ladies’ bathroom before the performance, emerging from a cubicle just as Abby entered the room. There had been a moment’s hesitation, Jenna unsure whether to say anything, uncertain if Abby would be receptive to her sympathy. And then Abby had walked into one of the stalls, closed the door, and the decision had been made for her.
Callum pulls his phone from his pocket, the screen illuminating in the darkness. Jenna nudges him sharply, raises her eyebrows in silent remonstration. As Callum turns his focus back to the stage, Jenna studies his face, as she has so many times over the past seven days since Liam Walsh’s unwelcome appearance: trying to detect any trace of deceit, any hint that Callum is hiding something from her. In her line of work, she knows only too well how duplicitous teenagers can be, understands that she would not necessarily recognise the signs even if Callum were lying to her.
The audience begins to clap, and Jenna realises with a start that the play is over, joins in with the applause even though, in truth, she has barely registered the production. The main thing is that they came, they bought tickets, they are seen to be supporting the school. Surely – surely – at some point, parents will move on to new gossip, and Callum’s classmates will find something else to obsess over. Surely the teachers will remember what a diligent, high-performing student Callum is and forgive the misdemeanours he committed long before he arrived at the school.
Shuffling out of the brand-new, state-of-the-art auditorium and into the quad, Jenna is about to suggest that perhaps they should head home rather than joining everyone for a drink in the school hall. But then she sees a police car pull into the car park, watches two male officers step out. They look around as if finding their bearings before their eyes land on the group milling outside the theatre.
Anxiety coils in Jenna’s stomach. She instructs herself to stop worrying, there is no justifiable reason why the police would want to speak to Callum. And yet she feels Callum tense beside her, senses the fear radiating out of him as they watch Mr Marlowe walk across the immaculately cut lawn to speak to the officers.
And then Mr Marlowe’s eyes meet Jenna’s, his expression unreadable: apologetic or angry, she cannot tell. Before she has a chance to decipher it, Mr Marlowe and the officers are walking across the grass towards them, and Jenna senses two hundred pairs of eyes pivoting in Callum’s direction.
‘Callum James? Do you mind if we have a word?’
Callum darts a look at Jenna – frightened, vulnerable, a little boy trapped in a grown man’s body – and her sense of maternal protection kicks in.
‘What’s this about?’ Jenna tries to make her voice strong, authoritative, has adopted her poshest accent, but she knows it pales in comparison alongside the genuine confidence of the parents who are now all watching them, waiting.
‘Mrs James?’
Jenna nods, decides this is neither the time nor the place to correct the police officer; to tell him it’s Ms, not Mrs, that Callum’s father left them years ago, that the only reason she hasn’t reverted to her maiden name is to maintain a sense of shared identity with her son.
‘We’d just like Callum to come down to the station, answer a few questions.’
‘What about?’
The officers trade a beleaguered look as though Jenna is being obstreperous, asking to know why they want to interview her son. Behind them, Mr Marlowe observes the scene, and Jenna understands this is yet another blot on Callum’s school record, that surely there is going to be a time – perhaps in the not-too-distant future – when Mr Marlowe’s patience with him runs out. Around them, all is silent, as parents and students pretend to look at mobile phones, feign a sudden interest in the flowers bordering the lawn, delaying their short walk to drinks in the hall, determined not to miss the drama taking place outside the auditorium.
‘It really would be better if we could discuss this in private.’ The police officer hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his black trousers, hoists them up over his protruding stomach.
‘Perhaps you’d like to use my office?’ There is a note of authority in Mr Marlowe’s voice: the clear desire to remove this spectacle from public view.
One of the officers nods. ‘That would be helpful, thank you.’
Without waiting for a response from Jenna, Mr Marlowe strides towards the sixth-form block, next to the auditorium. An officer raises an eyebrow at Callum, tilts his head to the side, an instruction for Callum to follow. Humiliation throbs in Jenna’s cheeks as she and Callum trail Mr Marlowe into the Victorian, red-brick building, the officers close on their heels, into his office on the ground floor.
‘Right, I’ll leave you to it.’ Mr Marlowe looks around the room with an air of resignation, as though he has done all he can to minimise the disruption – the scandal – for tonight at least.
‘I’d rather you stayed, if you don’t mind.’ Jenna turns to the officers. ‘Assuming you’ve no objection?’ Jenna wants – needs – Mr Marlowe to know she doesn’t have anything to hide; that she is being open, transparent, honest with Collingswood about her belief in Callum’s integrity.
The two officers share an eye-rolling exchange before indicating their assent.
Mr Marlowe perches on the edge of an armchair near the door. Jenna and Callum stand in the centre of the room, opposite the officers. Through the window, Jenna can see parents and students talking, gossiping, and she experiences a wave of indignation at the scurry of speculations the officers have instigated.
‘It’s not standard practice to come to a minor’s school to question them, is it? How did you even know we were here?’
One of the officers looks temporarily abashed, glances towards the older officer, who raises a defensive eyebrow. ‘We did go to your flat, Mrs James, but there was nobody home. We assumed you’d be here as we knew there was an event at school this evening.’ He hesitates, as if assessing how much to reveal. ‘We were here, earlier today, speaking to some of Isla Richardson’s teachers, trying to get a fuller picture of her life, her friendships. Her relationships.’ There is a pointedness to his voice, and Jenna feels Callum flinch beside her.
‘What was so urgent that it couldn’t wait until later, when we got home, or even tomorrow?’ Jenna hears the social worker in her voice, knows she has to assert some authority.
The younger officer takes a deep breath as if preparing a rehearsed speech. ‘We’ve obtained some CCTV footage from the night Isla Richardson was killed. It shows Callum running down a street not far from where the incident occurred, around the time it took place.’ He turns to Callum. ‘We’d just like to know what you were doing there?’
Jenna looks across at Callum, wills him to speak, to counteract the officers’ suspicions. But he just stares at the floor, does not seem willing, or able, to exonerate himself from the officer’s implication.
Jenna feels herself square up to the officers, will not allow herself to be cowed by them. She has faced situations like this many times before in her job, with the young people in her care. She tries to inhabit her professional persona, tries to imagine what she would say if Callum were one of her cases rather than her son. ‘Running down the street isn’t a crime, is it?’
The younger officer turns to look at her, seems surprised by the note of challenge – of defiance – in her voice.
‘Of course it’s not a crime, Mrs James. But there is some confusion that perhaps you can help clarify. On one of the occasions officers spoke to Callum about Isla Richardson’s death – in your presence, I believe – both you and Callum claimed he was at home with you at the time Isla Richardson was killed. We’re wondering how it’s possible that we have footage of Callum on CCTV near the scene of the crime when he was supposedly at home with you, some thirty minutes’ walk away. As we understand it, you made the same claim at Isla Richardson’s funeral, in front of multiple witnesses.’
The officer surveys her face, eyebrows raised, as though he has just laid down a winning hand in a game of poker.
Jenna feels the collective gaze descend upon her – the two police officers and Mr Marlowe – can feel the guilty verdict being concluded as the seconds tick by. She thinks of the lie she told at Isla’s funeral: a lie concocted in the heat of the moment to deflect from the revelation about Callum’s joyriding history, to protect her son from accusations she is sure are unfounded.
She steadies her voice, tries to wrestle back control of the situation. ‘I must have got my timings mixed up. There was quite a lot going on that evening, after all.’ She swallows hard against her own falsification. ‘But more to the point, surely if Callum had been in any way involved in the accident that killed Isla – as you’re obviously implying – he couldn’t have been running down the street at the same time? That stands to reason, doesn’t it?’ Jenna hears a note of victory in her voice even as disquiet pulses in her cheeks.
‘That’s precisely what we want to ascertain.’ The older officer sighs. ‘Mrs James, I really think this conversation would be better conducted at the station. I’m sure you’re no keener than we are to prolong any disruption to the school’s event this evening.’
Jenna glances out of the window again, sees parents and students still gathered in the quad, senses their morbid curiosity. At the edge of the lawn, near the window, she sees Abby gesticulating wildly to Nicole, and it is as if Jenna can feel Abby’s fury emanating from her like solar flares from the sun. She knows she cannot put Callum through this debacle any longer. ‘Fine. But I’ve got my car. We’ll follow you to the station.’ There is no way she is having Callum carted away in a police car in front of the entire sixth form, knows that the officers have a duty to minimise conflict, that they cannot insist Callum travels to the station with them if he is not being arrested.
The senior officer nods. ‘That’s fine, Mrs James. It’s the station on Broad Street. Do you know it?’
She nods. She’s been there with young people under her supervision more times than she cares to remember.
As the officers head out of Mr Marlowe’s office, across the lawn, Jenna takes hold of Callum’s arm, steers him towards her car. Behind them, she senses dozens of eyes boring into the back of her neck, as though she and her son are figures in a circus freak show, existing purely for the ghoulish entertainment of others.
Resentment simmers inside her; it does not matter how hard Callum works, how clever he is, what he might achieve, he will always be an outsider here, will always be the one at whom people point an accusatory finger. He will forever be the student of whom everyone automatically thinks the worst purely because of his background.
Stepping into her car, Jenna recalls the night Callum was arrested for joyriding: a night during which she discovered just how much fear a person could feel without actually suffocating from it. After Callum’s trial and his acceptance at Collingswood, she had allowed herself to believe that perhaps the trouble was behind them. Perhaps there really were such things as second chances and clean slates. But as the police car heads out of the imposing black gates with Jenna following behind, she sees the sea of faces watching them from the school quad, and the thought solidifies in her mind that they will never be free of Callum’s past.
All the way to the station, she promises Callum that she’s got his back, she will stand by him, whatever happens. She assures him that she believes in him, believes he has done nothing wrong, whatever the CCTV footage may imply. And yet, throughout the fifteen-minute car journey, she cannot silence the voice in her head asking if she is sure, asking whether there is not a sliver of doubt in her mind. Questioning what she will do if it turns out she is wrong.