Home > Three Hours(12)

Three Hours(12)
Author: Rosamund Lupton

‘You believe Rafi Bukhari?’ Lorrimer sounded dumbfounded. ‘It’s just kids fooling around, Matthew, and—’

Matthew interrupted. ‘You are to evacuate all the children and staff to Fulmar beach immediately.’

There were a hundred and forty children in junior school between the ages of four and ten, plus ten members of staff. When Matthew had planned junior school’s evacuation drill he’d imagined a heatwave in the summer term drying the woods to tinder and a fire started by a careless smoker or picnicker. The Junior School building was surrounded on three sides by woodland so the children would escape by evacuating down the cliff path to Fulmar beach, from where they would be rescued by police launches and coastguards; they had life jackets kept ready for just such an eventuality. He’d never imagined a freezing day at the end of November, with snow falling.

He heard the sound of a door closing and guessed that Rafi had been ushered out of Lorrimer’s office; then Lorrimer came back on the phone again.

‘I know how much you care about Rafi,’ Lorrimer said. ‘That he’s something of a son to you. But he has mental illness and is surely therefore not reliable? I understand that this is something you might feel you need to do to help him feel safer, but it’s snowing, the cliff path down to the beach will be slippery, it’s not safe, some of the children have asthma and—’

‘Yes, they are vulnerable young children. You’re isolated there. It’s a mile to the road, half a mile from us down a drive through woodland. Your building is not adequately secure. If the school is under attack, if there is any possibility of that, then we need to act swiftly. You have a route out, but a route that could be closed off. If it turns out to be a false alarm, which I’m ninety-nine per cent certain it will be, you can bring them all back again for break.’

Opposite him Neil was talking to the police. Tonya was telling receptionists there and in New School to lock the doors.

‘You’ve seriously graded this a code red?’ Lorrimer asked, and Matthew imagined Lorrimer opening his office door and looking at Rafi and wondering how a teenager could wreak such havoc in his junior school.

‘Amber at this stage,’ Matthew replied. ‘But amber still activates the emergency plan. Do you know if any children or staff are missing?’

‘The Year Threes were picked up as usual by Camille first thing to go to the art block in New School, so they aren’t here.’

The children in Junior School were taught art and sport in the facilities of New School, minibuses took them to and fro. He would get confirmation from New School that they had safely arrived.

‘Please send this morning’s electronic register to the school secretary,’ he said.

‘I’ll get it sent to Bethany, then.’

Lorrimer wasn’t using the emergency protocol when people went by their role not name, so that roles could be reallocated if necessary. Bethany was off this morning.

‘Find your Emergency Plan document and use it,’ Matthew said. ‘Tonya is acting the role of school secretary.’

Lorrimer, like the rest of the senior management and governors, had a hard copy of the Emergency Plan in his office as well as on e-format. Matthew had scrutinized it many times, usually as a tick-box exercise rather than as a document they’d ever need to use. But after a terrorist atrocity, or any violence against a school, he’d find himself redrafting it in the middle of the night, the insomniac periods of anxiety when the responsibility for so many children weighed heavily.

‘Take the emergency mobile and keep us updated as best you can,’ he told Lorrimer.

He’d tested mobile reception on the cliff path when he was planning the fire drill and no mobile network covered the path. Vodafone got patchy reception on the beach; so the emergency phone was on a Vodafone network.

‘And what should I tell my members of staff?’ Lorrimer asked.

‘That this is just a precaution; that we are doing it to avoid a very small likelihood of risk, but to take it seriously. I know that Margaret and Peter have children in upper school. You can tell them that the rest of the school is not in full lockdown at this stage but students and staff will be staying inside until the police say it’s safe.’

‘Right.’

He could imagine Lorrimer’s own explanation to the teachers; a neurotic headmaster making a ludicrous judgement call.

‘Head of New School is liaison for parent queries and information. Tell Junior School’s secretary to automatically forward calls to her before evacuating the building.’

He put down the phone. Tonya turned to him. ‘I’ve sent out the amber alert.’

It would have gone out as a group text, email and WhatsApp to all members of staff. It would also go on to classroom smartboards as a code, known only to teachers.

‘Thanks, Tonya. We need an up-to-date register of all children and staff.’

A key part of the emergency plan was that his office would collate a central register of everyone on site and anybody who was missing.

A knock on the door and Donna, Old School’s receptionist, came in.

‘I’ve locked the doors securely. There’s something you should know. I’m so sorry, I was going to say, to tell you, but I phoned maintenance first instead … It’s the CCTV camera. The one on the gatehouse, that connects to my monitor so I can see who’s coming up the drive? The thing is, it wasn’t working this morning. I went and had a look just before eight, just after I got here, and someone’s splattered yellow paint all over it, the camera. I thought it was just kids with a paintball.’

‘Well, that’s the most likely explanation,’ Matthew said. ‘It’s probably nothing.’

And it probably wasn’t anything. It could easily have been kids with a paintball gun, besides which the drive going past the gatehouse and camera wasn’t the only way into the school. Because as Matthew knew, but hadn’t fully appreciated until now, the school’s border was insecure. The extensive school grounds, mainly woodland, only had a post-and-rail fence separating them from the road and neighbouring land. On foot, anyone could simply climb over the fence. So the paint-splattered camera wasn’t necessarily significant; but he felt a frisson of anxiety shift inside him as a weight was added to the side that said he wasn’t being paranoid.

* * *

In the pottery room, the children were making acorns from clay, small fingers patting and moulding the cupule shape, and Camille was pleased to see that although each of them kept glancing through the windows at the wondrous snow, checking it was still really there, they were working with quiet concentration, the feeling of the clay on their fingertips absorbing.

Coming here was mining something precious from a timetabled day, a sanctuary from hectic technological demands, where important quieter things had a chance to be noticed. In here there was no Wi-Fi or whiteboards or computers, not even any phones as the younger children weren’t allowed them at school and hers was switched off in her jacket pocket.

Despite the huge windows, she’d had to turn on the overhead lights. When it had first been built the trees would have been further away, but over the last century the woods had crept steadily closer.

A little while ago, she’d smelt bonfire smoke, not the lovely tangy earthy smell of wood burning, but something with a chemical bite in it. She looked out of the window and saw a line of black smoke moving between the trees.

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