‘There was that article in the local paper, wasn’t there? When Matthew Marr went to the Dunkirk camp. And when the brothers came to our school.’
‘And that goes online. So, they’d find out that way,’ a mother says.
‘And then they could’ve looked into the school further, found out about the smoking and drinking and sex, and they wouldn’t like that.’
‘None of us like that,’ a father says. ‘But it’s what teenagers tend to get up to.’
‘But ISIS punish people for unmarried sex and for drinking, don’t they?’ a mother asks. ‘For not being modest even, for not covering up.’
‘Here, nobody minds what the girls wear,’ another mother says. ‘I mean, in the summer, their clothes are really skimpy …’
‘And the school has gay staff and nobody minds, but they’d mind,’ a father says. ‘They kill men for that.’
‘We felt so pleased with ourselves, didn’t we?’ a mother says. ‘For choosing this school. For our liberal values.’
‘Always said that lax was the word for it,’ a suited father says. Next to him, a much younger woman in jeans, second marriage, Beth guesses, puts her hand on his arm but he continues. ‘Girls in ridiculously short skirts, boys in whatever they like too, transgender and gays all at the school. In your face. It would antagonize them.’ His young wife tries to intervene, but he shakes her arm away from him. ‘If the school had made them obey a few rules of normal decency, Charlotte would be safe.’
* * *
In the theatre, despite the kids’ faces being camouflaged in case they have to hide in a hurry, and the gunman being only a few hundred metres away, they are miraculously rehearsing. And yes, lines are being fluffed, cues are missed, but it’s as if the kids are holding on to this one strand of continuing normality with Daphne prompting and encouraging and keeping the rehearsal on track.
Sally-Anne is still at her place by the foyer doors, standing guardian with her nail gun, in case everyone in Old School can run down the corridor to safety; as if that is still possible.
The actors are starting tedious dialogue about Norwegians but Daphne’s grateful for tedious Norwegians and dreads the violence that’s coming. Why hadn’t she chosen a different play? A comedy. A musical. Oliver would be fantastic right now, all that ensemble singing and dancing, but no, she’d pushed for Macbeth. And not only because Rafi Bukhari had brought his father’s copy from Syria but had never seen it performed – not only that, as she’d made clear to the committee deciding on the annual school production, no, not just that; she’d thought they should do this play because of its universal themes which every young person should have as part of their cultural heritage. Yes, she’d spouted all that utter claptrap. What universal themes, for heaven’s sakes? Murder, tyranny, terror? Which of them, apart from Rafi and Basi, had any of those things as a theme in their lives?
Sophie, Antonella and Tracey, her three witches, are waiting in the wings. The girls have taken off their balaclavas and their sashes with Daesh insignia. It’s not imaginative any more to portray the witches as Daesh terrorists because what if it is Daesh attacking the school? The girls in their sashes would be murdered first. And if the gunmen are Daesh but can’t get in – the theatre’s mercifully solid walls and security doors – then they don’t want to imagine, more than they have to, the terror in Old School.
The three girls are waiting for Zac to hit a gong for thunder, a compromise between an inappropriately loud bang and an inadequate handclap, but Zac doesn’t do anything, is just sitting there, holding his phone. Daphne claps her hands loudly and the witches go on to the stage. Sophie and Tracey are taking their cue from Antonella and no longer huddle, but are attempting to stand tall; good for you, girls.
As they begin their lines, Daphne goes to Zac at the back of the auditorium. Luisa is next to him and she can hear their argument as she approaches.
‘I hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t here,’ Zac says. ‘Not till his mum phoned me the first time.’
‘But why’s she asking you?’ Luisa asks.
‘Are you all right, Zac?’ Daphne asks him.
‘Jamie’s mum hasn’t heard from him; keeps texting me in case I have.’
‘But he was in the CDT room in New School,’ Daphne says. ‘He was evacuated.’
‘No. He didn’t get to New School. Nobody knows where he is.’
Daphne feels terror for Jamie.
‘He’ll have heard the siren,’ she says, because surely he would have done, the racket it made, enough to wake the dead, he must have heard it. ‘So, he did what he’s meant to do, which is hide. And that’s what he’ll be doing now.’
‘You’re meant to tell,’ Zac says. ‘You’re meant to hide then tell. He should have phoned, said he’s okay.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t have his phone on him or it’s out of charge,’ Daphne says, comforting herself as much as Zac, but it’s not working because she still feels terror for Jamie and guilt because she should have known this before, should have been worrying about him all this time, even if worry doesn’t do any good.
‘Why’s Jamie suddenly your responsibility?’ Luisa asks Zac. ‘I mean, what are you supposed to do about it?’
Since hearing about Frank in the library Luisa has hardly spoken but it’s as if possessiveness of Zac animates her.
‘He was my friend,’ Zac says. ‘And hey, mission accomplished, he’s not any more or I’d know where he is, I’d know if he’s okay.’
Luisa looks startled. Zac has never called her out on it before, but Daphne had noticed the countless small slights that a couple can inflict on a former friend who isn’t wanted by one of them. Jamie had been stoic and sad, just getting more anxious about his props.
‘It wasn’t me,’ Luisa says. ‘Victor was the reason you stopped hanging out. Because of that thing at the after-party at Easter.’
It astonishes Daphne that even with this happening, Luisa can think about some teenage drama at a party. Zac seems equally taken aback.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ he says to her. ‘We’ve got a fucking gunman in the school, Jamie’s mum can’t get hold of him and neither can I and you’re worried about whose fault it is I’m not friends with him? About some stupid thing months ago?’
Luisa looks shocked; Zac never gets angry, never shouts. ‘Victor left ages ago,’ Zac continues. ‘And I knew Jamester was lonely but still didn’t … Should have been a better friend.’
‘Frank hasn’t emailed me for ten minutes,’ Luisa says; the twin whose nerdiness used to embarrass her. They sit stiffly side by side, then Zac puts his arm around her and she leans a fraction into him.
On stage the witches continue.
FIRST WITCH Here I have a pilot’s thumb,
Wrecked as homeward he did come.
THIRD WITCH A drum, a drum;
Macbeth doth come.
Oh hellfire, Daphne thinks, the tedious Norwegians have finished and the violence is about to start; a spreading evil that leads to children being murdered and men not being able to walk at night, and the world turning dark even in daylight.