She’d hoped to see children and teachers running along the glass corridor through the woods to the sanctuary of the theatre. But the corridor is deserted, snow falling all around it. There are no lights shining at the other end from Old School; the door shut and the school in darkness.
There’s just Sally-Anne standing watch at their open doors holding a nail gun. She doubts a gunman will allow Sally-Anne near enough for her to fire nails at him but admires her pluck. Good grief, she’s using her grandmother’s war words; there’s a whole vocabulary to go with this new character she’s playing, although she’s starting to feel that this is her most real self; that how she has been to this point was a just a read-through for who she is now.
‘Anything?’ she asks Sally-Anne.
‘No. How are our kids doing?’
Daphne wonders if she imagined the stress Sally-Anne put on ‘our’, signalling where Daphne’s responsibilities should be; pointing out that the safest thing for their kids would be to lock the doors of the corridor their end and block off the means of escape for everyone in Old School. Sally-Anne could be holding the nail gun not because she’s plucky but because she’s protecting herself with the only available weapon. She’s worked with Sally-Anne for nearly four years, but you don’t know a person, she realizes, including yourself, not until the everyday is stripped away. Sweet young Sally-Anne could be anyone at all; colleagues who’ve worked together for years, friends, can be turned into strangers with one another.
‘Do you think the theatre is really that safe?’ Sally-Anne asks.
Because if the theatre isn’t ‘really that safe’, then they cannot offer a haven to the other teachers and students and so can lock their doors without any guilt.
‘Yes I do,’ she replies.
‘Good,’ Sally-Anne says. ‘We’ll wait then, as long as we have to.’
‘Birnam Wood have make-up on,’ Daphne says. ‘I wanted them to splodge on some camouflage but Joanna made up Caitlin like a wood nymph.’
Sally-Anne half laughs.
‘You think a nail gun will do any good?’ Daphne asks.
‘We can always hope. Might slow them down. I thought we should rig up the brightest lights and if we see the gunmen shine the lights in their eyes. It’ll blind them for a bit; buy us a few more minutes.’
Daphne likes the symbolism of blinding with light and feels ugly for doubting her.
2.
9.20 a.m.
Beth Alton is driving her Prius like a bat out of hell, Mum, down the country road, skidding on ice, righting the car and foot flat down again. School in lockdown. Told by a PTA group text, not Jamie. Hasn’t heard anything from Jamie. One hand holds her mobile to her ear, other on the steering wheel. Jamie still not answering; pick up, pick up, pick up.
You don’t let me drive like this, Mum, even on a farm track.
You’re a learner.
Dad’s going to be seriously unimpressed if you dent it.
I know.
Pretend it was someone in Waitrose’s car park again.
It was.
Jamie’s laughter.
All in her head.
His number goes through to message again: ‘Hey, it’s Jamie, leave me a message.’
‘Jamie, sweetheart, it’s Mum again. Are you okay? Please ring me.’
Why isn’t he answering?
Her mobile rings, a jolt of hope, but it’s her husband, Mike, that’s displayed.
‘Anything?’ Mike asks.
‘No.’
‘You know what he’s like with his mobile,’ Mike says.
‘But he’d phone, with this happening he’d phone us.’
‘I meant he forgets to charge it,’ Mike says. ‘Or leaves it somewhere. He was doing the dress rehearsal this morning, wasn’t he?’
Why does that matter?
‘He’ll be in the theatre,’ Mike says. ‘Safest place in the school. No windows. Like a bunker.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes, that’s where he’ll be.’
Thank God for Zac and even Victor, who she loathes but now forgives, because Victor and Zac are the reason that Jamie’s in the theatre, they’re the friends who persuaded him to join in the production of Macbeth, otherwise – she doesn’t want to think about otherwise. Safest place in the school.
‘I’m getting the train, should be at the station in an hour, but the snow’s making things slow.’
He’s in Bath, meant to be at a conference.
‘Okay.’
She ends the call. No missed call or message from Jamie. But he’s in the theatre, safe, Zac there too; all of them together.
It’s just props, Mum, wasn’t like I had to audition or anything.
Props are really important. And Zac’s doing the technical side too, isn’t he?
Yeah, lights. Victor is Macbeth.
Props are just as important.
As the main part? Seriously, Mum?
To me, yes.
Heart soft as a baby bird.
Is that from that TV series?
And I try to give her a compliment.
She looks up Zac’s number on her mobile contacts, swerving into the snow-covered verge as she takes her eyes off the road. She presses dial, two wheels on the verge, the car tipping at an angle. As Zac’s phone rings, she remembers Jamie’s first day, joining in Year 10 after being bullied at his mean, strict school for the previous three years – not sporty like his older brother, not resilient. The other pupils at Cliff Heights School had looked so relaxed in their scruffy clothes, so confident, arms casually flung round each other; Jamie a stiff wooden pin, as if still wearing a blazer and balancing a cap. Then he’d made two friends, Victor, older than Jamie but new like him, and Zac, the same age, who’d been at the school since Reception, a warm-hearted, easy-going boy who’d clap his arm round Jamie’s shoulders and say ‘Jamester!’ and Jamie would look startled but pleased. Zac’s text nickname for him was ‘J-Me’ and Jamie loved it, still uses it for his Twitter, Snapchat and Instagram. Jamie’s never become as outgoing and confident as Zac, the unchecked cruelty at the previous school leaving a legacy of vulnerability.
Zac’s phone goes through to message.
‘Zac, it’s Beth, Jamie’s mum. Are you with Jamie? Is he okay? Can you ask him to ring me?’
She hangs up and rights the car, jolting back on to the road. She didn’t think to ask Zac if he was okay.
She hasn’t seen much of Zac recently, not for ages, because Jamie hasn’t seen him outside of school, at least not at their house. Yesterday she was actually worried about that.
She’s nowhere near the school yet, but there are police cars blocking the road so you can’t even see the school or your child running down the driveway towards you – because that’s been the spooling film of fantasy all this time, that he will run to you and you will be there and that’s the end of it.
Other parents’ cars are just stopped any old how along the verge. No one is wearing coats, one father still in pyjamas; everyone running to their cars to get to school. Beth hurries towards the police, surrounded by a group of parents. A man is shouting at them, ‘Why aren’t you in the school? Why aren’t you doing anything?’ Other voices as she tries to push her way through: