St. Matthew’s was a redbrick Victorian school which had been added to, over the years, with an assortment of prefabs and a single-storey extension. Boys and girls in maroon and grey uniforms swarmed over every available inch of playground. Parking the car took some manoeuvring. Adolescents seem to move at two speeds; manic or catatonic. I made liberal use of my horn but half of them seemed to have some sort of death wish. I managed not to fulfil it.
I asked a huddle of boys on the entrance steps the way to the staff room. One of them offered to show me the way. We walked through endless corridors strewn with pupils and adorned with displays of work. En route, I let slip that I wanted to talk to Martin Hobbs’ form teacher. He shrugged his shoulders.
At the staffroom door, I knocked and entered. The room was cramped. Low pvc chairs surrounded coffee tables. At the far end of the room, the smokers sat. Open shelving lined all four walls and papers spilt from every nook and cranny. Piles covered the coffee tables too. I approached the nearest group. Half-a-dozen women eating Pot Noodles, sandwiches and fruit. A couple were marking exercise books at the same time.
‘Excuse me, I’m looking for Martin Hobbs’ form teacher.’
‘What year’s he in?’ one of the Pot Noodles asked.
‘Fifth, I think. He’s sixteen.’
‘Five Delta – Russ O’Brien – the one with the beard, in the corner.’
‘Thanks.’
Russ O’Brien was a smoker. Pipe. Eyes closed, feet on the table. Stout, hairy. Looked a bit like a mountain climber.
‘Mr O’Brien?’
He opened one eye, realised I wasn’t a pupil and opened the other. Slid his feet from the table and sat up in his chair.
‘Yes?’
‘Hello.’ I sat down on the chair next to him. ‘I wanted a word about Martin Hobbs.’
‘Yes?’ He loaded the word with caution, sizing me up.
‘Martin’s been reported missing. His family have asked me to make a few enquiries on their behalf.’
‘I see.’ His eyes narrowed slightly and he re-lit his pipe.
‘How long is it since Martin was in school?’
‘Have you any identification? After all,’ he spread his hands, ‘I’ve only your say-so.’ I blushed and fished in my jacket for one of the cards I always carry. I brushed off the fluff and crumbs and handed it over.
