The Girls Beneath. Ross Armstrong

Traces of said things in half remembered classrooms pass by.

      It’s like a dream and not the good kind. Forced into your old school hall, dressed as a policeman, with a bullet in your brain. I look down and expect to see my penis but only my trouser crotch stares back at me.

      Bartu sees me staring at my own crotch and when I raise my head again our eyes meet and I smile. He does, too, trying not to let on how much I concern him.

      He makes conversation with the head of year. She is called Miss Nixon. She is all brown and grey hair and clothes she’s had a while. I write down a brief description on my face cheat sheet.

       She is Caucasian. Has church-going hair. Wears dangly earrings.

      The last one is her most distinguishing feature, in fact. If she took them off, she’d disappear.

      I start to hum a song I made up called ‘Dreams’. When my senses were kicking back in and my brain was repairing itself I found I had the overwhelming urge to make up little lullabies. Conjuring a tune and putting words to it was one of many exercises I set myself. I didn’t write them down but I won’t forget them, there must have been hundreds.

       ‘Dreams are rolling through me…’

      The cleaning fluid smells the same. Even the cold crisp door handle’s touch against my skin sings deep-held memories back to me. Along with fears that I might stumble through the wrong door and end up in a classroom some miles away, where Gary Canning pushes my would-be fiancé up against the blackboard and her back slowly rubs off what was once written on it.

      A group of kids pass us on our left, keeping their heads low, as if the sight of everything above shin level depresses the hell out of them. One of them has an unmistakeable birthmark, so distinctive that even I can’t forget it. He pretends he doesn’t see us, but he can’t fool me. Eli cold shoulders us like we’ve never met. That’s life in your home town. These instances that come and go. As fate blows us into each other’s paths like debris in the updraught.

      That childhood kiss with Sarah drifts into my mind, then blows away, escaping through my ear.

      When we get to the hall, its unmistakeable chafed parquet flooring under my feet, the kids are waiting and Emre Bartu wastes no time.

      He claps his hands, a surprisingly effective attention drawing tactic that turns their chattering heads towards him.

      ‘Hello Year Eleven! My name is PCSO Emre Bartu and it’s a real pleasure to speak to you today. We’re usually out on the street, you may have seen us about, so at this time of year it’s just nice to come in and get warm.’

      It’s not the kind of gag I would open with but he’s certainly come in with confidence. He reaches centre stage, the exact spot the headmaster stands to give out end of term awards, where Martin Humball gave his Fagin, and precisely where people were invited to stand and play clarinet or present some kind of talent if their ultimate wish was to be punched by their peers at lunch break. Bartu’s not a natural public speaker, his thumbs tucked tightly under his police vest tell me that. He needs something to hold on to for comfort. But I like Emre Bartu, and they are warming to him, too. Although I’m sure I hear someone mutter the word ‘Tosser’ as he pauses to collect his thoughts.

      ‘So why am I here? I hear you all ask. Well, myself and my friend and colleague PCSO Tom Mondrian at the back there…’ he says pointing to me.

      They turn to look. ‘Friend and colleague.’ Very kind. We’ve only just met. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do at this point. So I put my index and middle fingers to my forehead and salute. I’m not sure why.

      No one smiles. A morass of shaggy haircuts turn back to the stage. I see a grimace somewhere inside Emre Bartu. He falters.

      ‘We… me and Mondrian… PCSO Mondrian… (a cough)… wanted to talk to you about a few things you should be aware of as you lot start to taking your drivey theoring tests. Driving theory tests.’

      He reaches for the bag. He picks up the bag. He unzips the bag and puts his hand inside. I whisper to Miss Nixon, ‘Have you heard this talk before?’

      ‘Six times,’ she says.

      ‘That’s a lot,’ I say.

      ‘Mmm,’ she says. Small talk over.

      He pulls out some goggles from the bag.

      ‘Now, who would like to come and “road test”, these special goggles?’

      No hands shoot up. No enthusiasm reaches fever pitch.

      ‘Come on. Anyone? Or I’ll pick on you.’

      One hand at the front lifts with the energy of something pained and waiting to die.

      ‘There we go. Round of applause please!’

      The sad sound of twelve people clapping in a room of over a hundred. The echoing acoustic is a cruel partner to their dwindling will to live.

      ‘These are my beer goggles,’ he says. Some merciful vocal response occurs. We are underway. Bartu gets the boy to put them on.

      I think about the missing girl.

      Bartu asks the boy to tell us what he can see.

      I wonder whether she’s playing truant; most likely.

      The boy says the words ‘wobbly bodies’ and the kids whisper and laugh.

      I look to Miss Nixon and she looks away.

      Bartu says, ‘The problem is… drink driving is actually no joke.’

      I think about asking her about the girl. My body shifts towards her.

      Bartu looks at me from the stage and doesn’t like what he sees.

      I think about openers: ‘We wondered… I’m interested…’

      ‘Drink driving isn’t a petty offence, it’s life threatening…’

      I settle on ‘Incidentally, is…’ and slot it into the firing chamber.

      ‘… both your lives and the lives of others are at stake…’

      She turns to me. She stares at the scar on my head.

      He speaks while still staring at me. He knows what I’m up to.

      She recognises me from the paper, I think. Unwanted celebrity.

      He speeds up, rushing through the script as we lock eyes.

      ‘This is my old school,’ I whisper to her. She softens.

      ‘… all for the sake of being too lazy to walk home…’

      Her face makes an ‘Oh, right’ expression.

      ‘So next time you think about drinking and driving…’

      ‘Yes. That was a few years ago now, ha. Incidentally…’ I say.

      ‘Remember the beer goggles and think about if you…’

      ‘Incidentally, is the girl that went…’

      ‘…really want to put lives at stake for the price of a taxi home, thank you!’

      Applause. The noise of which ruins our moment. I ask her the question again but the decibel level rises further.

      ‘The girl that went missing, was she…’ I say.

      She can’t hear me. The suddenly exuberant boys and girls seem to be letting off some boredom steam through sarcastic cheering, rather than earnestly thanking Emre Bartu for his performance. But whatever the reason, they’re making too much noise for me to proceed. Advantage Bartu.

      ‘Great! Thank you for listening. Thank you for having myself and PCSO Mondrian.’

      He looks to me to try and cue a simple thank you. This is his tactical error. I step forward