The afternoon of the event is as hazy in my mind as the memory itself. It was a sunny afternoon. It might have been May. I think I was nine or ten years old.
On the afternoon in question, several of my friends - kids I hung around with who also picked their noses and scabs - beat up a boy in the year below me. When they were found out, they said that I'd been involved, too.
We were lead to the headmaster's office. His name was Mr Marshall. He was of Welsh stock. He had white-haired knuckles; thick, black hair, and a booming, baritone voice. He was a traditional disciplinarian. I sat outside his office terrified. I felt abandoned, and ashamed of myself for being such a helpless child.
I faced the wall outside his office and started to cry. He was motioned out by our school's kindly secretary, Mrs Smith - I think she was fucking the lollipop man with the screwy eye.
He started to scold each of us. 'Don't cry! Don't you all feel sorry?' He loomed over us. He approached me: 'What are these crocodile tears, boy?' I can't remember what happened next but I was suspended for several days. I was collected - I can't remember by whom - and I remained silent.
This must've happened on a Friday, as the first time I said that I'd not been involved was at my nan's house - I always used to stay with her on weekends. When I told her - on Saturday - she called me daft and, although she had a cold presence, she cared deeply for me. She was, more or less, a surrogate mother who'd take me every weekend 'til I was ten or eleven years old.
My nan made some calls. On Monday morning, I sat in Mr Marshall's office and told him I'd had no part in it (in the shyest, mousiest kiddie voice I could muster). He looked at me, puzzled, and couldn't wipe the quizzical look from his face. The boy who'd been beaten up was called in and sat down next to Mr Marshall. 'Was he involved in the fight?' he asked the boy. After several seconds - an infinity to a child - he said: 'No, sir.'
'Okay,' Mr Marshall replied. 'You're free to go.' As I left the room I was silent and had an odd smirk splashed across my face. In retrospect, I wonder what Mr Marshall felt as I left the room. A girl, Amy Austyn, asked me why I took the bullet. I didn't know then; I don't know now - through fear of social reproach or fear of Mr Marshall? Maybe. They weren't even my friends: they were just kids who came to my birthday parties and whose birthday parties I attended. Amy's got a kid now. God knows what happened to Mr Marshall - he left for retirement in 2000.
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