BLONDE

By Redbeard

Everything. Happens. In. Slow. Motion.

The sound rushes through my body like waves of
electricity. Chilling, paralysing even my thoughts. Frozen,
my body doesn’t react. That ear-deafening sound can’t be
what I think it is.

People close to me are running in all directions. Huddling

down, scampering like bewildered dogs. They seem to be
screaming but no sound comes from their open throats.
Are their voices absent or did my hearing disappear? Is it
my imagination or am I having an out-of-body
experience? My mind tries to regain control of my body.
It’s a war between my physical sense and my logical
being. So many thoughts are warring for command of my
mind. ‘Take control, act better, unfreeze, damn it!’
How long has it been? A minute? Ten minutes? No idea.

Slowly, my mind protecting me, sound seems to seep into

my ears. The muffled cries of teens are the first sounds to
enter my hollow sound chamber. I feel a grip around both
my shoulders, when I hear the familiar voice of a

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colleague, shouting loud into my ear, ‘… you ok, can you
hear me? Jacob, are you ok?’

‘Uh, yeah, I think so, what happened?’ My colleague

doesn’t stick around to answer. He runs off to check on
someone else, a girl lying on the floor, convulsing, some
way to our left.

Unfolding myself from a position facing the tiled floor,

my mind forces me to an upward position. Fear wants to
keep me in a protected position, but responsibility forces
my head to a space where I can face what happened. With
eyes open wide, I try to make sense of the chaotic scenes
unfolding down the passage way. I force myself against
the closest wall, struggling to find balance, I manage. It’s
cold.

‘When you panic, take deep breaths, it’s the first way to
combat stress.’ I breathe deep. I’m familiar with this
exercise. Again. And, again. It works. Order seems to be
returning to my senses. The chaotic, fearful screams
overwhelm all other sensory observations. A woman runs
straight into me and then clings on to me for dear life, her
face pale, her eyes frozen and struggling to breathe.

‘Kathy, look at me! Look at me!’ She lifts her gaze

in fear.

‘Take a breath! Take a deep breath! Breathe!’ She

inhales, as if coming up for breath from beneath a cold

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lake, gasping for air. Life returns to her eyes as she starts
looking around and behind her, bewildered.

‘What happened? Where is he?’ She manages to

force these questions through her pursed lips before
running towards the end of the passage. Her eyes,
harrowing.

More people are running towards me. Running towards

escape. Running from whatever is life threatening. Where
do I go? Instinctively my body and my legs start moving
towards the exit. After two steps I stop. ‘Turn around, turn
around, man!’ I turn. More people are running towards
the door. Most of the screaming have stopped. Only
bewildered eyes now seek exits as students are dragging
each other to safety. A large boy stops briefly in front of
me, grabs me by the shoulders, ‘Come, Mr J, follow me!’
‘No, no, go. Get these kids out. I’m ok. Go!’
My legs don’t cooperate. Getting them to move in the
opposite direction is difficult. ‘One step, that’s it. Ok, now
get moving.’ Slowly moving forward, holding my hand
against the cold wall as I move, steadying myself, and
trying to stay in touch with reality. Fewer people are now
coming from where danger seemed to have originated as
the sound of screams slowly dissipates. The end of the
hallway seems so far. I’ve walked this passage a hundred
times, thousands, maybe. Does it matter? I’ve never
walked it in fear.

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Never before have I relied on my hearing as much as I do,
now. My own breathing has never sounded as loud and
clear as this. Do I always breathe this loud? It sounds
abnormal. I’ve felt my heart beat like this before, but only
after a severe training session. This is not that.

There is a flickering electric light ahead in the corridor. I

can even hear it. Closing my eyes, tightly, I try to get a
grip on the sounds, I have to start identifying important
sounds. People.
Closing my eyes helps me think, reorganise my thoughts.
‘What happened? Think, think!’ I was talking to a
colleague in the hallway, discussing a student who’d been
sending texts of a bullying nature to another, younger kid.
Ok, it’s coming back. Ryan grabbed a hold of me in
passing along the passage. He asked if I had spoken to
some kid, a senior boy who might have been bullying a
boy two years his junior. What was his name? Joseph, no,
Joe, no, no, Joel. Yes, Joel. A quiet kid, apparently. I still
haven’t gotten around to speaking to either of them… A
second after our make-shift meeting ended in the hallway,
there was a magnificent sound. A loud bang. A gunshot?
No, can’t be. I don’t know. Then some more. How many?
‘Think!’ Four, maybe five. Explosions in the science lab?
Has to be. But, the science lab is the other way.

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 2

My cognitive senses seem ok. I check myself. I recall my

name, my workplace. The time, more or less. Check my
body. Everything seems to be fine. There’s some blood on
the back of my head. I bumped my head against the cold
corridor wall after the explosion. It’s fine, my breathing
has calmed, it’s not normal but it’s as normal as it could
be. I pull my shoulders back and take another deep breath.

One last kid comes running around the corner, crying,

holding his shoulder. He doesn’t see me, just keeps
running towards the exit door. I watch him as he reaches
supposed safety. As he runs out, opening the main door, I
hear the sounds of chaos outside. People crying and
shouting. Then, the door shuts, again, slowly.

Dead silence.

Only my breathing, again. Calm down. Calm down and

listen. I hear nothing, no sounds. Walking very slowly
towards the end of the corridor towards the T-junction, I
hold my breath. Trying to listen, intensely. My eyes
closed to concentrate. I hear nothing except my own
heartbeat. Wait, no. Some indistinct sound is able to make
its way to me from down the corridor to the left. My heart
now beating louder than before. I brace myself against the
opposite wall. Trying to work up the courage to put my

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head around the cold, dark brick corner, I wait almost a
minute. ‘Do it!’ I kneel down and carefully push my face
past the brick corner.
Nothing, I don’t see anything. Even towards the
opposite side, not a thing, no movement. The sound
remains, though. Somewhere to the left I hear it again. A
muffled sound. Might be someone crying or laughing. It
can’t be. Must be crying.

Courage appears as if from nowhere. Nothing to be afraid

of. Something happened. I don’t know what, yet. Surely
the danger must be over, whatever it was. One step at a
time. I force myself to start walking. It goes slowly, but
there is progress. Remaining painfully aware of all that
surrounds me. Listening, looking. Trying to observe
anything out of the ordinary. There are no signs of an
explosion. In a sense I was hoping to find some signs of
external damage. But, the fear on the children’s faces, the
fear…

The sound is clearer and closer, now. It sounds like

someone breathing with difficulty, almost a gargling
sound, coming from the next classroom to my left. My
heart beats even louder.
‘Hi, hello?’ is all that I manage to squeeze-whisper
out of my breathless lungs. My hands are shaking. I
breathe deep again, my hands are still shaking. I have
almost no breath left after that. I call again. ‘Hello! Is

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anyone there?’ The words are forced out of my mouth,
one by one. Sitting on the floor in the corridor, next to the
door, I take a quick look around the door frame. I see part
of a foot sticking out from behind the teacher’s desk. It’s
moving. ‘Go.’ I push myself up from the floor and run into
the classroom towards the desk.

The boy seems about 17 years old. Emo. I don’t really

recognise him, although I have a shocking realization that
I should. Bending over him, I try to ascertain his
condition. He’s breathing and for now, that’s good
enough. Lying on his side, he’s clutching the left side of
his chest with his right hand. Then I see it, blood slowly
seeping out from under his chest. Seeping towards my
feet. I move my feet back. ‘What’s your name? What
happened?’

I have to steady myself. This is new, even after dealing

with students for almost twenty years, this is new. Ok,
steadied. ‘Breathe deep, again.’ With my voice
purposefully lower and more in control, ‘Hi, son. What’s
your name?’ His eyes full of tears and fear, struggling to
focus, he manages to look at me. Now, I smell faeces and
urine. There is an attempt to speak, I can see his Adam’s
apple moving slightly, but no sound. Then, ‘G-g-g…’
There’s no way to make out his speech. ‘Let me see where
you’re injured.’ I try to roll him onto his back, when he
screams out, death-defiantly barbaric, ‘Nooo!’ His eyes

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widened and now almost unrecognisably filled with tears.
‘Ok, ok, I won’t move you. What happened?’ His eyes
dimming…’No, stay with me!’ ‘G-…’ is what he
manages to gargle as life disappears from his eyes. The
blood now all around my shoes, under me. His eyes are
still open. ‘No.’ Nausea overcomes me and I aim for a bin
close-by but in vain. I vomit into the air but a fair amount
lands on my sleeve and hand.

Suddenly I can’t breathe. Clutching my chest I collapse

back onto my knees, my head on the ground. I’ve never
been afraid of tears but now it’s uncontrollable. ‘Breathe,
breathe! Now, get up!’ I turn back towards the boy. His
eyes are still open, but I can’t get myself to reach out to
his face and close them. Thinking about it, but it’s
impossible. I can’t do it. I can’t touch his face but I push
the left side of his chest so he rolls onto his back. So much
blood on his dirty, white school shirt. It’s torn, where the
blood was still slowly trickling out.

‘Get up.’ I get up slowly and start looking around

the classroom. ‘Oh no…’

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 3

The past few weeks have been difficult. Talks of staff cuts
and salary cut-backs are only some of the issues at work
that have been gnawing at the back of my mind. Not to
mention my personal issues. Over the last couple of years
I have managed to keep all my demons at bay and not let
them influence my work situation. It’s professional. But,
demons have a tendency to catch up.

It’s been years since I completed my studies and entered

the realm of child psychology. It’s not where I envisioned
myself, starting out as a young, qualified therapist. The
dream was a private practice, like the ones on television.
Damn those shows, they make it look so easy! My own
beautiful office with a secretary, an oldish lady, although,
not too old, but old enough not to distract me. She would
be the backbone of the practice. I would see four or five
clients a day, Monday to Friday, with Wednesdays free to
do whatever I felt like doing. Other medical professionals
play golf on Wednesdays, I wouldn’t. I would spend my
time with a good friend, trying out a new coffee shop, do
some reading, maybe some light running, smiling at
strangers in passing. The people I would see as clients
would be middle-class to wealthy, mostly wealthy with
marital problems, some with depression or issues from
childhood, which I would help them solve, over time. The
respected problem solver, most often. This is not that.

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For the past twelve years I’ve been the school
psychologist at this public school in this city suburb. The
families range from below average income with a few
horrible family situations to a handful of families with a
bit of means to make them appear wealthy. The problems
brought to school by the students are the same as I suppose
most communities have. Hiding poverty, hiding alcohol
abuse, hiding all kinds of abuse, really. Bullying. That’s a
problem that seem to have escalated with the rise of social
media. Social media, the devil’s most handy tool, it seems,
amongst children, these days. My phone has become an
integral part of my career.

Two years ago my assistant was let go. Cut backs. She
wasn’t fantastic, but at least she dealt with most of my
administration, checking up on the kids after their
sessions with me and handled the less severe cases. She
dealt with the overflow of my job. It’s worse, now. Two
years of cases building up, teachers becoming frustrated
with a growing sense of helplessness and files up to the
roof hasn’t helped, either. It has become almost
impossible to truly help these kids. Put a band-aid on it.
Tell them to turn the other cheek, man-up, build your self-
esteem, you can do better, and ignore the bullies. This is
what my career has become. A self-help, walk-in centre
paid for by the government. How can I possibly help these
kids?

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Almost seven weeks ago, Ryan Johnson completed the
administrative request for me to look into this case, these
two kids. What were their names, again? That’s right,
Gregan and Joe, no Joel. To be honest, I didn’t get around
to even look at the boys’ files until about four weeks ago.
Ryan sent me some emails and texts, reminding me about
the situation, he even asked me in person last week or
maybe the week before, he was worried, fearing the
situation might be getting worse, ‘…spiralling out of
control…’ I believe were his words. If I had a penny for
every time a teacher told me that things were becoming
uncontrollable…

Uncontrollable. Now, there’s a word. This, this is

uncontrollable. I still have no idea what happened. Chaos
is truly the only word I can conjure up to describe
everything, right now. The explosion, bang, whatever it
was and then screams, people running, fear in their eyes,
in fact not just their eyes but covering their entire beings.
Those images, alone, scare me, just recalling them sends
shivers through me.

‘Snap back, get a grip, Jacob!’ How long have I been

standing here, in this classroom, next to the body of this
dead boy? I have no idea. My brain has been trying to lock
down, escaping, shutting out reality. It’s always been a
problem. Dealing with other people’s difficulties is a

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breeze. Listening to the kids and their complications at
home; drunk parents, abusive peers, lack of food, to me,
those problems seem to have solutions. Dealing with my
own emotions is quite a different prospect, it’s easier to
close the door and walk away.

Reality catches up to me as my brain starts to process the

scene in front of me, here, now in this classroom.
‘Where are the first responders? Why has nobody else
arrived on this scene, yet?’

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 4

‘Oh, Lord, no!’ More bodies.

My body and mind wants to reject the scene laid

out in front of me. I want to shut down, go somewhere
else, a safe place, just wander off. My body wants to go
into a state of paralysis, again. ‘No.’ I feel nausea
overcoming me, this time I gain some control over my
natural reaction. I steady myself. ‘Breathe deep. And,
again.’ I look down, my hands are shaking less.

The classroom is deafeningly quiet. No school

bags lying around. This room must have been empty when
it happened, if there were students here, they would have
left their bags and books, trying to escape.

Two more bodies. Spread lifeless a couple of

metres from each other, almost facing each other. Judging
by their clothes from this distance, I guess they’re both
boys. Moving closer, shifting, really, the image of the two
boys gets clearer. So do the puddles of blood surrounding
them, still spreading, flowing inch by inch. The puddles
are dark and seem like a thick substance, flowing gently.

Of the two boys, one is seemingly larger than the

other, neither of them looks familiar, or do they? The
mind is a wicked thing. Bending my neck at a slight angle

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to get a clearer look at the larger boy, his face looks
familiar. Did I counsel him? Maybe it’s just the angle. I
need to get closer. His dark, longer than usual hair, seems
to be blood stained. His face is smeared, so are his hands,
his palms red. Lying on his side, his left arm stretched out
from beneath him while his other hand is clutched around
his neck. A look of contentment seems to cover his face.
Almost as if his face froze achieving something. My
imagination runs of with me. ‘Breathe and focus.’ His
entire chest, neck and face is covered in dark red. The
wound where his blood flows from is messy, it’s hard to
determine its exact location. His neck, his upper chest,
shoulder? I don’t know. I’m too afraid to touch him,
there’s way too much blood covering him. The oversized,
dark jacket he’s wearing also covers much of his face and
neck, too difficult to look at.

No sign of life. The poor boy looks to be no more

than sixteen. Then, without warning, a loud gasp,
‘Uuugh!’ Swinging my head around, just in time to see
the other boy exhaling the deep gasp of air he took
moments ago. ‘Help…’ It’s barely audible but loud
enough to understand, given the scene. Falling to my
knees, next to him in an instant, blood no longer matters.
‘Hey, buddy. What’s your name? I’m Mr. Carelli.’

The blonde haired boy’s eyes flicker and makes

instant contact with mine. He looks younger than the other

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two. ‘Can you move? Can you talk?’ The boy tries to force
a smile, which disappears as quickly as it was formed.
Tears start welling up in his eyes, way too fast. He tries to
talk, only his lips are moving, ‘…’ No sound. Crawled up
into a tiny ball, he starts to shiver. ‘What do you want to
say, son?’
‘…sc…’ Another deep gasp of air overwhelms the
moment. All my focus is directed towards the boy with his
sad eyes, filled with tears. His face, dirty, almost like he’d
been playing in dirt and tried to wipe his face clean with
an even dirtier hand. Now, blood starting to trickle form
his nose. I don’t see any visible wounds, I try to check. ‘
…m scared.’ The words grip my soul and I realise tears
are dripping down from me onto the dirty, tiled floor.
Wiping my own face, now, I try to, regain composure,
‘What happened, son?’ ‘Greg…’ sounds from his mouth
as I decide to hold my ear towards his mouth. ‘Is your
name Greg? Don’t worry, Greg, it’s going to be ok, just
hold on, buddy. I’m going to get help.’
‘Nooo! Don’t go…’ The last part of his cry
swallowed by a gasp of air as he inhales, trying to stay
alive.
‘Ok, ok, it’s ok, I won’t leave, don’t worry.’ Tears
now streaming from his eyes. Trying hard to compose
himself, gathering strength and air, he clearly wants to say
something. Forcing the saddest smile imaginable, ‘i’m
scared’ are the words that cuts the air clean. ‘hold m…’
and just like that, he’s gone.

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 ‘Greg, Greg! Stay with me!’ I push my arm under
his back, my other arm around his neck and head to pick
him up, when I feel a cold, hard object. ‘No…’ The object
is obvious, even though I don’t see it, it’s easy to identify
the shape of a knife. Clearly still lodged inside him, I jerk
my arms straight back from under him. ‘Lord, no.’

Unable to think what to do next except sit next to

this boy, to stay with his dead body until someone arrives,
I find myself sitting on the floor, my hand on his leg,
hoping that maybe at least for the last seconds of his life,
he felt a human touch. Could it have made a difference to
his soul, as he departed. Time becomes irrelevant, again.
Sitting on the cold, hard floor, I start to reflect on what
could possibly only have been the last ten minutes. Was it
much longer? I honestly don’t know. My senses
emphasize everything observable. Sounds, sight, smell.
The stench is the worst, almost unbearable. So, this is
what death smells like. Controlling my emotions, welling
up inside of me, I know, will be close to impossible in a
couple of minutes.

‘Sir…’

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 5

‘Sir.’ What a title, what a load to bear.

Caring for these students, really caring, makes a

difference, more so in my own soul, I often think. In many
ways, many times, these kids have become my soul’s
saviour, without them knowing it.
Since realizing my dream of running a private
practice incrementally started dissipating, roughly five
years ago, making peace with my reality of working in a
public school has become easier. Previously, I was
constantly getting ready to leave the public sector, just
waiting for the best opportunity. It might have been fear
of stepping out into a new reality, I could have been
getting used to receiving a pay check or maybe I just
didn’t have the courage to follow through on my internal
promises. Psychologists will tell us that people often find
external excuses to prevent internal growth.
Accepting a reality of a future in public service
was a step in the right direction to help me be better. I
needed to be better, not only for the sake of my own
personal well-being, the students deserved to have
someone on their side. Ok, maybe some of them didn’t
deserve it, but at least some of the kids would feel they
had a chance if there was an adult in their lives who gave
them half a chance.

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 The watershed moment wasn’t a moment, as such,
rather it was a series of events coinciding to shoulder me
in the right direction. Losing family and friends at a
particularly fragile time, helped me understand the gift of
grace towards other hurting souls.
Thoughts of losing two of my own children haunts
me constantly. Having frequent dreams, no, nightmares of
them, forced me to ask myself if I could have done more.
I could have. I still can. The idea that I could redeem
myself by helping some of these kids, soothed the
wounds, occasionally.

During the past five years I started approaching

the line we are often warned about as social caregivers,
‘Don’t get involved, personally. You can only do so much
to help these kids…’ It’s more difficult when you start to
care, when I began understanding the weight of being a
‘Sir’ to someone.

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 6

My body turns cold. ‘Sir.’

Spinning around and gasping for air at the same

time, I struggle to pinpoint the exact spot the voice called
from. Searching with blurred vision, it’s not easy to make
out details, mainly large shapes are identifiable, at first.
‘Where are you?’ Silence. No, not again. How deep will
today spiral?
‘Here…’ Trying to dry my eyes with the back of
my hands proves more disastrous than anticipated. Blood
and tears seem only to infuriate my vision. My shoulder
sleeve gets the job done. ‘Where? Where are you?’
‘Here…sir…’ Able to follow the voice clearer,
now, some movement is visible at the far side of the
classroom, hidden behind the door and a desk. My legs
are working, perfectly. In a split second I cross the space
between myself and the voice to find another boy leaning
with his back against the wall. No blood.

The image clears up with each passing moment.

He barely looks fourteen. I check again. No visible blood
or injury, although he is clearly hurting, or at least he
seems to be, judging by the look on his face. Eyes that
look almost lifeless changes when I kneel beside him. His
smaller frame seems tough, though, it doesn’t seem to

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match his faintly freckled face. Battling to breathe, he tries
to so push himself up against the wall to sit up straight.

‘It’s ok, son. Just relax. Take a deep breath.’ I’m

surprisingly calm. I check myself, I notice my hands
stopped trembling, my voice is calm and my breathing is
steady. ‘How are you feeling?’ This time, composed, I let
him answer.
‘I think I’m ok, Sir.’ Visibly trembling, now, he
seems to be out of place, he shouldn’t be here. He
shouldn’t see the bodies of the other boys, no one should
see that…
‘Are you hurt? Do you feel any injuries?’
Compulsory first-aid courses throughout my years
working at a school have taught me the basic steps of
asking questions before moving a possibly injured person
to a better position, which seems to be our first instinct,
helping a badly hurt person get up.
‘My shoulder, Sir, it hurts, here,’ pointing to his
right with his head dropping slightly. ‘Ok, I don’t see
blood. Can I move your jacket to see if it’s ok?’ Another
important lesson. Very gently I peel his unzipped rain-
proof jacket back over his shoulder. No visible injuries,
no blood, no tear. ‘I don’t see anything, I think you must
have bumped it, it’s probably not serious. Do you
remember anything, did you see what happened?’
‘No, Sir,’ he looks down with welled-up eyes
before he loses consciousness.

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 ‘It’s ok, don’t worry, you’re going to be ok.’ I’m
not even sure if I’m trying to console myself, or the kid.
Trying to sound certain that we will be alright isn’t easy,
but I give it a go. I’m not even certain if I will be ok.
Pushing both my arms beneath his small frame, I lift him
like I would my own child. Leaving this heart-wrenching
site with a child in my arms is not the way I imagined this
day to turn out.
‘Clear!’ Controlled shouts of a police officer,
down the passage, invades this deathly quiet space. At
last.

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 7

It’s been almost a week since that terrible

Tuesday.

As I picked up Joel and carried him to safety, a

police officer and two medics rushed into the room.
Presumably the medics checked out the other boys while
the officer escorted me and Joel out where he was rushed
to hospital in one of three waiting ambulances, engines
running. The other two ambulances left the scene without
sirens wailing.

The days have passed slow and fast at the same

time. I find myself sitting and staring into white air, too
often. Sometimes an hour passes without noticing it. The
events of that day runs through my mind more often than
I wish for, and occasionally, on purpose. The nights,
especially are starting to become long. Dreams are too
real. Nightmares, I suppose. The sounds echo in head but
the silence in my thoughts, the silence in that class, rings
loudest. The two boys, dying in my arms changed me.
There is no escape from those images. It’s right there, next
to me, no matter where I turn. They have become more
than a shadow. I think and rethink if I could have done
anything differently. Could I have saved one of them, or
both? No.

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 If that was a terrible Tuesday, then I suppose today
is best described as fearful. Coming back to school was a
dreadful thought. I feared coming back, more than I had
feared anything in a long time. More than once this
morning, I tried to fabricate excuses to not show up. The
idea of walking back in to a place where demons would
be waiting to encounter me, us, doesn’t make sense. But,
we have to face them. It’s how we conquer them.

Arriving early, the sun hardly out, is how I deal

with it. Be here first, that’s how I beat the first demon. No
one else is here, it’s safe. Do I go back to the scene?
Would I even have the courage? The thought dawns on
me that even the kids would have to go back there,
knowing and thinking about that day, still wondering.

The unanswered questions remain lingering in

everyone’s thoughts. What exactly happened, Tuesday?
The speculation has been rife. As expected, the rumour
mill has been working overtime, once the shock was
absorbed by the community. Everything has been
speculated with regards to how things transpired, who was
at fault, who should be blamed for the tragic deaths.
Everything gets thrown up in the air, to see what sticks.
Everything, except what really happened. The facts?
Three boys, dead. One, alive. The survivor hasn’t spoken,
yet. After his release from hospital, he went home to his
single-parent house. His mom understandably keeping

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him one side and away from harm’s way. The word was
that he refused to talk to anyone, in fact, he hasn’t spoken,
at all, since the incident. Neither has his mom. She asked
that they be left alone.

The police are busy with their own investigation.

The school board has tasked me to deal with the fall-out,
here. Teachers and students. I expect few colleagues to
address the carnage in their own lives with a peer. Maybe
two or three female teachers would make use of the
service provided by the state. Most male teachers will do
what men almost always do, supress. That’s nothing new,
the ancient male response to dealing with frightening
emotional valleys are, for the most part, predictable.
Don’t talk, drink. When does that happen, at what age do
men start shying away from dealing with emotions? Is it
even necessary to deal with it? Studies are unclear.
However, what is clear, is that we need to deal with hurt,
in whatever way we deem to be the best. Burying hurt
beneath the soil of time only exposes dead bones after the
erosion of years can no longer hide the decay of a life
lived. It is so often exposed when least expected, most
often in regret of not dealing with it, sooner.

Today, I’m preparing for an avalanche of hurt.

24 | P a g e
 8

As expected, my schedule gets overwhelmed with

trauma sessions. Students, mostly, try to see me,
expecting answers. There are few.
Questions are the way we try to make sense of
things. Whenever there is a major disruptive force in our
lives, overturning our way of thinking, our way of life, our
first response is asking questions. Formulating those
questions are more important and complicated than we
might assume. The most prevalent questions, ‘Why and
what happened?’ doesn’t have an answer, not now,
anyway. ‘Why?’ We can only speculate. ‘We don’t know
God’s plan’ to ‘We need to accept and move forward’ are
rarely sufficient. These answers don’t cut it. People want
more, they need to make sense of disruptive storms. We
need to be able to organise and define disruptions to deal
with them. We seem to want to put traumatic events in a
box, label them, and then shelve that box.

My office is small, but it does have a window.

Sunshine at a certain time of day helps more than one
would think. The way it falls on my mahogany desk, with
particles floating weightless in the narrow ray, takes me
back. The too-large desk was a gift from my grandfather.
After graduation, he proudly took me shopping for a
beautiful office desk, ‘The first professional in the family
must have a desk that fits his stature.’ So often, just the

25 | P a g e
thought of him and how proud he was, takes me back to
times playing in a backyard, mostly forgotten. My
grandma and he were perfect in my eyes. She, with her
baked goods, always ready to spoil us, I can still smell the
freshly baked warm rusks from her old, too small kitchen
and him, with his mostly starry-eyed advice, always so
proud of his grandchildren. Days like today I long to be a
child, again, playing in their backyard only to be lured into
their two-bedroom railway home by something freshly
baked. There, I was safe.

The unexpected knock on my closed door is abrupt

and loud, dragging me back from times long lost. ‘Come
in!’ my voice crackles as if it’s the first time it’s being
used, today. The twenty minutes break from any
appointments I had hoped to use for clearing my mind, is
short-lived. ‘Mr. Carelli, Joel’s mom phoned, she wants
to bring him in to speak to you. She says he refuses to
speak to anyone else.’
‘Oh, um, yes, that’s fine. She can bring him in.’
I’m immediately annoyed at myself at how unprepared I
must have sounded.
‘What time should I say?’
‘Um, any time after two o’ clock is fine, thanks.’
‘Thank you.’ Kathy hasn’t spoken to me about that
day, when she ran into me in the corridor. Her tone is
professional, but she avoids eye-contact, so do I.

26 | P a g e
 I hardly have time to let it sink in, the fact that Joel
wants to speak to me, before there is another knock on my
door. ‘Hi, Sir. Mr Carelli? Is it ok to come in? I think this
is my time for my appointment with you, I might be early.
A girl’s head appears from behind the door, her
uncertainty giving her away. Her glasses and dark,
unkept, short haircut is familiar. Jaden’s scheduled
appointments on a two-weekly basis is somewhat
draining. Her situation is dire. She got the brass ring. An
emotional abusive father, an alcoholic mom and a toddler
sister who latches onto her as if she is her mom, makes
this particular case especially exhausting.

After having seen five other students today,

wiping tears, consoling and trying to fix them, this session
will be taxing. Never wanting to seem uninterested, I
gather my thoughts and refocus. Each child deserves the
same attention. They don’t get it. That’s on me.

After spending enough time with certain students,

the formalities become unnecessary. ‘Hi, Jaden.’ The
familiarity of this session helps me, I am comfortable, for
the first time in a week.
‘Hi, Sir’ she is visibly uncomfortable. The luxury
of spending enough sessions with students allows me to
understand their moods and dig into what is hurting as
quickly as the short, thirty minute session allows.
‘Are you ok, Jaden?’ She seems uneasy.

27 | P a g e
 ‘…’
Her downward gaze and silence reveals too much.
Usually, she seems to enjoy the sessions. Her willingness
to speak her mind and tell me how much hurt she has,
along with her desire to leave home as soon as the
opportunity arises, has become a trademark of our times
together. I hardly ever need to prompt her for information.
‘How are things at home, are you coping with your
mom’s situation?’
‘Yes, Sir. She’s been ok for a couple of days. Ever
since last week, she’s been trying harder.’
‘And your dad?’ I tread more carefully.
‘Same, but I’m trying some of the techniques you
gave me. His words still hurt, but maybe…’ Her eyes
haven’t lifted. Being shy and drawn back is often a tell-
tale sign of some kind of abuse, so I know not to push too
hard.
‘That’s good.’ In order to persuade a patient to
speak, the method of silence from the counsellor’s side is
a technique used with varying success. It’s needed now,
she won’t speak if I keep asking irrelevant questions.

I struggle with this method. Silence is difficult for

me. It’s much simpler to talk over problems than to have
revealing, courageous conversations. Practising years’ of
therapy has taught me the discipline of staying silent, even
when it becomes unbearable.

28 | P a g e
 A crack appears. ‘Sir…I think, I think I might have
seen something…’ she dips her toes in the water. “I mean,
last week, that day. I think I saw…I’ve been having
trouble sleeping.’ Her quivering voice trying to stay
composed and strong, but her downward gaze can’t
disguise the fear in her voice.
I feel myself shifting and sitting up straight in my
chair, leaning onto my grandpa’s desk. Clearing my
throat, ‘What, um what do you mean, Jaden? Do you
mean, Tuesday? Did you see something, Tuesday?’ My
racing heart and shallow breath needs to be controlled. For
the first time, today, she looks up slightly, her eyes finding
mine, but still peering from beneath her brow.
‘Yes’ I see tears flowing down her cheek, and I
lose contact with her eyes, again.

‘Composure, Jacob!’
‘You can take your time, Jaden.’ My questions
need to be useful. It dawns on me, that everything said
from this moment onwards, could be admissible in court.
Court. That cold, horrid place.

‘Sir? Have you talked with Joel, yet?’

‘No, I haven’t. Why?’ My mouth, dry now,
struggles to utter anything beyond that.
‘I’m, I’m sorry, Sir. I have to go.’ Without a
moment’s notice she jumps up from her seat to spin
around and run from my office.

29 | P a g e
 ‘Jaden, Jaden!’

30 | P a g e
 9

Twelve students and two colleagues. How many

more will seek out counsel over the coming days? More,
many more, I am assured of that. Each one of them are
unique and similar. Their vantage points makes each
soul’s perspective special, one of a kind. Retelling the
day’s events from their world’s perspective. From the tea
lady who hardly could utter a word, because of her heart
wrenching sobbing for almost twenty minutes to the
debate team captain, a senior girl who never search for
words, not even today. Her expression of the events were
almost poetic. Words seem to be waiting next to her
previous thought, ready to be moulded into a rhythmic,
soothing rhyme. Explaining with carefully weighted
sentences, she tries her best to deal with her experience
and chronological series of events, even speculating as to
causes and reasons. I let her talk.
Patients mostly want to give flight to their ideas
and feelings, that’s half of what therapy is. To hear
themselves wording the unthinkable, gives them a handle.
From there, they can open the door to explore meaning,
ideas and new thoughts that could ultimately lead to some
sense of resolution. Talking is important. The art of
therapy is to know when silence is just as important as
words or maybe even more meaningful.

It’s two o’ clock.

31 | P a g e
 As the bell announces the arrival of the end of the
school day, the noise level is noticeably lower than usual.
Partly, because there are fewer children back at school
than expected, but also because of the tragic event that has
subdued the otherwise bubbly, chaotic student body.
Minutes tick by. I hear the second-arm of the old,
cream-coloured wall clock ticking by, reminding me of
my appointment. Since earlier, today, after Kathy
informed me that Joel wants to come in to speak to me, I
haven’t had time to think about him, again. That’s a good
thing. The silence is deafening, now, as the footsteps of
students leaving this building becomes less, a grim
reminder of that day.
Minutes pass by, maybe ten. A slight trembling in
my body forces me to get up from my chair. Walking is a
good way to alleviate some of the built-up tension in my
body. While I’m at it, I’ll replenish my water bottle. My
mouth is dry, now. A quick trip to the staff lounge does
the trick. Walking back, swiftly and turning the corner
next to my office, I’m greeted by a bent-over figure,
sitting in solitude on one of three old wooden chairs
outside my office. It’s him.

‘Hi. Is that you, Joel?’ bending slightly down,

making an effort to make contact. I know it’s him. No
reaction. Gently putting my hand on his shoulder, ‘Joel?’

32 | P a g e
 When he unfolds upward after a few seconds, his
eyes make immediate contact with mine. They look
fearful and empty. He attempts a smile, it disappears as
soon as it appeared.
‘Hi, Sir.’
‘Come in, Joel.’ I usher him into my office, not
wanting to give him any opportunity to reconsider his
appointment. ‘Have a seat.’ We both find these first few
moments completely uneasy. Shifting around in his seat
to find some level of comfort, Joel eventually settles, then,
with a back still hunched and his dirty hands folded on his
lap, he looks up. His mouth opens as if to speak, but no
sound exits his mouth before he closes up and looks down,
again.

‘This must be hard, Joel?’ I dig deep and rely on

years of sessions to make sure I don’t get this wrong.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Is your mom here?’
‘She’s picking me up, later.’
‘Ok.’
‘Have you been sleeping?’
‘Not really, the doctor gave me some tablets, but I
forget to take them…I have dreams.’
‘Sleeping is difficult, yes?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I understand.’ A mistake. A cardinal rule of
therapy is to say that you understand. The patient almost

33 | P a g e
always feels like his feelings and situation is unique and
nobody understands what he’s going through. Saying, ‘I
understand’ diminishes the therapist’s credibility in the
eyes of the patient, almost always. ‘How can the
psychologist understand, he’s not in my shoes?’
‘I know, Sir.’ He looks up and makes swift eye
contact, then goes underwater, again. His
acknowledgement was brutal, I’m caught off-guard.
‘Have you talked with anyone, yet? Your mom,
maybe?’
‘No.’
‘How do you feel, right now?’
‘I’m ok. This, is ok. I don’t mind being here.’
‘Do you feel ready to come back to school?’
‘No.’
‘It will be difficult, but it will help. To be with
your friends and do school work will help take your mind
off things. It’s good to be busy.’
‘I hate this place.’
‘It’s understandable. How does staying at home
feel?’
‘I don’t know, it’s horrible. It’s all horrible, no
matter where I am.’
‘If you come to school, it’s easier to talk to me.
The teachers will give you space. You won’t be under
pressure.’ Eye-contact becomes more frequent as our
nerves settle.
‘I’ll think about it, Sir.’

34 | P a g e
 ‘Joel. Do you remember anything from Tuesday?’
‘No, Sir.’ He looks down quickly.
‘It’s ok. It might take time to remember what
happened. It will also hurt, remembering what happened.’
Any sort of restoration hurts. To get a broken bone or torn
muscle to function properly, again, physical treatment is
necessary. It always hurts to get the inflammation and
brokenness to dissipate. Limited pressure is necessary.
‘I can’t remember anything.’ His look straight into
my eyes reveals something hidden, not his own pain. This
was a threat, carefully veiled.
‘That’s ok, Joel, maybe in time you’ll…’
‘I really don’t.’ Back off.
‘How is your mom doing?’
‘She’s ok. She cries, a lot. But, that’s not new,
she’s been crying all her life.’
‘I’m sorry, Joel. Do you know what’s making her
sad?’
‘She says life is too hard. I think she wants to die.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘She told me, one night. Sometimes, she drinks
and then she cries and talks to me. I don’t mind listening,
but I can’t help her. Don’t tell her I told you, please, Sir.’
‘Ok.’
‘What can I do to help your home situation? Is
there anything you would like me to do?’ Another
mistake. I can do nothing to help his mom’s situation.
‘No, Sir. This is fine.’

35 | P a g e
 ‘Joel. Before, I mean, before everything, Mr.
Johnson asked me to talk to you. Do you know about
that?’
‘No?’ He seems to lean slightly forward. ‘What
about?’
‘Gregan.’

36 | P a g e
 10

After the police officer and the two medics arrived

on the scene, many things unfolded. Apart from the
speculation and rumours, there were some facts. Three
boys died. One survived. It turned out one of the boys’
name was Gregan. Gregan and Joel. The second boy who
died while I was in the room, wasn’t Greg. His name was
Robert. I have been racking my brain, sifting through
those moments, looking for clues. Knowing what I do,
now, Robert wanted to tell me something, not that his
name was Greg, but something about Gregan, maybe?

The first boy I came across was Pete, Peter Moses.

None of these boys’ files had ever crossed my desk, at
least, I never read their files before the event.

Peter Moses. Robert Hilton. Gregan Black. Joel

Davids.

It wasn’t until after the event that I drew these

boys’ files. They weren’t much different than a lot of the
other boys in our school. At least, their files weren’t
measurably different. But, being alerted to a case
concerning two of these by Ryan, haunts me. Could their
issue have any bearing on what happened to them? We
don’t know, I don’t know. Too little facts have been
uncovered. The boys were in that classroom, alone. No

37 | P a g e
teacher was present, no other student have come forward,
yet. There might be some information forthcoming as
time passes. For now, it’s only Joel who could possibly
shed some light on what happened during those harrowing
minutes. Is his mind the vault in which lies the answers to
that day? Possibly, but, we don’t know. Not yet, anyway.

In recent days my thoughts and files led me to

Ryan, our school’s PE coach. Initially he brought my
attention to the situation between the two boys. Since the
event he’s been difficult to get a hold of and get an
appointment with, partly because I’ve been inundated,
and partly because he’s been avoiding me. We need to get
together to discuss the boys and what happened
afterwards.
Discussions with colleagues are often riddled with
traps. As we grow older, we seem to lose our trust in one
another, understandably, but, unfortunate. Having a
meaningful conversation with a fellow educator is seldom
simple. Each person has their own perspective and view
of life, especially regarding specific children. As I don’t
work with most students on an ongoing basis, I don’t
know them well, at first. Their teachers know them much
better and often understand their personalities with more
depth. Once I get to spend time with them in our sessions
and trust have been established, my understanding of their
situations increase exponentially.

38 | P a g e
 Regardless, I need to make an effort to speak to
Ryan, our past notwithstanding.

The only opportunity arises Wednesday afternoon,

after school hours.

Ryan doesn’t knock, he opens the door, quietly

and walks straight in. His presence is felt instantly. Here
we go.

‘Hi.’ I make immediate eye contact without

standing up from my chair.
‘Hi.’ Hs greeting freezes the room.
‘How are you?’
‘Can we get on with it? I assume you want to talk
about the two boys I referred to you?’
I didn’t expect a warm conversation, but I didn’t
expect this, ‘Um, sure, yeah, let’s. What exactly did you
want to discuss about them, previously?’
‘Does it matter, now?’
‘Yes, it does, actually.’
‘Ok, I guess. Joel came to me one afternoon, after
school, to my office. That day in PE class, I noticed that
there was some, I don’t know, roughing about amongst
the boys. Usually I try to keep out of it, but I had to
intervene, things probably would have escalated if I
didn’t. There wasn’t much, at first, no fist fighting or
anything like that, but I could see there was an issue.

39 | P a g e
Nevertheless, the rest of the period there wasn’t any
problems. But after school, he came to me. I think the boy
has kind of latched onto me, a little bit, I don’t think
there’s a dad on the scene. Maybe he was just in need of
some guidance or shelter, or whatever, I’m not sure.’
‘Ok, what did he tell you when he came to you?’
‘I could tell that he didn’t want to give a whole lot
of details, but he just mentioned that he was being bullied
and that nobody knew about it. He also didn’t want
anyone mentioning something in case it made it worse. I
told him that I wouldn’t tell anyone, I lied to him.’
‘Yeah, you did. Clearly, because you reported it to
me and I didn’t get to their case before, before…this.’
‘No. You didn’t.’ His look bore through me.
‘Is there anything else you knew about the
situation, anything you need to tell me?’ I just wanted to
finish this conversation.
‘No.’
‘Ok, then, that’s it, I guess.’
“I guess.’ He left, again. And, again, it might be
my fault.

Slowly, parts of this puzzle seem to start taking

shape. There are few parts, but still. Putting those pieces
together could be difficult. It’s been a couple of days since
Joel has been back at school. After our meeting Monday,
he hasn’t come back. No answer on their home phone,
either. Necessity compels me to consider a home visit.

40 | P a g e
Very seldom have I made home visits. The security of my
office helps me. Doing a home visit gives the students and
sometimes the parents, the home ground advantage. It’s
their turf. In my office, I can control the variables.

Still, no answer on Joel’s home phone. I’ll have to

go there. No one has heard from him since, not even his
two closest friends in his class. There is no choice, I have
to go by their home, this afternoon, on my way home.

41 | P a g e
 11

After double-checking Joel’s file for his address, I

lock my office and head down the passage way to the exit
nearest my car. A lone figure in the hallway greets me,
‘Good afternoon, Mr. Carelli.’ The janitor, Mr.
Whitestone has probably been working here since the
school’s inception, twenty-two years ago. Nothing gets
past his aged, but alert gaze. His attention to detail in
keeping these buildings clean, is only surpassed by his
old-school manners and respect. For this sexagenarian,
few things are as important as cleanliness and respect. By
no stretch of the imagination should he be close retiring.
His awareness is second to none and if I hadn’t known
better, I could have sworn he had a first rate education.
‘Good afternoon, Mr. Whitestone, the passage
looks exquisite, as always, thank you.’
‘Thank you, Sir. Have a good afternoon.’
‘Thank you, Mr Whitestone, you too. Don’t stay
too late, it’ll all still be here, in the morning.’
‘Ha! But I might not, Sir, then, who’ll clean it?’
He replies with a wicked sense of humour.

En route home, I have to take a serious detour in

order to drive through Autumn Valley. Aptly named, this
suburb seems not to have had spring or summer for many
a year. What once was the up-and-coming
neighbourhood, beaming with young families and newly

42 | P a g e
built homes, this was the area to live and announce it, as
well. In the late seventies and early eighties, it could just
as easily have been called Spring Valley or Sunshine
Town. Not anymore. The streets have quietened down.
Once newly painted homes are still awaiting their second
or third coats of paint. Untrimmed lawns now rule the
once pristine gardens. Brushes now rule the peeling,
partly broken picket fences. Few cars are seen in front of
garages and when they are, they haven’t moved in quite
some time. On a street corner I notice two children, a boy
and a girl, not old enough for school, playing with what
could be some tins and a brick. They glance up for a
moment as my trusty German sedan slowly cruises by.
My search for University Street is short lived as I
travel along State Road, seemingly the main street of the
area. The two roads cross at an intersection of a set of
defective traffic lights. Turning left and slowly coasting
down Joel’s street, a retired grandpa working in the
garden with a sun hat stops what he does to observe the
stranger and gives a courteous nod of his grey head. He
keeps a steady eye on my car as I pass by.

Number twenty-three. That’s the number my eyes

are focused on finding. A difficult task, given that many
homes don’t have numbers anymore and some only have
one digit left hanging on a dated, rusty post box. It has to
be on the right hand side, where the other uneven
numbered houses are. Thirty-three…twenty-nine…

43 | P a g e
 A slow, careful halt brings my car to a small, rusty
iron gate, leading into an unkept, dry garden. The pathway
leading up to the old fashioned beige home with its brick-
red tiled roof, also has some tiles missing, hardly
noticeable amid the dry, overgrown grass and weeds.
Again, I hear my own heartbeat. Seated in my car
I collect my thoughts, take hold of my file and a pen, just
in case. The file’s purpose is more about looking official
than truly needing its contents. It takes a minute to
examine the home. It all seems quiet, no movement. The
lazy afternoon autumn sunshine makes the moment
surreal. The comfort of the car and the wonderful sunshine
onto my lap and chest keeps me seated for a while longer.
Only the slightest movement of a curtain draws my
attention, no wind to speak of.

The creaky, iron gate doesn’t close properly. A

short walk to the covered veranda with its brick-red
painted concrete floor, sees a cat scurrying into a nearby
shrub. The door knocker works perfectly. If anyone is
home, they would have heard the announcement.
Standing here makes me painfully aware of my own
presence. Even I notice how uncomfortable I feel. The
sound of footsteps coming closer inside the house is a
relief. Through the curtain, next to the door, a dirty,
nervous looking face appears. ‘Hi, Sir.’
‘Hi, Joel. Is, is your mom home?’

44 | P a g e
 ‘No, Sir. She’ll be back later. I think she went to
the shop.’
‘It’s okay, Joel. I just wanted to see if you were
okay. You haven’t been to school. Are you okay?’
His face disappears from the window, then the
door opens, slowly. Barefoot, with black sports shorts and
a navy-blue Transformers t-shirt, ‘I’m okay, Sir, thank
you. Do you want to come inside?’
‘No, no thanks, Joel. I just wanted to pop by and
see if you were okay. You’ve been missing quite a bit of
school and I’m getting concerned.’
‘Oh. Yes, I know…’
‘When are you coming back to school? You can’t
actually stay away much longer, Joel. It’s against
regulations.’
‘I know, it’s, it’s just not easy, Sir.’
‘I underst…’
‘Can I help you?’ Joel’s mom arrives as if from
nowhere. I spin around as she comes scurrying up the
pathway. A cigarette in her right hand and a packet of
groceries in the other.
‘Hi, ma’am. I’m Mr. Carelli. I’m the school
psychologist at Joel’s school. You left…’
‘Oh, yes. I remember. What do you want?’ Her
abruptness could easily be mistaken for rudeness if one
hadn’t have had previous experience in dealing with
parents from this neighbourhood.

45 | P a g e
 ‘I need to check up on Joel, Ma’am. I’m concerned
that he’s missing too much school and we couldn’t get a
hold of you on the phone.’
‘It’s cut. The line, I mean, it’s cut or there’s a
problem with the connection.’ She looks down and then
up again, quickly. ‘He doesn’t want to go. I keep telling
him to go, he refuses. Can’t do anything.’ She shuffles
past me, into the house and disappears to the left before
reappearing, ‘You talk to him, maybe he’ll listen to you.’
She takes a drag from her almost finished cigarette and
disappears, again. Okay.
With my attention returning to the boy, ‘Joel, you
really need to come to school, so we can start helping you
deal with all of this, I mean, with what happened at school
and to get you up to speed with your school work,
otherwise, you might have to repeat the year.’ I have his
attention.
‘Oh, okay, Sir. I didn’t know…’
‘Yes, Joel. I checked your grades, it’s not bad, but
if you miss any more classes, it might become a problem.’
I lie, he won’t be held back. A traumatic experience like
this would be used to help a child advance to the next
grade. Very seldom will a traumatic experience be used
against a student to add to his demise. But, he doesn’t
know.

46 | P a g e
 12

Thursday morning. The sun is shining and there is no cold

breeze in the air. As far as autumn goes, this is a beautiful
day. It’s been some time since I’ve had the strength to go
for an early morning run, but today was perfect for it. My
thoughts are clear, my soul at rest.

Three files are on my desk. Peter, Robert and Gregan.

Deceased.

In my sessions with teachers and students, alike, these

three seem to have been friends. They were, by all
accounts, troublemakers. Not many good things were said
of them by the students, mostly that they were mocked
and embarrassed by these boys. The trouble they caused
was hurtful but not severe enough to have warranted
serious repercussions. No physical harm was ever done,
as far as I gather. However, they do seem to have been
instilling some level of fear amongst children younger
than them, especially other boys. Nothing they did was
truly out of the ordinary.

Gregan was clearly the leader of this small posse. In

typical fashion, he was taller than his peers, also,
according to some of the girls, a good looking boy who
enjoyed strutting when he got the opportunity. It seems
that Peter and Robert mostly followed him in his

47 | P a g e
rebellious streaks. Robert seem to have been an intelligent
boy who was in need of an older brother figure in his life,
hence the fascination with Gregan who acted as their
protector who in turn required their loyalty.

I have a 10:15 appointment with Jaden, today. She left in

a hurry, troubled after our last session. There were some
unanswered questions I have to follow up with her. After
making some notes in Joel’s file regarding yesterday’s
home visit, I quickly scan Jaden’s file, again. Nothing
stands out in particular, except that I did make a note last
year, regarding her friendship with Joel. They seemed to
have had some connection stretching back some time. I
need to follow up that aspect, carefully.

Her knock is quiet, as always. Jaden is one of those girls,

who, if she was born into different circumstances, would
have been discovered by some photographer or model
agency. Her dark berry coloured hair, freckled face and
modest demeanour, however, makes her an ideal target for
girls her own age. Not having grown into herself, yet, this
tomboy-ish teen struggles with finding herself and
establishing a circle of friends she can trust. In my years
dealing with teenage girls, I know enough to recognise the
multi-layered, subtle sarcasms and wounding slurs aimed
at each other. She deals with it well enough, although I
have to keep myself from getting involved. Standing in

48 | P a g e
for some of the students, trying to be their protector, only
worsens the situation.

‘Hi, Jaden, sit, please.’ I always look forward to

our sessions, she is one of the students to whom it feels, I
make a difference.
‘Hi, Sir, thanks.’ She very seldom looks up and
makes eye contact, if she does, it’s always followed by a
swift downward glance and crouching posture, her hands
nervously folded in her lap.
‘Jaden, last time you were here for your session,
you asked me if I had spoken with Joel, do you
remember?’
‘Um, yes, Sir.’ Her shoulders tense up and she
looks toward the door, as if trying to find an escape route.
‘Why? I mean, why did you ask me that?’
‘I don’t know, Sir.’
‘There must have been a reason, Jaden. We’ve
done enough sessions for me to know when you have
something to say and you know me well enough to trust
me. You know that our conversations are privileged,
meaning that anything we discuss remains between us,
unless someone’s life is in danger.’
‘Yes, I know, Sir. I’m just not sure if I’d get into
trouble, or, if someone else would…’
‘Well, if there’s anything you need to tell me, you
can, you have good judgement, I trust you.’ There’s a
level of manipulation with my kind of work which I feel

49 | P a g e
uncomfortable with, however, it becomes necessary from
time to time to incorporate in order to reach a next point
in a conversation. She breathes deep, ‘Sir, it’s Joel. You
know that we are friends, well, kind of.’
‘I remember you mentioned him, sometime ago.’
‘A couple of weeks back, before everything, he
was messaging me, and we chat on our phones, over the
weekends.’ Her shoulders are slightly less tense. ‘He told
me that someone was hurting him, bullying him. He didn’t
say much, but it seemed that he was having a hard time.’
‘How did you reply to his message?’
‘I said maybe he should speak to his mom or a
teacher. But, he said that it wouldn’t solve anything, no-
one would believe him. I think he did tell his mom, but I
don’t know if that helped.’
‘Do you know if he spoke to any of the teachers?’
‘He said he spoke to a teacher, but he didn’t want
to say who it was.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know, he just didn’t want to say. And then,
after a while when I asked him how he was coping, he said
that everything was better and that it was sorted out. He
didn’t want to talk about it, anymore.’
‘Thanks, Jaden. Now, tell me, how are you doing,
are you coping?’

50 | P a g e
The session ended with her leaving my office happier than
when she was, entering. One of my short term goals,
achieved.

‘Kathy, could you please check if Joel Davids is at

school, today?’
‘Sure, Mr. Carelli, just give me a minute…yes, he
is here. I asked his homeroom teacher, Mrs Amargo.’
‘Thanks, Kathy’ I wait for the short beep to make
sure our voice intercom system is switched off from here
side.

The day drags on slowly until one o’ clock, the first

available time that Mrs Amargo is able to see me, between
two of her lessons. The forty-something year old spinster
enters without knocking. She is a beautiful woman. With
a classic, fifties-movies kind of look, some would whisper
she reminds them of Audrey Hepburn, the way she carries
herself. One almost feels uncomfortable in her presence,
at first.
I stand up as she enters, ‘Good morning, Ms
Amargo, please, come in, um, have a seat, please. Thank
you for coming.’ I am acutely aware of my own word
bungling as I’m caught off-guard by her entry, shifting
around some files and papers on my desk, attempting a
tidying up effort which only make me appear more
unprepared.

51 | P a g e
 ‘Good morning, Mr Carelli.’ Her delicate smile
and deep, dark eyes draws me in, for a moment.
‘Good morning, Ms Amargo. Oh, sorry. Um,
thanks for coming around.’
‘It’s fine, how can I help you?’
‘Oh, yes. It’s about Joel. He’s in your homeroom
class, right?’ A simple, subtle nd of hear head confirms
the already known fact.
‘I just need to ask you some questions about him,
get some information about the boy. Is there anything you
can tell me about him which isn’t in his file? I’m trying
assess his situation and learning more about him, you
know.’
She looks down for a split second, ‘He seems to
be a troubled young man, he never knew his father, as far
as I can gather. They have it difficult at home, his mother
and him.’
‘Yes, I understand. But, is there anything about
him that you could tell me, about his personality, his
habits in class, his interactions with other students which
seem out of the ordinary?’
‘Mr Carelli, with all due respect, I try not to get
involved with the students on a personal level or pry into
their personal lives. The boy hasn’t been a particular
problem as far as I have noticed. He never caused trouble
in my class. I do believe, however, he was hassled by…the
other boys.’ The hint of sadness in her eyes forces her

52 | P a g e
gaze downwards. This appointment seems to be a waste
of precious time.
‘Ok, thank you very much, Ms Amargo. I won’t
take up any more of your time, thank you for coming.’ She
rises from the chair so gracefully, almost soundless, it
makes me wonder if I’d been using chairs wrong for all
these years. Opening the door to exit, her head bowed
down, she pauses and hesitantly turns her head back to
me, her eyes making deep contact with mine, ‘He did
spend time with Mr Johnson, after school, more than once,
you know that?’ I hardly notice her leaving.

53 | P a g e
 13

Two weeks have passed. For the most part, they were the
two most unsettling weeks. Life, however, has a way of
carrying on. This past weekend brought an unexpected
surprise. The possibility of a new friendship, maybe more.
The Beach seems to have become a surprisingly active
role player, in my otherwise straightforward life.

Unable to focus on my work, I take a walk around the

school grounds, with an early cup of hot, freshly brewed
java. It might help me regain focus, away from the
weekend, back to this puzzle.

As I mull the elements of this mystery, the image at the

centre of it all becomes clearer. My interviews with
teachers and students, alike are pointing in one direction.
The season is turning, this morning has a hint of winter. I
can see my breath as I stroll slowly along the grounds,
trying to avoid the dewy grass patches. A friendly wave
and greet from Mr Whitestone, across the sports field
makes me wonder about his past. An out-of-place piece in
this puzzle, it seems.
After finishing my cup of brewed coffee, which I
admittedly hide from the other staff, my eyes can’t help
but drift towards the sport department’s office. The
thought of past social calls, between classes, having a
quick talk and catching up, brings back good feelings.

54 | P a g e
 The walk across doesn’t take long. At first glance,
everything is quiet, even after I knock, no response or
sound. As I turn to leave, the office door opens.
‘Oh, hi. It’s you.’ Instantaneously, the good
feelings leave as the door is opened.
‘Yes, it’s me. Do you have a moment?’
‘Not long, I have a class in a couple of minutes,’
he mutters, closing the door behind him.
‘Sure. I was just wondering, Joel, was there
anything else you might have remembered? The thing
with him and the other boys, I’m not really getting
anywhere with it. I was hoping you could shed some more
light or just give me more.’ His questioning stare is
unfamiliar. ‘Only if there’s something else you
remembered in the meantime.’
‘No, Jake, Jacob. I’ll tell you if there’s anything
else. Look, the boy came from a difficult situation, with
his mom and dad, I think you know those details. He
doesn’t have it easy. I try to help where I can. But, no,
there’s nothing apart from that, the other boys were just
being boys. He talks to e from time to time about stuff, I
don’t want to abuse that.’
‘Thanks, okay, I understand, Ryan. Well, have a
good day.’

My thoughts are refocused, mission accomplished.

55 | P a g e
The passage way leading back to my office has taken on
a complete, new meaning. How long will I walk down this
corridor without thinking of that day, should I take a
detour? This way is the closest to my office, but I’ve
successfully been avoiding passing that classroom for two
weeks, now. I will have to face it sooner or later.
Passing the room feels like an eternity, like
walking in slow motion. I try not to look, but my eyes are
drawn to the window in the door leading into the class.
For a split second I catch a glimpse of the far side, where
Robert and Gregan where lying, facing each other.
Thankful that there are students and a teacher inside, I
walk on.
Turning the corner, leading to my office, still deep
in thought, the collision with someone jolts me out of my
mind world.
‘Oh, sorry!’ I help the poor boy up from the
ground, ‘You okay?’
‘Sorry, Sir, I didn’t look.’ It’s Joel, I’m taken
aback for a second.
‘No, it’s ok, neither was I. Oh, it’s you, good to
see you! I’m glad you’re back at school.’
‘Thanks, Sir. I just went to the toilet.’
‘Okay. Listen, I want you to come around to my
office. I’d like to talk to you some more. See if you can
come around twelve o’clock, okay?’
‘Okay, Sir, I’ll ask my teacher if it’s okay.’

56 | P a g e
 ‘Just tell your teacher you have to come see me,
they know…’ There is an arrangement amongst the staff
regarding the students who have appointments with me.
Often they are only too happy to let those kids leave their
classes.

An assertive knock at the door is enough to almost startle

me.
‘Hi, Sir. Can I come in?’ His head appears around
the door, with a wry smile. Is face, clean for once.
‘Yes, of course, Joel, come on in. Did you excuse
yourself from class?’
‘Yes, Sir.’ He seems much more relaxed.
‘You seem to be feeling better, Joel?’ To be sure,
I’m quite intrigued by his happy demeanour. Only a few
days ago, at his house, he was still visibly shaken.
‘I do, after you talked with me, coming around to
my house, that helped me a lot, thank you, Sir.’
‘Good, I’m happy to hear. How is your mom
doing?’
‘She’s okay, I suppose. She has some difficult
days. But it’s been better, lately.’
‘Joel, I want to ask you something, but if you feel
uncomfortable talking about it, please tell me, then we
don’t need to discuss it, okay?’ The issue with his absent
father needs to be addressed.
‘Okay, Sir.’

57 | P a g e
 ‘Joel, your father, he doesn’t live with you. In your
file it only says that he is absent. Do you want to talk about
him, what happened, where he is?’
‘It’s okay, Sir. I don’t mind. I don’t really know
him. My mom says he left us when I was about four years
old. I remember a little bit. We have some pictures of him,
so, I know what he looks like, or what he used to look like.
We don’t know where he is. But, it’s okay.’
‘So, he doesn’t come around to visit?’
‘No, Sir. I haven’t seen him since he left. My mom
doesn’t like talking about him. She gets annoyed when I
ask her questions about him, so I stopped asking.’
‘I see. So, it’s only you and you mom, at home?’
‘Mmm, mostly. She has a boyfriend. He stays over
some times. Not a lot, just over weekends, sometimes.
But, he’s okay. Oh, and my Grampa and Nan lives around
the corner from us. I visit them, a lot.’
‘Joel, I know this is difficult, but, do you
remember anything about that day, two weeks ago? I
understand it must be very hard for you, but if you can
remember anything about that day, it would really help us
understand what happened. No one else has been able to
give us any helpful information about what happened.’
‘No one?’ He seems surprised at that.
‘No, why? Do you think anyone should know
anything?’ An interesting turn.
‘No, no, Sir. Those boys, Sir, they weren’t
friendly. I mean, Gregan and those other two. I’m not

58 | P a g e
happy about what happened, that they died, I mean, but,
they actually hurt some of the other kids. But, nobody
wanted to talk about it.’
‘Why? Why didn’t anybody want to talk about it?’
‘They promised that they would hurt us, even
more, if we told on them.’ I tread carefully.
‘Joel, which other kids did they hurt? You said
they hurt some other kids, too. Who were they?’
‘We don’t really talk about, Sir. If no one else
mentioned it, I probably shouldn’t, either. But…but, I did,
I mean, I did tell…never mind.’
‘What, who did you tell, Joel?’ If he tells me he
spoke to Ryan, we can talk about their conversations. As
it stands, he put his trust in him and telling Joel that I
know, would break his trust in Ryan. That won’t be good.
‘Sir, I think I need to go. I don’t want to miss too
much classes, I’m already behind in my work, but, thanks
for the talk, Sir. It really helps me, a lot. Bye!’ The
abruptness of him finishing our session shouldn’t come as
a surprise. Maybe I pushed too hard.

59 | P a g e
 14

Three weeks of life passing by beyond that day tends to

put things in perspective. It is said that time heals all
wounds. This is true but some scars remain forever. As
much as we want to keep a tight grip on past hurts, we are
forced to get on with living life. Life plays its part in
clouding past events with new ones, both good and bad.
The past three weeks have seen our society reel in
devastation. The stages of grief seem to be clearer in a
collective situation. People help each other, or they drown
each other. A tangible sense of depression seems to brood
over the school these past few days. Laughter has been
visibly absent from the school’s hallways and playground.
Denial and anger is mostly dealt with and some are still
clinging to a semblance of bargaining with God. Mostly,
though, people are dealing with their collective and
individual sadness.

Evenings, alone in my apartment have been a struggle, a

wrestling with the demons of my past, especially, lately.
Living alone has its perks but there are also traps to
negotiate. It isn’t for everyone, I still haven’t concluded if
the single lifestyle is a fitting coat. However, we tend to
find comfort in the most unexpected elements of our lives.

This apartment was one such surprise. Roughly nine years

ago, when the school’s deputy headmaster suddenly

60 | P a g e
passed, his wife thought it wise to sell their home and use
the takings to travel the world, since life passes us so
swiftly. Her and Jonathan were saving up to travel the
world upon retirement, alas, the angel of death had the last
say and Rose wasn’t about to be outdone, as well.
Nevertheless, the hurried sale of the special abode landed
in my lap at exactly the right moment. Over time, I’ve
been able to refurbish my quarters to the dream pad I’d
always imagined.
With its walnut wooden floors and trendy retro
furniture, darkened windows, reaching from the extended
ceiling, this is literally my safe space. To call it a man cave
would be a disservice to this two-bedroom haven, nestled
in an exquisite, yet not-too-big, Spanish-style security
village on the first floor.
Sprawled out on the pièce-de-résistance in my
open-plan lounge, a custom designed, extra deep corner
sofa with its chocolate coloured, microfiber covering, I
allow myself to escape the reality of the past weeks. In the
background, some of the latest news commentary seems
to be the kind of white noise that calms my mind and
permits me to descend into what feels like a pond of
warm, golden honey for an hour or two.

The vibration of a message on my phone draws me out of

a world which never seem to keep its grip on me.
Intuitively, my hand stretches out towards the device,
without opening my eyes.

61 | P a g e
The text message is from an unidentified number, I hate
those.
-‘is this mister carelli?’
-‘Yes. Who is this?’
No reply from the number. No matter. I am awake,
so might as well catch up on some news. Ever since a
couple of years ago, the rumblings of politics have started
drawing my attention. The intricacies and nuances of
political rivals, the blatant misinformation, deceit and
backstabbing makes for intensely interesting
entertainment. No producer or director could match the
raw savagery of politicians. For a student of the human
psyche, following the dog-eat-dog world of politics and
the different role players, is an absolute, never ending
feast for one’s appetite of personality analyses.
As so often is the case, I find myself still stretched
out in front of the tube, well past midnight, when another
device vibration draws my attention.
-‘hi sir’
-‘If you don’t identify yourself, I will block this
number.’ Negotiating online traffic has taught me to
become decisive with unidentified texts and calls.
Whoever this is, better get to the point.
-‘i am sorry sir. Its Darren. Robert’s younger
brother.’ My body grows cold as I sit up straight.
-‘Robert who?’

62 | P a g e
 -‘Hilton. Robert Hilton, who died, sir.’ So many
thoughts run through my head at once. Where did he get
my number? How does he know me? Is he also in our
school? Is he younger or older than Robert? Why is he
texting me, especially this time of night?
-‘Ok. It is quite late, what can I help you with,
Darren?’
-‘im sorry, sir. I wanted to talk to you. But im sorry
to bother.’
-‘No, it’s fine, don’t worry.’
-‘I would like to know if I can come to the school
to talk to you. Im still in the primary school.’
-‘How old are you, Darren?’
-‘im 13’
-‘Ok. Let’s not text. If you want to, see if you can
come around to the school and ask at reception for me,
okay? Whenever you want is fine.’
-‘thanx, sir. Gd night’
-‘Good night, Darren.’

63 | P a g e
 15

As far as the human gossiping production line goes,

tragedy is almost always the highest priority. By now, all
theories, ideas, notions and guesses have been whispered
and shared in the hallways. Everyone has an opinion, yet
the facts remain sparse. Even the police department has
lately been less active with their communication towards
the school staff. They have done their due diligence and
interviewed all relevant staff, students and parents
involved in this school-killing calamity. Eventually, all
leads seem to have grown cold, conjecture seems to be the
best word to describe any ideas as to the why and who
questions.
With the only living survivor still claiming not to
remember anything about what happened, we are nowhere
closer to finding answers and along with that, peace.
Parents, friends and staff are dealing with the sense of loss
without having been given reasons. No point of reference
to start and end the process. A loss with unanswered
questions makes the process of bereavement seem like an
eternity.

After the unexpected texts, a couple of nights back, I’ve

been troubled and have fallen back into the arms of my
old friend, insomnia. He’s been a constant wingman for
many years, now. So, I’ve put some safeguards in place;

64 | P a g e
go for an early morning run, get ready early then go to the
office and start my work.

The silence and darkness is eerie, this early on the school

grounds. With winter looming, it will still be roughly
another hour before dawn. But, inside, a sense of
belonging and comfort is overwhelming, alone in my
office with my daily cup of warm comfort. A silent
companion, that’s an apt description for my workspace,
this tired old public school office. In times of need it has
become a space of safety, acceptance and resolution to
many a patient but, most often, to its bearer. The files and
notes contained in a grey, metal cabinet, accumulated over
years is enough to write many tragic stories, some with
acceptable endings and others with hard to understand
endings. Life is no fairy tale.

‘Sir!’ The faint call takes a couple of seconds to

register, pushing aside my own thoughts. It must be from
outside, all entrances to the school is still locked. Opening
my window, I see a dim figure underneath a streetlight,
not far from my office, waving its arms in my direction.
‘Yes?’ I hate shouting in general, doing it this
early in the morning in a housed suburb irks me even
more. ‘Who are you?’
‘It’s Darren, Sir! Can I come in, you said I can talk
to you any time!’ Damn kid. I didn’t mean ANY time.

65 | P a g e
 ‘Okay, go around to the small gate on your left,
I’ll come open up!’

We’re both shivering as we get back to my office. It’s a

cold morning outside, indeed. Fortunately, I have a small
heater which has already done its job heating my office,
since I arrived, much earlier.
‘Sit down, Darren. Wow. Why are you up so early
and walking around?’
‘I wanted to talk to you. My primary school is on
the way and I thought maybe you are at school, already.’
‘Do your parents know that you’re out this early?
They’ll be worried.’
‘No, they don’t know, Sir. I don’t think they’ll
even notice.’
‘Do you want some coffee, I’ve got a spare cup.’
‘Um, yes, thank you, Sir.’ As I take the short walk
to the staff room, it gives me time to order my thoughts
and think about these strange turn of events. Back in the
office, taking out a writing pad helps me get into a more
work-like mode.

‘You okay, Darren? I’m glad you wanted to come

and talk to me, you’re welcome, but I really think you
should tell your parents, before you leave home. And, tell
them that you’ve come to see me, it’s important.’
‘Okay, Sir, I will. I’m sorry. I wanted to talk to
you. When you came to our house to speak to my parents

66 | P a g e
about Robert, I was there, but I had to sit in my room. My
parents said they didn’t want me bothering them while
you were there.’
‘Okay, but how do you know who I am?’
‘I could hear everything you talked about, that day
and when you left I could see you through my window.
My room is right next to the front door.’
‘Right. And my phone number, how did you get
that?’
‘A friend, in this school, she gave it to me.’ I sit
up, who would have my number?
‘Who?’
‘I promised I won’t tell, Sir. She would…I mean,
I promised I won’t tell who it was. But I really wanted to
talk to you, about Robert.’ This boy is clever, changing
the topic without skipping a beat. I’ll play along.
‘You have to give me your word not to give my
number to anyone, right? Or use it for prank calls. And,
no unnecessary texting, please.’
‘Okay, I promise.’ I don’t believe him. This
blonde haired lad is much more street-wise than he likes
to expose.
‘So, Darren, what did you want to talk to me
about?’ I push the file, notepad and pen to one side. He
notices that and seems relieved. I’ll make my notes
afterwards.

67 | P a g e
 ‘It’s about Robert. Sir, before, you know, about
what happened, before it all happened, he was starting to
change.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, Sir, he was actually quite clever, with his
school work, I mean. I used to tease him that he was a
nerd, even though he was older than me, ‘cause he always
did the right thing. But, then he became friends with that
other boy, Greg, Gregan.’
‘In what way did he change, Darren?’
‘Mostly, he changed in the way he acted towards
me. He used to be kind and helped me a lot. But, lately, I
mean, before, he started being more hurtful.’
‘In what way?’
‘He said things, like, I was gay and that I’m
useless. He also started hitting me, not very hard, but hard
enough to hurt.’
‘And how did you react?’
‘At first I thought he was just joking, so I just
laughed, but then he carried on and it became so bad that
we hardly spoke to each other, anymore. I just tried to
avoid him, as much as possible. And it’s not true, Sir, I’m
not gay. I have a girlfriend and I’m not useless.’ Tears
started to well up in his eyes.
‘Okay, Darren. I believe you. Do you miss your
brother?’
‘A lot, Sir…’ As he dropped is head, at first there
was no sound, then the tears and sobs started

68 | P a g e
simultaneously, his shoulders jerking up as he gasped for
breath in between his loud, uncontrollable moans of
despair. These moments of clarity is difficult to handle,
it’s heart-wrenching. A part of me wants to reach out and
console the students, when they’re in this kind of despair.
But, the weary part of my brain kicks in and let them
journey through this process, allowing their mind and
body to deal with the heart ache in their own way.
‘Tae you time. If you want to, you there’s a basin
in my bathroom. You can wash your face and drink some
water.’ He simply nods before getting up and disappears
into my bathroom for a minute or two and then seats
himself, again.
‘I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t mean to…’
‘No need to apologise, Darren. Are you feeling
okay?’
‘Yes, thank you. Sir, there was something else I
wanted to tell you. But, I don’t want my parents to
know…’
‘I understand.’
‘Robert, I think, started to smoke. I think it was
weed, Sir.’ He seems more focused.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, actually, I know, because he told me that he
smoked once with Gregan and then asked if I want to join
them. I said no.’ The sun already started making its
appearance and by now, the usual sounds of staff arriving
and opening up classrooms, children starting to move

69 | P a g e
along the hallway and the office ladies going about their
business, was apparent.
‘Darren. Looking at the time, I think you probably
need to get going. It was good to talk to you and I’d like
to speak to you some more, if you want to, but, you also
need to get to school. You understand?’ My morning staff
meeting was about to begin.
‘I do, Sir. Thank you. I’ll come round again, if I
can.’
‘Good, I’ll give your parents a call.’

70 | P a g e
 16

There are many consistent things in life, but none as much

as the slow ticking hand of the clock. After several weeks
of prodding, investigating and therapy sessions, we are no
closer to discovering what truly happened on that fateful
Tuesday. All possible leads have run dry. Promising
discussions and strange revelations have turned to dust.
According to Joel’s doctor, he should have started
remembering at least glimpses of the events. He claims
otherwise.

My earliest session this morning is with Jaden. As always

I’m looking forward to the time with her as she seems to
be making progress. Her situation with her parents are
somewhat subdued ever since that day. It’s almost as if
the tragic events of that day has been a silent commentary
on the lives of many families, forcing them, us, to take
stock of our lives and mend what is possible to be mended.
Who knows, a silver lining, maybe too soon to come to
that conclusion, just yet.

Her entry into my office is, as always, quiet and gentle.

Staring downward with only a quick upward glance as she
finds her seat on the old, wooden public school chair
opposite my desk, she slides carefully in without much
fuss. I suppose if I ever get around to writing that book
I’ve been meaning to, her character would be one of the

71 | P a g e
drawn back Elven fairy, quiet and gentle, yet fiercely
dangerous when her closest one are threatened.
‘Hi, Jaden. How are you?’
‘I’m good, thank you, Sir.’ She answers with her
usual shy smile, seemingly thankful that someone shows
some interest in her. ‘Sir, have you found out anything
about what happened that day, with Joel and the other
boys, I mean.’
‘No, unfortunately not, Jaden. It remains a
mystery.’
‘Can I show you something on my phone, Sir? It
might be nothing, but I thought it might be important for
you to see. It’s a conversation between myself and Joel.
Remember I told you that we were friends, kind of. Well,
we’ve been talking quite a bit, lately and I don’t want him
not to trust me, but I’m worried about him, Sir.’
‘Are you sure you want me to have a look? It’s a
highly personal thing, reading texts on someone else’s
phone, Jaden.’
‘It’s okay, Sir, I want you to read it. I’m really
worried about him.’
‘Let me see…’

-‘hey j. hw u doing?’
-‘cool u’
-‘same, cept, cant sleep’
-‘whts the mtr’
-‘bad dreams, nightmrs’

72 | P a g e
 -‘wht about?’
-‘death’
-‘that’s horbil. Tell me more’
-‘its bout THAT day. In m dream im held dwn by
smone nd I cnt breathe, thn I wake up’
-‘I cnt even imagine how bad tht mst be. Who holds
you dwn?’
-‘nt sure, maybe G, but u knw hw dreams are, I cn
never remmbr everthng whn I wake up. Thn I strggle 2
breathe even aftr waking.’
-‘im sry, J’
-‘its ok, Jdn, ill surviv I thnk ;-)’

‘Thanks for showing me this, Jaden.’ Handing her

phone back across the desk, her hands trembling slightly
as she takes hold of the device.
‘Sir, do you think he’s okay?’ This time, she looks
up and keeps her eyes locked on mine, waiting for an
answer.
‘He seems to be doing fine, but I’m glad you
showed me this. We have a session coming up, tomorrow.
In the meantime, let me know if he doesn’t seem fine. It’s
good that he has caring friends. You’re a good friend to
him, Jaden. Can I ask you something else? Robert, you
know, one of the boys which, you know…he has a
younger brother, Darren, I think, is his name. He’s not in
our school, he’s still in primary school. Do you know him,

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by any chance?’ A shot in the dark if there ever was such
a thing.
‘Oh, yes, I know him, Sir. He’s friends with Joel.
I know because Joel asked if he can join our chat group.
So, I know him mostly from texting him. Why do you ask,
Sir, is he in trouble?’
‘Oh, no, not at all, I was just wondering, that’s all.
Now, about you situation at home, how are things?’

The revelation about Joel and Darren being friends comes

as a surprise, to say the least. I wouldn’t have expected
them to be friends, given Robert’s connection with
Gregan and their apparent bullying towards Joel. A
strange twist, even more so since Joel didn’t mention it to
me.

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 17

‘Hi, Joel! When you have a couple of minutes,

please pop around to my office, I just need to chat to you
quickly.’
‘Oh, okay, Sir, I’ll try…’
‘Please, come around before you leave school,
today, okay?’
‘Okay.’
It’s a happy coincidence that I saw Joel running down the
hallway on my way to Ryan’s office. The boy seems to be
out in the passage way too often. I should speak to his
teachers about him leaving their classes this regularly.
Subconsciously, I think they want to pamper him and give
him the freedom he asks, but it might be that he
manipulates the situation, too. We’ll have to deal with it.

‘Hi, Ryan. Can I come in?’ The past year have

been uneasy between us and neither of us seem equipped
to deal with the fallout.
‘Uh, yeah, sure. Come on in.’ He seems friendly
enough, today.
‘Hi, I just wanted to pop by and see how you’ve
been keeping, you know…after everything. The look that
I receive hides more than it reveals. It’s been one of his
features ever since I can remember, the ultimate poker
face, at least, to me. Maybe it’s simply because of our past
that I prefer not to try and read into his expressions.

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Nevertheless, the look on his face could conceal utter
disdain or complete forgiveness.
‘No, I’m good, thanks. Just been super busy, as
you know. I’m sure you haven’t had it easy, either, with
all of the kids and the teachers with all of their…stuff. I’m
sure they’ve been bombarding you with their sad stories.
But, hell, if anyone can help them, it’s you, right?’
‘Not so sure about that, but, I try. Anyways, I just
came here to find out if Joel has been speaking to you,
since after the…event?’
‘Uh, yeah. He has, as a matter of fact. I think he
needs to unload, sometimes, you know. I’m not sure if he
feels he can speak to anyone else… oh, sorry, I didn’t
mean to…but, you know, kids are complicated, you know
that better than me.’ Talking as he moves about in his
office, seemingly busy, eventhough nothing actually gets
done, except his avoidance of eye contact.
‘Could I ask you, what about?’
‘Huh?’
‘What does he talk to you about?’
‘You know better, Jacob. The kids trust us. We
can’t go around spilling their s…their private
conversations with us. Anyway, no, I don’t feel
comfortable discussing his talks with you, besides, there’s
nothing to tell, really. Guess you’re going to have to find
out the hard way, “Extract the information from the
suspect, yourself.”’ His last remark forces a wry smile
from his mouth with a playful, mocking villainess look

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meant to lighten the almost always strained atmosphere
between us.
‘Gotcha, Le Chiffre…’ I feel silly having
reciprocated to his silly movie-reference style answer. At
least there was an attempt to ease the tension. ‘Yeah, sure.
I understand.’

Back in my office, the stack of files haven’t shrunk, they

only seem to shift from the top of one cabinet to my desk
and then back, again, changing order, every so often.
Shortly after the event, I put in a request for a temporary
assistant, at least for a month or two, to deal with the
fallout and obvious swamping load of paperwork I was
expecting as a consequence. And, as if by some miracle, I
was notified by the principal, this morning that I should
be expecting my new ‘recruit’ sometime during the day.

‘Hi, Mr Carelli?’
‘Oh, hi, yes! Can I help you…?’ The startling
greeting almost made me blush as I looked up with my
doorway blocked by a diminutive, female figure, the light
streaming into my office from behind her. Feeling like a
senior citizen, having to squint to make out the image,
clearly.
‘Hi,’ the figure became clearer as the youthful
woman stepped in with confidence, ‘I’m Jenny, Jennifer.’
Stretching out her right hand with her left hand
courteously holding onto her stretched out arm.

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 ‘Hi, Jenny…Jennifer. How can I help you?’ She
clearly isn’t a student although she couldn’t be much older
than the senior students, here. Dressed in a long suede-
like, cream coloured winter’s coat with four large, black
buttons running down the left side of the coat and a dark,
scarlet beret to cap off this unexpected surprise. Her high
heels and well-groomed hair with a perfect amount of
make-up makes me stand up straight from my chair as I
clumsily knock over my pen-holder, stretching out my
hand to greet her even more clumsily. Now I blush.
‘Um, I’m Jennifer Freude, your new assistant, we
were in contact via e-mail?’
‘Oh, yes, of course! How stupid of me, of course,
so sorry I didn’t recognise you.’ How could I.
Hiding her mouth behind her silky white hand she
chuckles softly, ‘No worries. I’m just glad I could come
in, at last. It’s been a struggle to get everything sorted out
with the department.’
‘Yes, I’m glad too…I mean, I have stacks of work
that I’m behind on and could use all the help I can get.
When can you start?’ The eagerness in my voice makes
me sound like a silly teenager.
‘Anytime, tomorrow morning, I guess, I hope.’
‘Perfect! Yeah, I’ll see you then. Great, looking
forward, be her around eight-ish, if you can.’
Still smiling and with a feint chuckle, she confirms
the next morning’s starting time before exiting my skimpy
office like a girl straight out of a fifties detective show.

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The unexpected guest, or rather, future assistant, has me
excited for all the right and I suppose some wrong reasons,
too. Pretty girl like her, I do hope she has the office skills
to match the look. My day is only halfway and already it’s
been quite eventful.

‘Hi, Sir.’
‘Oh, hi, Joel. Come in, sit. How are you?’ The boy
seems nervous, biting his fingernails. ‘No need to worry,
Joel, I just wanted to catch up with you. You missed our
last two sessions and I didn’t want to pressure you, but I
have to follow up and see how you’re doing.’
‘Oh, thanks, Sir.’ There is a noticeable show of
relief on his face.
‘So, how are you? Have you been coping okay,
back at school?’
‘Yes, thanks, Sir. Everything has been fine. The
teachers are kind and have been helping me catch up all
the work I missed.’
‘And your friends, the other students, how’ve they
been with you?’
‘Most of them have been okay, some have been, I
don’t know, funny…’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Um, kind of nasty, you know, gossiping and
looking at me funny, but, it’s okay, I can deal with it.’

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 ‘Why do you think they would be nasty? What are
they saying?’
‘Some kids call me KJ…’
‘KJ? What does that mean?’
‘I’ll show you,’ taking out his phone from his
trouser pocket, leaning back slightly to reach it with both
his hands. ‘Here, look at this, Sir. It’s a photo of the inside
of my locker door.’
‘ ”Killer Joe…KJ”, oh, I see. Do you know who
did it, Joel?’
‘No, Sir, I don’t. But, it’s okay, don’t worry about
it too much.’
‘Mmm. Anything else, is there anything else that’s
bothering you?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Joel, I’ve been noticing that you’re out of the
classroom quite often, why?’
‘Um, it’s quite embarrassing, but ever since that
day, I need to go to the toilet more often, you know, to
pee, Sir.’ His embarrassment is clear as he looks straight
down.
‘Oh, I get it. At least I know, now. Joel, something
else has come up. A boy named Darren, Robert’s younger
brother, do you know him?’ His startled look straight at
me comes as a surprise.
‘A little bit, we’ve known each other some time,
but we aren’t close friends, we just talk on the phone,
sometimes.’

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 ‘Right, no it’s fine, I was just wondering since he
mentioned to me that he knows you and he’s Robert’s
brother, I found it strange that you were friends. But, I
suppose he’s not his brother, right?’
‘Yeah. I mean, I can’t blame him for what his
brother did to me that day…’
‘What, what exactly did his brother do to you,
Joel? I don’t recall you telling me anything about what
Robert did. Do you remember something from that day,
Joel? Has your memory started coming back?’
‘No! I mean, no, Sir. I can’t remember anything.
Can I go to the toilet, please, I have to go…’ and without
a second’s pause he is up, out of the chair and down the
hallway, not to be seen the rest of that day, or the next.

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 18

As much as I hate it, I need to press into our last

conversation.

Joel’s evasion of me these last couple of weeks must mean

something. Maybe his mom could shed some light on
events surrounding his life, prior to the event, in
particular. Her extreme protectiveness of him is
understandable, but maybe she could help unlock some of
her son’s memory by jolting some past events.
Resentment of myself bubbles to the surface for
suspecting that Joel’s keeping some information from me,
but, as time passes, things are making less sense and more
questions arise.

Being summoned to the principal’s office for a meeting

remains unpleasant, even after many years of not being a
scholar.
Jack Mathis has been at the helm of this ship for
little over three years and has made incredible strides
towards improving the school environment. His way with
the parents, especially the more affluent ones have helped
raise funds to complete some previously unfinished
building projects. The new, state of the art IT-centre,
being one of them. The school foyer and admin area, also,
have been upgraded pretty stylishly.

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 ‘Hi, Kathy. Can I go in? We have a meeting,
remember?’
‘Oh, hi, Jacob. Have a seat, he’ll be with you in a
minute, he’s just on a call.’ I always speculate about that.
Whenever a secretary asks a visitor to ‘take a seat’, I have
to wonder, is the person behind the door really busy, or is
it a mini power play? It often becomes obvious when they
watch too much TV-dramas and get a kick out of trying to
get one over their visitor. Another tell-tale sign is how
they act when one enters their office…
‘You can go in, now, Jacob, he’s ready for you.’
‘Thanks.’
I still knock before entering, force of habit. ‘Good
morning, Mr Mathis.’
‘Hi, Jacob, please, come in! Have a seat.’ He stays
seated, leaning back in his brown leathered, high back
office chair, one of the first replacements he made after
taking over from our previous headmaster, John
McMaster.
‘Thanks.’ The seat opposite the dark haired, well-
groomed gentlemen is cold as I make myself as
comfortable as possible, leaning back and hands crossed
on my lap.
‘Thanks for coming, Jacob. I just wanted to get
some feedback on the um, the events of, you know, that
day. How has your interviews been going?’ Ding!
‘Sure, no problem. It’s been frustrating, to say the
least. Really, there are no concrete answers, nothing I’ve

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uncovered beyond what we know from what we’ve
known since the shooting and what we know from the
police report. Some teachers have spoken to me, mostly
about how they struggle to deal with their own fears and,
you know, their sadness, emotions. Same with the kids.
They have so many questions. Of course, a lot of
speculation and gossiping, but, nothing worth taking
seriously.’ Float like a butterfly.
‘Which teachers have come to see you?’ Jab.
‘Excuse me?’ Duck.
‘Which of the teachers have had sessions with
you, you know, spoken to you about what happened?’ Jab.
‘Well, Sir. Unfortunately, when it comes to the
staff, there is a strict confidentiality agreement, but, you
know that. I’m afraid I can’t discuss any of the staff or our
sessions with anyone, not even you, sorry.’ Jab.
‘I see. But, I simply mean, ‘Which of the staff did
you have sessions with. I don’t need to know the
details…’ Jab.
‘I’m sorry, Sir, even that, I can’t discuss that. It’s
all confidential.’ Jab, duck.
‘I get it. The boy, Joel, anything you could find out
from him?’ The tone of the discussion slowly changing.
‘Um, no, not much. He doesn’t seem to remember
much, actually, he doesn’t remember anything, according
to him. I've been trying really hard to help him remember,
but…’ Retreat.

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 ‘You have a new assistant, right?’ Looking
straight at me. Brace.
‘Yes? She came in this morning, she’s starting
tomorrow. Why do you ask?’ Jab.
‘So, you should have more time to get to the
bottom of this? I’m sorry to have to put you under
pressure, Jacob, but we need to get some answers, here.
The parents want answers, the education department is
turning up the heat, as well. I need to give these people
some feedback.’ Jab.
‘My job is to help, not pressure them into coming
up with answers. I’m not an interrogator.’ Punch.
The icy stare from the opposite the large, glass
covered mahogany desk, does more than its fair share of
intimidating.
‘Have you spoken to the kid’s mom?’ Jab.
‘Which kid?’ Duck, jab.
‘The boy, Joel. Have you spoken to his mom, yet?
Maybe she has some answers.’ Jab.
‘I’ve been around there, she didn’t really want to
talk, I didn’t push. I’ll be going around there, again, to see
if she can help. Maybe she feels better, now.’ Duck.
‘Let me know when you’ve seen her, give me
some feedback. Or, do the parents also have a
confidentiality agreement?’ Punch.
‘No, no, they don’t.’ Ugh!
‘Okay, well, let me know when there is some
progress, soon, if that’s fine with you.’ Stumbling back.

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 Still leaning back in his chair I realise I’ve given
up my stance, sitting on the edge of my chair, defending
for all I can. Damn!
‘Will do.’ Out for the count.

It always amazes me how quickly a day can turn. Here I

am, only a couple of hours later and I feel like quitting.
But, it’s not an option, only a feeling.
Thinking back on that meeting or rather sparring
match, I retreat to my corner, finding a safe space,
searching for a state of mind to reflect and assess the
damage. It’s not about who wins the battle, but who the
victor of the war is, in the end. His unspoken agenda;
teachers, students, Joel, parents, education department,
assistant, Joel’s mom. Quite impressive. He came into this
match prepared, knowing exactly where to strike and how
hard in order to bludgeon his opponent. Understood.

‘Mrs Davids?’
‘Hi, can I help’
‘Hi, Ma’am. It’s Jacob Carelli, from the school,
Joel’s school, I’m the school therapist. I was there some
weeks ago. I was just wondering if I can come around,
again, some time?’
‘I guess so, when? I’ll try to make sure Joel is here
when you come around.’

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 ‘Well, actually, Ma’am, I wanted to talk to you,
not Joel, if that’s okay? What about this afternoon? Would
that be okay?’
‘I work till late, I don’t think that could work…’
‘I honestly don’t mind coming in the evening, I
really need to speak with you, Mrs Davids, I won’t be
long, either.’ Silence.
‘Okay, I guess, come around after six, tonight.
Please don’t be late.’ Click.
‘Great, thank y…’ Sure.

The car clock reads 17:52. Sitting in my car, in the road

opposite the Davids’ home make me feel awkward. The
elderly man from down the road also seems to keep an eye
on me, making sure his gardening takes place close to the
fence, oh lord. The slight movement of a curtain inside
their what is the window to the lounge area could have
been a breeze or it could have been Joel or his mom
peeping out, but having knocked on their front door, once,
I decided it’s best to wait in the car until six instead of
standing around on their porch. So many curious
onlookers in the neighbourhood adds to my discomfort.

18:13. In the rear view mirror, two slender shapes come

walking hurriedly around the corner of the street. One,
slightly taller than the other, carrying shopping bags in
both their hands. Here goes.
‘Hi, Ma’am. Here, let me help.’

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 ‘Oh, okay, thanks…’
‘Only a pleasure. Sorry to be waiting outside your
home, I was early, didn’t want to upset your evening
routine. Hi, Joel.’
‘Hi, Sir.’ Only a slight glance from the teenager to
acknowledge me.
‘Come in, just put those anywhere, on the kitchen
floor is fine.’
‘Good thing the shop is close, right?’ My attempts
to lighten the obvious strained atmosphere fails miserably.
‘Yeah, good thing.’ The sarcasm drips freely.
‘Must I take the receipt to school, again, Ma?’
‘Yeah, um, don’t worry, I’ll…okay, yes, just do
the same as last week. Go to your room, now, Joel. Your
teacher and I need to talk. Let’s sit here, just take that
blanket of the chair.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Well, I really need to still get tonight’s supper
going. What can I do for you, Mr …’
‘Carelli, but, you can call me Jacob, if you want
to…okay, well, I really wanted to talk to you about Joel
and the time of the shooting. Unfortunately, we’re not
getting very far with unravelling the events of the day and
I was wondering if you had any information, anything at
all you can tell me about the days preceding, before the
event. How was Joel feeling? Was he upset about
anything? Did he mention anything to you? Was there

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anything or anybody troubling him that you might know
of? Anything at all that could help us?’
Her eyes avoid mine and looks sad as she takes a
deep drag and blows the smoke into the air away from me
for what seems like an eternity. Staring into nothingness,
her lips tight, start talking as if controlled by some
external force, with her only a vessel, carrying years’ hurt.
‘Mr Carelli, Jacob,’ her eyes now locking into mine, ‘I
have always done as much as I possibly knew how, to look
after my kid. Sure, he’s not perfect and I’m not the best
mom, no surprise there, but I do my best.’
‘Ma’am, I didn’t mean to imply that…’
‘Joel had been talking about some boys bullying
him. At school, you know, personally as well as sending
nasty texts on his phone. I don’t know quite what they did
or said, but, you know, kids are kids, I don’t like getting
involved in their business, besides, he was adamant he
could deal with it and didn’t want me to speak to, um, to
the school about it.’
‘So, you wanted to bring it under our attention? It
was that bad?’
‘Maybe if you teachers pay more attention to these
things, it could have been stopped before…I just mean,
more should be done by the school, parents can only do
so much.’
‘Ma’am, we can only do something when we
know about it. When students and parents don’t inform us
we seldom know that these things are happening.’

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 ‘J…Mr Mathis. I told him.’ The cigarette in her
hand glowing red at the tip as she drags deep, with eyes
looking into eternity.
‘Excuse me, Ma’am? Did you say that you told Mr
Mathis, the school principal, about it?’
‘Maybe, I can’t remember, maybe I mentioned
something to him in passing. Look, I need to get busy with
our supper. Thanks for coming by, we really need to get
busy, schoolwork and all.’ Standing up and ushering me
out with no choice in the matter.
‘We’ll be in touch…’
‘Okay, thanks, now, please go.’

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 CHARACTERS

1. Jacob Carelli – School psychologist

2. Ryan Johnson – PE teacher
3. Kathy – School secretary
4. Joel Davids – A gun massacre survivor
5. Gregan Black – A student, killed in a gun
massacre
6. Robert Hilton – A friend of Gregan, killed in gun
massacre
7. Peter Moses – A friend of Gregan, killed in gun
massacre
8. Jaden – A female student
9. Ms Amargo – Teacher
10. Mr Whitestone – Janitor
11. Jonathan and Rose – past deputy headmaster and
his wife
12. Darren – Robert’s younger brother
13. Jennifer Freude – Jacob’s new assistant
14. Jack Mathis – School principal
15. John McMaster – Previous school principal
16. Mrs Davids – Joel’s mother

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