The School
by M. W. Harris
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: None.
Description: The tragic past of an old school is resurrected.
_____________________________________________________________________
There is a silence. A silence that does not wish disturbed, where every noise is an intruder. A deep still hush, like the grave, although the silent moonlight whispers, ‘Don’t come here.’
‘If you must come here, tarry not – and if you must tarry, woe betide you,’ the silence, the stillness, should be warning enough.
It was once a school, but the people that had originally swarmed the area had left, along with the factories, the little shops and the small corner workshops. The school had been left by the demolition men, a sore and lonely tooth sticking from sore and ruined gums. Of architectural significance, apparently. Can’t destroy such a perfect gem. Truly typical of its period, apparently.
The people who do these things had crawled all over the building, delighted at original features, like the rusting railings and the entrances that said ‘Infants’ and ‘Juniors’. Great amusement they caused, amongst the young surveyors who followed the architects. The old school stood, isolated, wounded, violated by local roughs and toughs, silently waiting. Eventually builders came, built, and then went, and a blaze of publicity announced a new business park. Often this results in a long period of emptiness, further silence. Not this time. The time was right. The charm of the old school and nostalgia for good old buildings brought plenty of customers, and those customers saw success. It was as if beneficent spirits smiled.
Sally-Jo had always wanted to start that small business. She pursued loans, grants and business plans, she made prototypes, and sold them, both to friends and family and to local shops. Things were taking off, and more space was needed. The day came when she was shown around the Old School Business Park by the Centre Manager, Neil.
‘We have only these two sections left, one on either side of the building.’
She admired both, and both were shining in the sun on such a May morning. One had obviously been a classroom, and the other some sort of office. The office seemed small, claustrophobic, and stuffy. The classroom seemed light and cool in comparison, despite the sun blazing through the windows. The smell of newness, of paint, wood and carpet welcomed her. It would be lovely in cooler seasons, to have the sun when it shone, seldom enough in these western climes.
‘I think this would suit best,’ and Sally-Jo smiled at the Manager, noting his kind expression, and the depth of his brown eyes.
Within a week she had moved in. The room was neatly divided by shelves displaying the product range. On one side she put the wee dresses and sailor suits. She loved it when they were bought for smart weddings, or the rash of christenings there had been to meet late May, but she also loved the thought that some were bought just for the pleasure of the pretty fabrics and the comfortable fit. She was just finishing the other side with her first love, the rag dolls, when Neil knocked and slid in the door.
‘I thought you’d be busy, so I brought you a cuppa, hope you like tea.’
She reached for the offered mug, gulped, ‘Mmmm, just what I needed.’
‘So this is the famous stock, it’s great.’
‘Thanks. Because they’re handmade they’re all different.’
‘Almost makes you want kids, just to buy them something.’
‘No kids! Would have thought Mrs Neil would have something to say about that.’
‘Mrs Neil has never existed, nor Mr Neil’s partner either.’
Sally-Jo reminded herself not to seem too eager, and smiled. Maybe thirty-one was a little old for shenanigans, and these days she always seemed to be busy. Oh well.
Neil smiled an exit soon after, and Sally-Jo sang along to the radio as she settled the rest of her stock, brought in the sewing machines and her files, and last of all, the precious lap-top. She glanced at her watch, five o’clock already, and all she’d had was that cuppa. Hometime. She locked the door with care, feeling proud and excited at the prospect of getting to work properly tomorrow.
By the time she had the computer and kettle running next day, hooked up to the ’net and replied to new orders, she felt as if she had been there for years. When Neil’s anxious face appeared round the door she could offer him tea and digestives. As they sat, chatting and sipping, his gaze travelled round the room.
‘You’ve made this place really look good.’
‘Thanks,’ her reply was somewhat distracted, as she had just noticed something very out of place, a very small black finger print on a lace underskirt. Just the one, but how did it get there? She knew no children had been in the room, had been incredibly careful, and could not work out where that one small fingerprint came from.
‘What’s up?’ Neil had noticed her distraction.
‘Just a wee fingerprint, I’ll catch it later.’ The talk moved on, but the feeling of unease persisted for quite a while.
It was about a week later. Sally-Jo always knew how she left the displays. Things changed and moved as dolls and dresses sold and new ones were created, but she always rearranged the display, and when she had done that, she knew how things had been left. The daily tea break with Neil had become a ritual, and it was when he made his daily visit that she often found herself casting an eye over the displays, looking for new items to point out since he seemed so interested. She realised, as she looked that two dolls had changed places. She walked over to the shelf,
‘What’s up? They been disco dancing all night?’
‘Well, they’ve certainly been up to something, that’s not the way they were.’ Sally-Jo was firm, and rather curious. As she picked up the dolls she again saw a couple of tiny sooty finger prints on their costumes.
‘Look at this,’ Sally-Jo turned the dolls for Neil’s benefit, and as she did she seemed to smell coal dust and mould over the new paint and sunshine of the office. She looked at him, to see him shiver, then shrug.
‘Has anyone been in here?’
‘Well only Kathy, the cleaner, and she doesn’t do much except vacuum and empty the bins.’ Neil was quite emphatic.
‘Oh well, I’ll just have to be careful and keep my eyes open then.’ And she shrugged again, although uneasiness stalked her for the rest of the day. She stayed late and spoke to Kathy, but nothing had been seen, nothing had been touched, and no-one had been there.
Again a week or so passed. One night Neil had seen that Sally-Jo was working late, and stopped by. They ended up going for a meal, and he delivered her laughing to her flat at eleven that night.
When Sally-Jo unlocked the next morning that smell was there again, old dirt, coal dust and mould. She went to open the windows and passed the shelves. Two of the rag dolls, a bride and groom, were on the top shelf alone, noses touching as if kissing on the top of a wedding cake. The other dolls were all looking up at the dolls on the top shelf. Sally-Jo let out an involuntary ‘Oh’, walked straight out and went looking for Neil. He couldn’t believe it either. They had left the office long after Kathy had completed her ministrations. He went and got his camera and snapped the dolls. As they took the dolls down to re-arrange them they noticed, every single one had tiny coal covered finger prints. Gradually the smell receded, and in an hour or so everything was back to normal. Sally-Jo was curious, but had a new order to make up, for a folk museum. She began, and by tea time had completed two more dolls, a teacher and a workman, both Victorian in style, the teacher wearing a cap and gown. She was pleased with the result, but at the same time the atmosphere seemed to have cooled and clouds covered the sun. There was a slight sulphurous smell, but she put that down to the town dump, less than a quarter of a mile away.
As she put the two dolls at the foot of her display Neil slid around the office door. He spotted the new dolls immediately, and picked them up to admire the workmanship.
‘Looks like this pair belong here’
‘Well, we’ll see what our display re-arranger makes of this,’ Sally-Jo ushered him out and locked the door.
‘Would I be pushing my luck to ask you to join me for dinner again?’
Sally-Jo considered, she still felt she knew little about him.
‘How about we stop and get some food and cook at your place?
‘OK, as long as you can stand the mess.’
This time she did arrive home at ten-thirty, pleading tiredness. It had been a good evening in a pleasant flat on the seafront, showing no signs of recent female habitation. She felt she could maybe make something out of this.
The next morning the smell pervaded the corridor. She didn’t go near her own door, but straight down to Neil. The pair of them approached the office together. When they opened it the first impression was of no problem, and then they saw all the dolls huddled together in a corner, as if they were a crowd of witnesses. The smell was overpowering, dust, and coal and mould. The two new dolls were not in the crowd. The swinging of the workman, back and forth, rhythmically drew their eyes upwards. He swung by the neck from the top of the shelves, suspended by a very old length of window cord. At the bottom of the shelf was the teacher, or what remained of him. He had been ripped to pieces, and each part thrown around the room. The head was at the base of the shelves, surmounted by a small heap of very old coal.
It was once a school, teaming with the children from the crippled streets nearby. They didn’t always have shoes, or coats, and as soon as they could hold a broom or string a thread they were gone, either to the mill, or the shipyard, or maybe the engine works. Mr Milligan, the Headmaster, would sigh, shake his head, and continue to weep for the remainder of his charges. In between times he enforced the multiplication tables with a belt of iron and chanted spelling like a rosary, but the children knew, knew that he cared, and loved him and his assistants for that simple fact.
All except one, for there is always one, and the children knew that Mr Pinkerton was not on their side. They did not trouble him with skinned knees, bust noses, lost friends or any of the other ailments of childhood. If they lacked a penny for lunch they knew he would not help, and one of the belt elsewhere was an easy six for ‘Pinkie’ – or ‘Stinky Pinkie’, as would ring derisively from every corner as he took his cardboard briefcase and walked to the station of an evening.
As with every dog, his day came. The Schools Inspector came from far off Edinburgh. He put the children through their paces, but either nerves, or hunger, or the presence of the stranger, elicited a poor response. Pinkerton saw his chance. He took the man aside, and explained about lack of discipline, insufficient beatings, too much generosity. The Inspector listened. He spoke to Milligan, who should have blustered, but instead apologised, mentioned the hardship, the poverty, the grind of life in this corner of the town. The inspector pronounced, and put Milligan back, to Assistant, and gave the Headship to Pinkerton.
It was a dark day for the children. The roll fell instantly, as older ones just began their adult drudgery earlier than expected. The absentees increased, until six or more of the belt, or a stay in the coal hole was the punishment for truancy, absence and probably even death if Pinkie could but catch them. Transgressions such as blots, ignorance, and disrespect were even more stringently castigated, and a dark blanket of misery settled over the school that nothing could disperse.
It was not just the children who suffered. Milligan was thoroughly humiliated, with doors slammed in his face, with comments in the Assembly Hall, with loud demands for work to be checked, repeated, and for children to be further chastised after their minor punishments were exacted. The words ‘Really Mr Milligan, that isn’t good enough,’ echoed along corridors long after the usual time for the bell. In their turn, the children felt for Milligan, they strained to be good, knowing that any of their punishments hurt him far more than mere blows hurt them. However, after their allotted time at the school the pupils could leave, but Milligan was still in his forties, he was stuck there. If he left, his reference was to be written by Pinkerton, and anyway, without children of his own, every child in the school was son or daughter to him.
What is true for dogs and their days is also true for things coming to a head, and the thunder cloud that gathered over the school deepened and intensified, until the whole town knew that something must happen. It began early one Wednesday, in the Infant Class. Pinkerton was putting the children through the three times table. Maggie Higgins stood no chance. She had been up half the night listening to her mother and father, back from the bar and merry. There’s not much space for privacy in a single end. When they finally slept, they slept heavy, and she had been late, her hands and wrists still ached from the blows of old Pinkie’s belt. Now he was in the class demanding to know the value of nine threes. She was so scared, so totally terrified, that when the warm puddle grew at her feet she was almost relieved, surely she could go home now.
Pinkie seized her by the collar of her dress. It tore, leaving a rip along the collar and down her back where his hand had caught it.
‘You dirty little beast. You come with me.’ And he grabbed her by the shoulder and marched her from the room. Maggie’s initial sniffle increased to a dramatic wail, soon to be subdued by the slamming of the coal cellar door.
Milligan was trudging out of the back door at seven o’clock that evening. He had marked the day’s grammar, arithmetic and handwriting for his forty-five eleven year olds. Twice! He had completed his record books and registers, and he had been bawled out twice by Pinkie. His head was down and his back was up. His mind was full of his own miseries when he heard a whimpering from the coal cellar.
He was unaware of the day’s earlier events, and assumed it was just a local dog, caught by an unwary delivery man. Then he heard his name,
Please Sir, Mr Milligan, Sir.’ He walked back, his footsteps echoing loud on wet, cold granite sets. He saw a wild tearful eye glint at a crack in the door.
‘Who’s there?’ Still not believing he was hearing his name.
‘Maggie sir, Maggie ’Iggins Sir.’
He pulled out his keys and unlocked the great padlock that kept the store safe from raiders. The poor snivelling sight that stumbled towards him was nowhere near the Maggie Higgins he knew. Her dress was torn, and her hands and nails were covered in blood and coal dust. Every part of her was covered in damp coal dust, and she was shaking and shivering uncontrollably. Without thought his coat was off and round her,
‘Who locked you in there Maggie? Was it the big boys?’
‘Naw, it was old Pinkie whit dun it, after Ah pee’d masel’’
‘Are you sure? Mr Pinkerton? And then left you there?’
As he spoke he heard her name being called in the gathering dust, and her young parents came into the school yard. They scooped her up, coat and all, and accepted his apologies, feeling glad that they had not met with the sorely recalled Pinkie.
Milligan let out a sigh, and with that sigh he saw red. He marched into Pinkerton’s office, and slammed both hands on the table.
‘What do you mean by shutting that poor child in the coal hole until this hour?’
‘Oh, was she still there? I quite forgot.’
‘How else was she going to get out, who knew she was there?’
‘Oh go away Milligan, it’s only another one of these people. Who cares if she stays there all night and doesn’t wake up in the morning? Who needs another wee mouth in these creaking hell holes?’
The red mist rose. It felt good, the thud, the way the flesh gave, the spurt of blood, the end of all the troubles, the end of the children’s torture.
Eventually Milligan stopped. It was only then that he looked down, that he saw what had happened, what he had done.
How could he go home now, covered in blood, and sit there waiting, waiting, waiting, for that knock on the door? He looked around. The office was covered in blood, a trickle ran down the window. As if in a trance he walked over to look at it, and his hand caught the top window cord.
Swearwords: None.
Description: The tragic past of an old school is resurrected.
_____________________________________________________________________
There is a silence. A silence that does not wish disturbed, where every noise is an intruder. A deep still hush, like the grave, although the silent moonlight whispers, ‘Don’t come here.’
‘If you must come here, tarry not – and if you must tarry, woe betide you,’ the silence, the stillness, should be warning enough.
It was once a school, but the people that had originally swarmed the area had left, along with the factories, the little shops and the small corner workshops. The school had been left by the demolition men, a sore and lonely tooth sticking from sore and ruined gums. Of architectural significance, apparently. Can’t destroy such a perfect gem. Truly typical of its period, apparently.
The people who do these things had crawled all over the building, delighted at original features, like the rusting railings and the entrances that said ‘Infants’ and ‘Juniors’. Great amusement they caused, amongst the young surveyors who followed the architects. The old school stood, isolated, wounded, violated by local roughs and toughs, silently waiting. Eventually builders came, built, and then went, and a blaze of publicity announced a new business park. Often this results in a long period of emptiness, further silence. Not this time. The time was right. The charm of the old school and nostalgia for good old buildings brought plenty of customers, and those customers saw success. It was as if beneficent spirits smiled.
Sally-Jo had always wanted to start that small business. She pursued loans, grants and business plans, she made prototypes, and sold them, both to friends and family and to local shops. Things were taking off, and more space was needed. The day came when she was shown around the Old School Business Park by the Centre Manager, Neil.
‘We have only these two sections left, one on either side of the building.’
She admired both, and both were shining in the sun on such a May morning. One had obviously been a classroom, and the other some sort of office. The office seemed small, claustrophobic, and stuffy. The classroom seemed light and cool in comparison, despite the sun blazing through the windows. The smell of newness, of paint, wood and carpet welcomed her. It would be lovely in cooler seasons, to have the sun when it shone, seldom enough in these western climes.
‘I think this would suit best,’ and Sally-Jo smiled at the Manager, noting his kind expression, and the depth of his brown eyes.
Within a week she had moved in. The room was neatly divided by shelves displaying the product range. On one side she put the wee dresses and sailor suits. She loved it when they were bought for smart weddings, or the rash of christenings there had been to meet late May, but she also loved the thought that some were bought just for the pleasure of the pretty fabrics and the comfortable fit. She was just finishing the other side with her first love, the rag dolls, when Neil knocked and slid in the door.
‘I thought you’d be busy, so I brought you a cuppa, hope you like tea.’
She reached for the offered mug, gulped, ‘Mmmm, just what I needed.’
‘So this is the famous stock, it’s great.’
‘Thanks. Because they’re handmade they’re all different.’
‘Almost makes you want kids, just to buy them something.’
‘No kids! Would have thought Mrs Neil would have something to say about that.’
‘Mrs Neil has never existed, nor Mr Neil’s partner either.’
Sally-Jo reminded herself not to seem too eager, and smiled. Maybe thirty-one was a little old for shenanigans, and these days she always seemed to be busy. Oh well.
Neil smiled an exit soon after, and Sally-Jo sang along to the radio as she settled the rest of her stock, brought in the sewing machines and her files, and last of all, the precious lap-top. She glanced at her watch, five o’clock already, and all she’d had was that cuppa. Hometime. She locked the door with care, feeling proud and excited at the prospect of getting to work properly tomorrow.
By the time she had the computer and kettle running next day, hooked up to the ’net and replied to new orders, she felt as if she had been there for years. When Neil’s anxious face appeared round the door she could offer him tea and digestives. As they sat, chatting and sipping, his gaze travelled round the room.
‘You’ve made this place really look good.’
‘Thanks,’ her reply was somewhat distracted, as she had just noticed something very out of place, a very small black finger print on a lace underskirt. Just the one, but how did it get there? She knew no children had been in the room, had been incredibly careful, and could not work out where that one small fingerprint came from.
‘What’s up?’ Neil had noticed her distraction.
‘Just a wee fingerprint, I’ll catch it later.’ The talk moved on, but the feeling of unease persisted for quite a while.
It was about a week later. Sally-Jo always knew how she left the displays. Things changed and moved as dolls and dresses sold and new ones were created, but she always rearranged the display, and when she had done that, she knew how things had been left. The daily tea break with Neil had become a ritual, and it was when he made his daily visit that she often found herself casting an eye over the displays, looking for new items to point out since he seemed so interested. She realised, as she looked that two dolls had changed places. She walked over to the shelf,
‘What’s up? They been disco dancing all night?’
‘Well, they’ve certainly been up to something, that’s not the way they were.’ Sally-Jo was firm, and rather curious. As she picked up the dolls she again saw a couple of tiny sooty finger prints on their costumes.
‘Look at this,’ Sally-Jo turned the dolls for Neil’s benefit, and as she did she seemed to smell coal dust and mould over the new paint and sunshine of the office. She looked at him, to see him shiver, then shrug.
‘Has anyone been in here?’
‘Well only Kathy, the cleaner, and she doesn’t do much except vacuum and empty the bins.’ Neil was quite emphatic.
‘Oh well, I’ll just have to be careful and keep my eyes open then.’ And she shrugged again, although uneasiness stalked her for the rest of the day. She stayed late and spoke to Kathy, but nothing had been seen, nothing had been touched, and no-one had been there.
Again a week or so passed. One night Neil had seen that Sally-Jo was working late, and stopped by. They ended up going for a meal, and he delivered her laughing to her flat at eleven that night.
When Sally-Jo unlocked the next morning that smell was there again, old dirt, coal dust and mould. She went to open the windows and passed the shelves. Two of the rag dolls, a bride and groom, were on the top shelf alone, noses touching as if kissing on the top of a wedding cake. The other dolls were all looking up at the dolls on the top shelf. Sally-Jo let out an involuntary ‘Oh’, walked straight out and went looking for Neil. He couldn’t believe it either. They had left the office long after Kathy had completed her ministrations. He went and got his camera and snapped the dolls. As they took the dolls down to re-arrange them they noticed, every single one had tiny coal covered finger prints. Gradually the smell receded, and in an hour or so everything was back to normal. Sally-Jo was curious, but had a new order to make up, for a folk museum. She began, and by tea time had completed two more dolls, a teacher and a workman, both Victorian in style, the teacher wearing a cap and gown. She was pleased with the result, but at the same time the atmosphere seemed to have cooled and clouds covered the sun. There was a slight sulphurous smell, but she put that down to the town dump, less than a quarter of a mile away.
As she put the two dolls at the foot of her display Neil slid around the office door. He spotted the new dolls immediately, and picked them up to admire the workmanship.
‘Looks like this pair belong here’
‘Well, we’ll see what our display re-arranger makes of this,’ Sally-Jo ushered him out and locked the door.
‘Would I be pushing my luck to ask you to join me for dinner again?’
Sally-Jo considered, she still felt she knew little about him.
‘How about we stop and get some food and cook at your place?
‘OK, as long as you can stand the mess.’
This time she did arrive home at ten-thirty, pleading tiredness. It had been a good evening in a pleasant flat on the seafront, showing no signs of recent female habitation. She felt she could maybe make something out of this.
The next morning the smell pervaded the corridor. She didn’t go near her own door, but straight down to Neil. The pair of them approached the office together. When they opened it the first impression was of no problem, and then they saw all the dolls huddled together in a corner, as if they were a crowd of witnesses. The smell was overpowering, dust, and coal and mould. The two new dolls were not in the crowd. The swinging of the workman, back and forth, rhythmically drew their eyes upwards. He swung by the neck from the top of the shelves, suspended by a very old length of window cord. At the bottom of the shelf was the teacher, or what remained of him. He had been ripped to pieces, and each part thrown around the room. The head was at the base of the shelves, surmounted by a small heap of very old coal.
It was once a school, teaming with the children from the crippled streets nearby. They didn’t always have shoes, or coats, and as soon as they could hold a broom or string a thread they were gone, either to the mill, or the shipyard, or maybe the engine works. Mr Milligan, the Headmaster, would sigh, shake his head, and continue to weep for the remainder of his charges. In between times he enforced the multiplication tables with a belt of iron and chanted spelling like a rosary, but the children knew, knew that he cared, and loved him and his assistants for that simple fact.
All except one, for there is always one, and the children knew that Mr Pinkerton was not on their side. They did not trouble him with skinned knees, bust noses, lost friends or any of the other ailments of childhood. If they lacked a penny for lunch they knew he would not help, and one of the belt elsewhere was an easy six for ‘Pinkie’ – or ‘Stinky Pinkie’, as would ring derisively from every corner as he took his cardboard briefcase and walked to the station of an evening.
As with every dog, his day came. The Schools Inspector came from far off Edinburgh. He put the children through their paces, but either nerves, or hunger, or the presence of the stranger, elicited a poor response. Pinkerton saw his chance. He took the man aside, and explained about lack of discipline, insufficient beatings, too much generosity. The Inspector listened. He spoke to Milligan, who should have blustered, but instead apologised, mentioned the hardship, the poverty, the grind of life in this corner of the town. The inspector pronounced, and put Milligan back, to Assistant, and gave the Headship to Pinkerton.
It was a dark day for the children. The roll fell instantly, as older ones just began their adult drudgery earlier than expected. The absentees increased, until six or more of the belt, or a stay in the coal hole was the punishment for truancy, absence and probably even death if Pinkie could but catch them. Transgressions such as blots, ignorance, and disrespect were even more stringently castigated, and a dark blanket of misery settled over the school that nothing could disperse.
It was not just the children who suffered. Milligan was thoroughly humiliated, with doors slammed in his face, with comments in the Assembly Hall, with loud demands for work to be checked, repeated, and for children to be further chastised after their minor punishments were exacted. The words ‘Really Mr Milligan, that isn’t good enough,’ echoed along corridors long after the usual time for the bell. In their turn, the children felt for Milligan, they strained to be good, knowing that any of their punishments hurt him far more than mere blows hurt them. However, after their allotted time at the school the pupils could leave, but Milligan was still in his forties, he was stuck there. If he left, his reference was to be written by Pinkerton, and anyway, without children of his own, every child in the school was son or daughter to him.
What is true for dogs and their days is also true for things coming to a head, and the thunder cloud that gathered over the school deepened and intensified, until the whole town knew that something must happen. It began early one Wednesday, in the Infant Class. Pinkerton was putting the children through the three times table. Maggie Higgins stood no chance. She had been up half the night listening to her mother and father, back from the bar and merry. There’s not much space for privacy in a single end. When they finally slept, they slept heavy, and she had been late, her hands and wrists still ached from the blows of old Pinkie’s belt. Now he was in the class demanding to know the value of nine threes. She was so scared, so totally terrified, that when the warm puddle grew at her feet she was almost relieved, surely she could go home now.
Pinkie seized her by the collar of her dress. It tore, leaving a rip along the collar and down her back where his hand had caught it.
‘You dirty little beast. You come with me.’ And he grabbed her by the shoulder and marched her from the room. Maggie’s initial sniffle increased to a dramatic wail, soon to be subdued by the slamming of the coal cellar door.
Milligan was trudging out of the back door at seven o’clock that evening. He had marked the day’s grammar, arithmetic and handwriting for his forty-five eleven year olds. Twice! He had completed his record books and registers, and he had been bawled out twice by Pinkie. His head was down and his back was up. His mind was full of his own miseries when he heard a whimpering from the coal cellar.
He was unaware of the day’s earlier events, and assumed it was just a local dog, caught by an unwary delivery man. Then he heard his name,
Please Sir, Mr Milligan, Sir.’ He walked back, his footsteps echoing loud on wet, cold granite sets. He saw a wild tearful eye glint at a crack in the door.
‘Who’s there?’ Still not believing he was hearing his name.
‘Maggie sir, Maggie ’Iggins Sir.’
He pulled out his keys and unlocked the great padlock that kept the store safe from raiders. The poor snivelling sight that stumbled towards him was nowhere near the Maggie Higgins he knew. Her dress was torn, and her hands and nails were covered in blood and coal dust. Every part of her was covered in damp coal dust, and she was shaking and shivering uncontrollably. Without thought his coat was off and round her,
‘Who locked you in there Maggie? Was it the big boys?’
‘Naw, it was old Pinkie whit dun it, after Ah pee’d masel’’
‘Are you sure? Mr Pinkerton? And then left you there?’
As he spoke he heard her name being called in the gathering dust, and her young parents came into the school yard. They scooped her up, coat and all, and accepted his apologies, feeling glad that they had not met with the sorely recalled Pinkie.
Milligan let out a sigh, and with that sigh he saw red. He marched into Pinkerton’s office, and slammed both hands on the table.
‘What do you mean by shutting that poor child in the coal hole until this hour?’
‘Oh, was she still there? I quite forgot.’
‘How else was she going to get out, who knew she was there?’
‘Oh go away Milligan, it’s only another one of these people. Who cares if she stays there all night and doesn’t wake up in the morning? Who needs another wee mouth in these creaking hell holes?’
The red mist rose. It felt good, the thud, the way the flesh gave, the spurt of blood, the end of all the troubles, the end of the children’s torture.
Eventually Milligan stopped. It was only then that he looked down, that he saw what had happened, what he had done.
How could he go home now, covered in blood, and sit there waiting, waiting, waiting, for that knock on the door? He looked around. The office was covered in blood, a trickle ran down the window. As if in a trance he walked over to look at it, and his hand caught the top window cord.
About the Author
M. W. Harris says she's old enough to know better. Born of mixed Scottish and English parentage in Essex, she's been a resident of Scotland for the last 25 years, currently living on the Firth of Clyde with her long-suffering husband, a teenage daughter and three cats.
She has won a number of prizes at the Scottish Association of Writers over the years. She attends the Greenock Writers' Club, without whose constant encouragement she believes she would not be writing now.
She has won a number of prizes at the Scottish Association of Writers over the years. She attends the Greenock Writers' Club, without whose constant encouragement she believes she would not be writing now.