Rhinoceros 16
Alan had to admit it, after a long, long winter, spring in Sheffield presented a whole new world of possibilities. It wasn’t just the flowers, the exponential increase in natural light, or the greenery sprouting from every park, verge, garden, even guttering. No, it was in the faces of people, unfolding like secret messages on inscrutable origami. People on buses, striding down Ecclesall Road into town, walking dogs on bits of scrubland between garages, their skin pink and glowing, the gloss of a new season powered by the sun in their cheery eyes.
His route to work was strewn with a million and more petals, as though he was a holy one, each morning going about his sacred duty. And perhaps, Alan mused, he was. Not that his work had a higher, spiritual purpose. It was too mundane in its actions for that, and riddled with the failures that human society builds into every system. But it had an import relative to other people’s lines of work, surely. Estate agents, for example.
School was a subtly different place now. The routines were the same; Mick still sat behind The Sun and said, “The little shits,” and, “If they can’t spell morality they’re hardly likely to do it.” Mary maintained her extensive belly for the purposes of placing Tupperware on it and arguing with Mick. Richard, the assistant head, now acting head, was positively effusive these days. “Alan,” he called across the staffroom one morning, “how’s it going? The sun is shining and there is a new timetable on the way. What could possibly go wrong?”
“You could trip up on your own sense of blind well-being,” Alan replied. He was photocopying a worksheet comparing film genres by employing a photo of a zombie biting the face off a hard-bodied American teen.
“Has your old mate Ryon been in lately?” Richard was fishing, Alan noticed. He was acting far too innocent to be innocent.
“If you spent a bit of time in a classroom you might come across him yourself.”
“Touché.”
Alan’s day was largely unchanged from the era when the Head had been his nemesis. The same confrontations and acts of bribery and tactical ignoring went on with the same pupils in the same lessons, but events now took on a shiny edge. This is probably what being on drugs is like, thought Alan.
The staffroom had discussed thoroughly and unprofessionally the swift disappearance of the Head. Workers from the Local Authority had wordlessly ushered him away, along with several files, his computer and the secretary for a while, though, as she disappointedly pointed out, only to ask a load of pointless questions.
The interest from the media had been a distraction for a while, but they soon went away after a few choice insults from the boys, and, with Richard slotting excitedly into the role of temporary Head – though not into his office just yet – the sands had quickly closed over events and life went on.
Alan’s form group were typically sympathetic.
“Where you bin? We had a shit supply teacher instead,” Alix told him on his return.
“You missed me, then?”
“No, man, I don’t miss nuffink about school.”
Kerin had been working out his angle. “Mr Scope, how much did you ask from the Head to keep quiet?”
“Have you been reading The National Enquirer again, Kerin?”
“Whatever. It’s just that you could have done a lot better than a poxy bit of film. I’ve got loads of info on the Head if you’re interested.”
“Kerin, the answer, in language colloquial to this establishment, ends in off.”
“So you haven’t been in prison these last couple of weeks?”
“No, but I have been listening to Radio 4 like the sad person you know I am. And do you know what I discovered? There are hugely important things happening all over the world. Riots, insurrections, natural disasters, coups, murders…”
Alix piped up, “Yeah, but none of dem as interesting as what’s happening here, right?”
“Wrong. So move on.”
“But you must’ve made money from it, man,” Alix continued, “I mean, dem papers pay loads for it.”
“Except, oh wise one, I am not a b-list celebrity with plastic breasts. And I’m still waiting for the call from Max Clifford.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Well, one advantage of Ryon being locked up is our attendance figures have gone up. Look at this, 100% for the last two weeks.”
Kerin pondered. “Still, when Ryon gets out he’ll be able to fill us in, don’t you think?”
“I’ve already been to see him, and yes the conversation was private. But whatever he does, it’s up to him. I am moving on, and I suggest you do too.”
And they did sort of move on, to a discussion of what the Secure Unit is like, and all the police cells they’ve been in. Alan metaphorically patted himself on the back. Each morning was an ordeal of attrition with the remnants of his form, but gradually they were getting bored with his story. They knew too much already, but also they had an exaggerated sense of what happened. They imagined showdowns, and fist fights, and offices being smashed up, and midnight police raids. In fact Alan merely received a bland letter from the Local Authority stating that he would be expected back at work on the following Monday, and that any issues relating to capabilities were ‘suspended for the foreseeable future’. A gleeful phone call from his union rep had confirmed this. “It’s been binned, Alan: you’ve got him by the scrotum.” Which was not an image Alan wished to sustain. His intention was to be as low key as possible, avoid celebratory conversations, and get on with the job he knew how to do.
But he was still apprehensive about Ryon’s release. There were many actions Ryon could follow, and few of them were endearing or helpful to Alan’s new state of karma. He knew that the situation Ryon was returning to was hardly contusive to going straight. The whole YouTube business has horrified Alan, and he was still unsure how exactly it had come about; whether, for example, Ryon had concocted it with the Mitchelsons. But most people assumed, for obvious reasons, it was Alan, and he could hardly contradict them without telling a whole bunch of stories that would stretch incredulity to breaking point. More annoying still, to Alan’s sense of disturbed quietude, everyone saw him as a heroic crusader. Even Annie, in an excited series of phone calls, had warmed to him, even as he avoided meeting her. But he persistently downplayed the whole episode and gradually, day by day, the buzz of interest wore off, and people started to look for other sources of entertainment.
Even so, that patina of the knight in armour remained, a ghostly reminder of what Alan could be in a parallel, heroic universe. And this was enough to buoy him along.
