Rhinoceros 25
Alan was sat in the staffroom eating fish-paste sandwiches. He brushed crumbs from his knees and yawned. Outside the window, which had a blind pulled most of the way down, a boy would occasionally wizz past on a bike and shout, “Fuck off!” Alan had had an ordinary morning. He had been called a ‘cat-rapist’, for some reason, by Ewen, and had split up a fight in the corridor between two boys each of whom assumed that the other had said something about someone's mum to another boy who was egging on the fight with some satisfaction.
Alan looked around the tumultuous clutter, the staff talking in twos and threes, the useless breakfast bar, and the sign splashed with beans on the microwave that instructed staff to keep it clean. It was a good place to work, really. Everyone stuck together, through all their disagreements; perhaps, Alan considered, like the troops in trench warfare.
Mick folded up his newspaper. “This rag’s boring now you’re not in it, Alan,” he announced.
“I’ll go on a crime spree just for you, then.”
“I thought you might move into film directing, what with all your recent experience. The Speilberg of the Meadows Estate.”
“No thanks.” Alan tried to close the conversation down.
There was a sudden burst of laughter from the table by the window and everyone looked at the three sat there wiping tears from their eyes. “Tell them, Bob,” Mary said, and her chuckles sent ripples, like aftershocks, down her breasts and belly.
“Alright,” said Bob, “get this. You know that Doctor Who thing at the station? Well, they had two Daleks on show – they’re doing some sort of tour of the country, a promotional thing. Anyway, I took Kris and Porl – you know how the autistic ones love all that sci-fi. Mad on Doctor Who, Kris is. So we got to the front of the crowd – I pulled the ‘special school’ trick and got them through. And the guy there says, ‘Do your boys want a go in the Dalek?’ They looked bloody terrified, so I pushed them forward, and Kris got into one of the Daleks. The TV crews were filming, and they probably thought this would look good on the local news. So Kris was in the Dalek, and the bloke says, ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ and then this Dalek voice came from inside, ‘FUCK OFF HUMANS.” Bob burst into a renewed bout of hysterics. “Bloody cracked me up,” he added, red faced. Infectiously, everyone joined in, and this made Alan feel even more pleased to be back. “Watch Look North tonight,” Bob added.
“Here,” Mary said with a change of tone, “did anyone see it last night? About our much-missed great leader?”
“Oh ay, we were on about that before you came down, Mary. Hypocritical, that’s what it is,” Mick said.
“What is?” Alan asked.
“A right stitch up,” Bob put in, “they need shooting.”
“What?” Alan asked again.
“S’our bloody taxes an’ all.”
“For Christ’s sake, what?” Alan said in some exasperation.
“Didn’t you see it?” Mary asked.
“Well obviously not, durr,” Alan said in a tone of mock teenage sarcasm.
“Remember, Mary, caveman here hasn’t even got a television. An’ his car’s still got square wheels,” Mick said. Some of them tittered.
“So?” Alan asked.
“Sorry, Alan,” Mary said, on behalf of the others. She settled her rings of flab and continued,
“It’s the Head. After all the talk of criminal investigations, and suspension and dismissal and all that other crap, you’ll never guess what they’ve gone and done?”
Alan had an inkling already, but he said, “Go on.”
“They’ve only gone and given him an advisor’s job in the Local Authority. Cosy, eh?”
“Cosy?” Mick added. “They’re up each other’s arses, the lot of them. Jobs for the boys, that’s what it is.”
“Yep,” she continued, satisfied enough with the impact her news was having, “Senior Advisor, working to improve behaviour across the city.”
“Him being such an expert an’ all,” Mick interjected, “as any visit to the internet will demonstrate.”
“You know the kids have all got it on their mobiles,” Bob said. “He ought to be getting repeat fees. They’ve got your Alix fired up,” he added, turning to Alan, “he says he’s going to sue the school now.”
“He’ll have to find out what it means first,” Mick said with a light belch, returning to his newspaper.
“Christ on a bicycle,” was all Alan could say.
