Longer now. Maybe eternity.
Til death us do part.
“Have a good day, Mr Bailey.”
Warren’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. “I’ll catch you later, Mr Ellison.”
Jude threaded his way towards the door, but it swung open before he reached it and Mr Stanmore, Head of PE, barrelled in, loud and bullish, clapping his hands.
“Alright, lads, look lively. Get dressed, get to class. That training was abysmal if you think you’re going to beat Northbridge High next week.” He then clocked Jude. Very out of place for the history teacher who spent more time nosediving in books than into headers. “Mr Ellison. What brings you to the dark side?”
“Uh… just… school spirit.” Jude slipped out before any more questions, marching the corridor to his classroom.
Door shut, bag stashed in his desk drawer, deep breath taken. He straightened his tie as the bell rang and his form group rattled in. Then he shut it all off to get on with what made sense.
Teaching these kids hownotto repeat history.
The way he evidently was.
* * * *
When the final bell went, Jude was grateful for it.
He loved his job.
Even more so now, as it gave him purpose and made him remember who hecouldbe, not who he was. But lately, it felt as if he was always bracing for someone to knock on his classroom door and haul him away in handcuffs. Or worse, that Callum would enter his classroom and give a detailed, thorough history lesson to all who would listen. Not the text he taught, butJude’shistory.
But another day unscathed and Jude was on exit duty. Unfortunately, so was Warren. He’d managed to avoid him the rest of the day, having chosen to eat lunch in his car and done his marking there too. Now they were rostered on different gates, different ends of the main drive, funnelling kids towards the road without letting them walk into traffic.
Jude took up his post. There were two exits, a good thirty yards apart, and he caught glimpses of Warren at the far gate. Straightening blazers, tugging ties, talking to groups of girls with whatever ridiculous question they had for him. Jude tried desperately not to feel his eyes on him. The attempts to make contact. It was all too much and somehow, hopelessly not enough.
He concentrated on working his side, instead.
“Shoelace, George.”
George, Year Seven, saluted. “Yes, sir!” Then immediately tripped over the offending lace, setting off a chorus of cackles.
“Eyes up, Sinead. Keep your nose in that phone and you’ll end up under a bus.”
“Sorry, Mr Ellison.” Sinead, Year Nine, stuffed her phone into her blazer, only to pull it straight back out once she was over the threshold.
“Where are your shoes, Reuban?”
Reuban, wearing spotless Jordans, shifted his bag higher. “In my bag, sir.”
“You better put them on, then.”
“I’m walking home.”
“And when you get there, you can change. On these grounds, it’s school shoes.” Jude pointed to the spot beside him. “Change. There.”
Reuban huffed, threw down his bag, then changed out of his Jordans into scruffy school shoes. He tried to stuff the oversized trainers into his school bag, but they hung out as he slipped past Jude.
“If Mrs Turner catches you with them on, you could have them confiscated.”
Reuban snorted something inaudible, then jogged over the road. Straight to a figure half-hidden under the dripping canopy of plane trees. Older bloke. Not old enough to be a parent. Possibly an older brother, though Jude was pretty sure Reuban was an only child. The grin splitting Reuban’s face as he got closer said enough. Shoes switched back, quick as a card trick. Hands clasped in greeting. Something passed palm-to-palm, gone in a pocket before Jude could even register it.
“Jesus,” Jude muttered under his breath.
