Vengeance

PROLOGUE

Sunday, July 15, 1990.

Colin lived for Sundays. His wife walked out on him two years ago and, since then, times had been hard. He worked long and arduous hours in the city as a portfolio manager for a large insurance company and had very little quality time with his five-year-old son. Saturdays were generally filled by completing monotonous chores, such as housework, shopping, washing and ironing. Sundays were, therefore, sacred; a time for father and son to indulge in a spot of male bonding. This might be a trip to the zoo or a museum, swimming or just over the park for a kick about, as they were doing today. After, it would be a short walk home where Colin would do his best to cook an edible Sunday roast. After two years he was just about getting there. It was still far from perfect but at least now they did not risk breaking a tooth on a roast potato.

‘Five more minutes, son,’ Colin called, after looking at his watch.

‘Ah Dad, it’s still early,’ his son protested weakly. He knew that five minutes actually meant nearer fifteen minutes and smiled back knowingly before he launched the football towards his father. Colin flicked the ball up and played a little keepy-uppy before volleying it back to his smiling son, who seemed mildly impressed with his father’s ball skills.

‘Not bad for a dinosaur,’ his son shouted as he ran after the ball. Colin laughed and raced after his son, scooping him up in his arms when he reached him.

‘Dinosaur, eh?’ he said tickling him, making him squirm. ‘I’m only thirty. I’ll remind you of that when you get to my age.’

‘You’ll be as old as Grandpa then and he never remembers anything,’ his son replied as Colin put him down.

‘You might have a point,’ he replied. ‘Come on, time to go. I need to get dinner started,’ he said, putting a hand on his son’s shoulder, guiding him towards the park exit.

Colin smiled to himself on seeing the contented look on his son’s face as they walked along the pavement beside the country lane that would eventually lead to home. When his wife walked out on him two years ago, leaving him for another woman, his life had been turned upside down. He had absolutely no idea that she was having an affair or even harboured any lesbian tendencies. Their relationship, he thought, was quite strong and they rubbed along quite well. They had their moments, as all couples do, but nothing that would suggest she was unhappy with him. Their sex life had been fantastic or at least until the arrival of their son, but that, he thought, was to be expected. It certainly aligned with the experiences of his friends who started families, and he shrugged it off as just one of those things.

He would never forget that day when he returned home from a long day in the office to find two suitcases in the hallway and his wife, Pat, sitting solemnly at the dining-room table. When she told him she was leaving, he could not believe it was happening. When she told him she was leaving him for another woman, he almost laughed, until he could see by the angry look on her face that she was completely serious. She stood up, kissed him tenderly on the cheek, apologised and walked out. That was two years ago and he had not seen or heard of her since, apart from Christmas and birthday cards to their son. He knew from the postcode she was now living in the Brighton area but had no inclination to go and find her. He contemplated going to Brighton to track her down and beg her to come back. However, once his initial anger abated, he came to terms with the fact his personal pride had taken a huge dent and realised the futility of it. By that time, he had accepted being a single father.

At first, Colin found it difficult to come to terms with being a single parent. He was angry and bitter and had no idea how he was going to cope. Pat was something of a domestic goddess and he had no idea of even the most rudimentary requirements of keeping house. With a lot of help from friends and family, he began to learn and began to cope. He was determined to bring his son up to the best of his abilities, to become a son he could be proud of and to be a father his son could be proud of, too. Colin thought he had done a pretty good job so far. His son was a happy, well balanced, normal, five-year-old boy.

Colin ruffled his son’s hair and smiled down at him. His son looked up and lost concentration on the football he was bouncing and knocked it into the hedgerow beside the path. He stood looking at the ball nestled in amongst the shrubs and ivy, waiting for his father to offer to retrieve it.

‘Go and get it then. I’m far too big to get in there,’ Colin told his son.

‘Ah Dad, there’ll be spiders in there and all sorts,’ he replied. He did not like spiders, especially the big, fat, hairy, shed dwelling types that were bound to be lurking in the bushes. He knew they were just lying in wait for him, getting ready to scuttle out from their dark hiding places and crawl all over him. He could almost feel their corpulent bodies prickling his exposed skin, before even taking a step inside the foreboding bushes.

Colin shook his head and nodded towards the bushes. ‘You should’ve thought about that. I’ve told you before not to bounce your ball beside the road; it’s dangerous. Now, off you go.’

His son tentatively edged into the hedgerow to retrieve his ball as his father watched, smiling. It was the last thing he ever saw as the Range Rover, driving too quickly and erratically, mounted the kerb and slammed into his spine, breaking it immediately. His ribs shattered, and splintered bone tore through his internal organs. He was thrown into the air and landed with a sickening thump, his head cracking against the kerb, breaking his skull.

The driver lurched from the vehicle and staggered drunkenly towards Colin’s prone body, his hand clamped over his mouth, fighting back the urge to vomit. He crouched down and checked for a pulse, his eyes darting around, checking to see if he had been seen by any passers-by. Finding no pulse, he pushed himself unsteadily upright, cursing as he looked around, checking once more to see if there were any witnesses. In his confused and drunken state, he failed to see the frightened boy staring back from deep within the bushes. The driver grinned and staggered back to his vehicle and drove off, leaving the boy with the memory of a face he would never forget.

CHAPTER 1

Present Day

Peter Edwards staggered home, pissed as a fart, yet again. He sometimes wondered if he was cut out for teaching, when it drove him to drink. Today had gone pretty much as normal, or what constituted normal for teaching in a comprehensive school in Crawley. Every class, no matter what the age group, had their share of obnoxious characters. It seemed their only purpose in coming to school was to ruin it for those who genuinely wanted to learn, to pass their exams and make something of their lives. It was a matter of striking a balance between ignoring them and disciplining them. It was not an easy task and not one that he relished but so far he had held his own. He felt rather fortunate that none of those pupils he was forced to discipline had raised a phoney complaint about him for physical or verbal abuse. Some of his other colleagues had not been so lucky and a number had even resigned to pursue careers outside teaching.

The girls were the most difficult. On several occasions in his relatively short teaching career, girls parted their legs and flashed their knickers to him under the desk. In a way it was quite flattering but he always pretended not to have noticed. He heard of a situation where a pupil became fixated on her English teacher, to the extent where a complaint of sexual abuse was lodged when the pupil’s advances were rebuked. Even though the girl was known to be extremely promiscuous, a full investigation had ensued. The teacher had been found innocent but the damage had already been done. He was in an untenable position and had to leave his post at the school. However, because of the stigma attached to his predicament, no school would take him on and within a year he had committed suicide. By and large, Peter considered himself to have been lucky – so far.

How long his luck would last was a question never far away from his thoughts. Today he came close to losing it. Jason Giles was one of the school’s nastiest pupils and certainly one of the biggest. He was also one of the most stupid. He was unable to grasp even the most elementary principles of solving simple mathematical problems, in the lowest of the three ability sets the fifth grade were divided into. Today he was being particularly disruptive and finished the lesson by starting a fight. Peter stepped in and pulled the two boys apart and, as he did, Jason took a swing at him. Peter, who had his wits about him, snapped his head back just in time and the blow sailed harmlessly by. Jason stood toe-to-toe with him, grinning manically. Peter would have loved nothing more than to have smashed his fist into his smug face. It was only by the will of God that he managed to control his temper and contented himself to stare back at Jason’s hate filled face. Fortunately, the bell for the end of the lesson sounded and he dismissed the class.

Peter decided a few pints were in order. He found a more than willing accomplice in the staff room in the shape of Dan Brooker, an English teacher three years Peter’s senior, at twenty-eight. Together they put the world to rights over a few pints, while they watched the Chelsea v Spurs game on the huge television in the Three Horseshoes. This was followed by a number of shorts and then things started to get really messy, when they started on the Tequila. This was the reason that Peter was now standing by his front door, clutching his Chinese takeaway with one eye closed, trying to aim his key at the keyhole.

He finally managed to stab the door with the key and slid it around in the general direction of the keyhole. Eventually, his persistence paid off and the key slid home. He turned the lock, let himself in and staggered down the hallway towards the living room, grinning inanely. He weaved towards his armchair and tripped over one of the many books that littered the floor. He instinctively held onto his Chinese as he headed towards the floor, his arm outstretched, determined to save his supper. As he landed his head hit the corner of the coffee table, knocking the contents onto the floor and himself out cold. The TV remote bounced across the floor and the TV turned itself on, casting an eerie, blue glow over the prone and now snoring Peter Edwards.

Peter awoke – came round would be more apt to say – in the early hours of the morning. He had the mother of all headaches and a quick inspection found a lump the size of half a golf ball on the top of his forehead, just above the hair line. He hissed in pain when his fingers found it and screwed his eyes shut to blot it out. He pulled himself upright and leaned his back against the sofa. The TV was on, which he had no recollection of turning on, illuminating the grease stained, brown paper bag containing the Chinese meal he had purchased and not eaten. Fortunately, it remained upright so the damage to the carpet was limited.

He stretched over and picked up the remote control and pointed it towards the TV. He was about to turn it off, when a face appeared on the screen that was instantly familiar. He stared at the screen in complete shock as the face disappeared and was replaced by the even more familiar face of the BBC News presenter. Peter got unsteadily to his feet and walked slowly and tentatively towards the bathroom. He swallowed a couple of aspirin before shuffling across the hall to his welcoming bed, where he would grab a few hours of welcome but very troubled sleep.

CHAPTER 2

The incessant bleeping of the alarm clock was as confusing as it was unwelcoming to Peter’s alcohol addled brain. He rolled towards the sound and stretched his arm out, slapping clumsily at the bedside table, eventually silencing the intrusion. He tried to rise but the room began to spin so he gave up and flopped back down onto the mattress, cursing his stupidity for drinking too much on a school night. Peter moved onto his side and slid his legs over the side of the bed onto the floor and pushed himself slowly and cautiously upright. After a few deep breaths he stood and made his way dizzily to the bathroom.

After shaving and taking a very long shower, he dressed in standard schoolteacher attire of casual slacks, casual shirt and a heavy-duty blazer. After drinking sufficient black coffee to keep a small, Welsh village awake for a week, he headed out to work via the greasy spoon for a hearty fry-up, feeling like death on two legs. Little did he know as he pulled the front door to, his day was about to get a whole lot worse.

His first lesson of the day was a double period with a first-year class and fortunately not too taxing on the brain. Even Peter, in his deteriorated condition, could handle a bunch of nervous first-years. They were bottom of the pecking order in the school and still relatively interested in learning and less intent on causing disruption. Teaching the dynamics of positive and negative numbers and the rules applied to multiplication, division, addition and subtraction was not a subject that was going to raise too many difficult questions. Peter spent the first period going over the rules, making sure they all grasped the concept and, for the second part of the session, handed out a pre-prepared forty question test and sat back and pretended to mark homework. Although for the majority of the time he had his eyes screwed shut, willing his hangover to ease.

CHAPTER 3

Lunchtime could not come soon enough for Peter. His hangover was still raging, his mouth was dry, his eyes were gritty and sore and he felt dog-tired. This had not gone unnoticed by his colleagues. Not that anyone said anything. Peter was not known for his sense of humour when he had a hangover and they left him to nurse his coffee and feel sorry for himself.

‘My office, Peter,’ the headmaster said, placing a hand on his shoulder. Peter looked up with his bloodshot eyes, nodded and followed the head out of the staffroom. As soon as the door shut behind him, the other teachers immediately started speculating on how deep in the shit Peter was this time.

Peter sat down with as much composure as he could and gave the head a thin smile. Generally, there were only two reasons for being summoned personally by the head into his inner sanctum. Either he had done something profoundly amazing and was going to get a hearty pat on the back or had done something immensely stupid and was going to get his arse kicked. He tried to recall either event over the last few days and weeks and could think of nothing of note at either end of the spectrum. He sat back and braced himself.

Tom Baxter sat appraising Peter, who he considered to be a competent teacher, even a good teacher. He was not the most sociable and seemed to be something of a loner but he knew the kids generally respected him even if they did not particularly like him. He could see Peter getting agitated at the prolonged silence and smiled, acknowledging the fact.

‘I’ll get straight to the point, Peter. I received a complaint; a serious complaint,’ he said raising an eyebrow, encouraging a response. Peter looked on impassively and gave a slight nod in acknowledgement. ‘I’ll cut to the chase,’ he began, when Peter did not volunteer a response.’ It’s a complaint of assault.’

Peter tensed and stared back, giving him a look of disbelief.

‘I don’t understand. Who the bloody hell from? I haven’t laid a finger on anyone. Is it one of the staff or one of the pupils?’

‘It was one of the pupils, Jason Giles. Care to tell me about it?’

Peter nodded and tried to remain calm, despite seething inside.

‘There’s nothing to tell. I’m assuming it was regarding the incident that happened yesterday?’ Tom nodded. ‘You know what Jason’s like. He’s been in your office more times than I have. Yesterday he was being particularly disruptive and ended the lesson by starting a fight with Simmonds. I ran over and pulled them apart and Giles took a swing at me and missed. We had a bit of a staring match and the bell went for the end of the lesson. I decided I’d leave it at that. Giles being suspended would only give him a couple of weeks to work up even more hatred for the system, so I thought I’d cut him some slack. I thought it might even help in the long run. That’s it. It was something and nothing. I take it he’s saying otherwise?’

‘Very much so,’ Baxter replied. ‘I had his mother in this morning. She’s a very… interesting woman and very formidable. To get to the point, she says that you pushed her son and punched him in the face.’ Peter’s jaw dropped, hardly believing the lies that had been told. Baxter put a hand up seeing that Peter was about to interrupt. ‘Personally, I don’t believe a word of it and, my guess is, Giles, probably thought that you would put in a report about the incident and decided to strike first and try and stir up a hornets’ nest.’

Peter knew the implications and put his head in his hands and took a deep breath. He looked up and stared back at Baxter.

‘Tom, you know and I know, this is all bullshit,’ he said angrily.

Baxter nodded. ‘I know, but unfortunately I have no choice but to suspend you with immediate effect, until the incident has been fully investigated. I’ve already arranged cover for your remaining lessons today and will make similar arrangements for the next week. Hopefully, we can get to the bottom of this quickly and we can get back to normal. I’m really sorry about this Peter but I have no choice other than following the correct procedures. I’m sure you understand?’

‘Yeah, I understand but it doesn’t make me any happier, knowing that lying, little bastard’s taking the piss out of all of us,’ he replied angrily.

‘Why the hell didn’t you put a report in last night? It’s not going to look good, even if you are innocent of any wrong doing.’

‘Because it was nothing, or at least, I thought it was nothing. I stopped a fight, just like teachers do every day in the playground. Jesus Christ.’

Peter sat there staring straight through the headmaster, unable to take in what had taken place. He felt numbed by the whole experience. Never did he believe this would or could happen to him. He barely heard Baxter as he informed him to contact the union and to seek legal advice and apologising again. Eventually, he stood and exited the head’s office, making his way back to the staffroom. Lunchtime was over, which meant that the staffroom was thankfully empty so he was able to collect his briefcase and leave without having to answer any questions. He made his way slowly and trance-like towards the school gates, the anger inside him building, reaching boiling point.

CHAPTER 4

Dan Brooker made his way towards the bar of the Three Horseshoes, which was being propped up by Peter. He looked moody and already half cut and it was only a little after five o’clock.

‘Thought I’d find you in here,’ he said to Peter as he approached.

‘Where else would I be? I haven’t got a job to go to, in case you hadn’t heard,’ he replied sarcastically, knowing full-well that he would be the sole subject of the staffroom gossip.

‘I’d heard. That’s why I’m here. Look Peter, getting pissed isn’t going to help. Why don’t you call it a day and go home. Have something to eat and watch a DVD or something.’

‘Home? What have I got to go home to? Janet left me, in case you forgot. I’ve got no job, and right now, getting pissed is just what I need.’ Peter caught the barman’s eye and ordered two more lagers, pushing one towards Dan when the barman placed them in front of him. ‘Cheers,’ he said, raising his glass. Dan raised his own glass and looked towards Peter, who had drained almost half his drink in a couple of gulps.

‘Peter, nobody believes you gave Giles a thump. The kid’s a complete arsehole. He’s just doing it to stir up trouble. You know it, I know it and Baxter knows it. It’s just a matter of going through the formalities. You should have reported it, you know. If you’d followed procedures, it would have been a lot better for you in the long run,’ Dan said, trying to be positive.

‘I didn’t report it, because nothing happened. I pulled Giles and Simmonds apart. Giles took a swing at me and missed. Apart from putting a hand across his chest, I never laid a bloody finger on the little bastard. What was there to report?’ Peter replied, becoming angry again.

‘Do you know what’s going to happen next? What I mean is, are you aware of the procedures?’ Peter gave an imperceptible shrug. ‘Well, the local authority will assign a LADO, that’s a Local Authority Designated Officer. He’ll start investigating the case, working with Baxter. He will fill in a load of paperwork and submit this to the LA and make a decision on whether there is any basis to take it forward. In your case, it’ll be dead in the water and you’ll be back before you know it.’

‘I’m not so sure I want it back, if I’m completely honest. I might resign and start up my own I.T. business or something,’ Peter replied morosely.

‘Don’t be daft. You’re a good teacher. Don’t throw it all away just because of one little incident like this. There’s only two weeks to the end of term. My bet is even if the outcome is favourable, which of course it will be,’ Dan added quickly, ‘Baxter will tell you you’re suspended on full pay until the new term and that’ll be that.’

‘And I suppose I’m supposed to be bloody grateful for that, am I?’ Peter replied sarcastically.

‘Look Peter, getting pissed and brooding over it, isn’t going to help. Come on, I’ll walk back with you and we can get grab a takeaway,’ Dan said, wanting to prise Peter away from the bar.

‘Dan, I know you’re just trying to help but right now, getting pissed is just what I need.’

‘Tell me to mind my own business but I’m a little concerned about the amount you’ve been drinking. It’s cost you your relationship with Janet. It’s clearly affecting your work and your judgement and if you don’t get to grips with it, it’s going to take your health.’ Peter shot him an icy glare, unimpressed with Dan’s interfering. ‘My father was an alcoholic, Peter. I remember how it took hold of him and slowly but surely it took over his life. He died a lonely, penniless, helpless drunk. I’ll spare you the gory details but believe me, it wasn’t pleasant for him or his family, those that still had the time of day for him.’ Dan gave him a knowing look and put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Come on, drink up,’ Peter replied, slamming his empty glass down on the bar.

They walked back from the chip shop in silence, Peter in deep thought about their conversation in the pub. Dan was right; his drinking had cost him his relationship but that was only half of it. Peter had been having dreams, dreams that he thought were over a long time ago. Until three months ago, he had not had prolonged bouts of nightmares since he was six or seven years old. The dream was exactly the same as it had been nearly twenty years ago and just thinking about it brought him out in a sweat.

He was a young