(Inspired by "The Legend of Rashomon.")
Rashomon Road Grammar is a very good school indeed, almost even as good as it believes itself to be. Sitting atop a cliff-side on a balmy spring afternoon, the sunlight danced across the tennis courts and played through the cherry blossoms before being obliterated by the thick black smoke which was currently emanating from its back entrance.
Inside the Head’s office sits a very severe woman in her mid-fifties behind a walnut desk as old as the building. There will have to be a committee meeting about this incident, the latest prospectuses will have to be scrapped and parents will be less forthcoming with their donations. This has put Mrs. Yeardley in a very sour mood, as her Head of Sixth Form knocks on the door and enters. Mrs. Yeardley is the very model of deportment and maintains her clipped and proper manner throughout all. The Head of Sixth Form, Ms. Yang is in her mid-forties and trying very hard to cope with the school’s opinion of itself and its place in the world. She cashes her pay-cheques and cries quietly at home.
“It’s out now ma’am, the Fire Department have everything under control.” She says.
Mrs. Yeardley nods almost imperceptibly before replying.
“It started in the Bike sheds didn't it?”
“Yes ma’am. Why...?”
“Get Wilkes!” Mrs Yeardley commands.
Ms. Yang is not surprised by this reaction, but stands up for her student nonetheless.
“I’m sorry ma’am?”
“He's always sneaking back there for a cigarette isn’t he? Get Wilkes! Now!”
Wilkes is summoned to the office. He's a scruffy 16 year-old Jack-the-lad, who has struggled against adversity, but will always be held back by a working class accent. He saunters into the office nonchalant and unaware.
“Afternoon.” he says as he sits himself down. The Head is not impressed.
“Do you know how much damage you've done?!”
“You what?” is the response.
Ms. Yang decides to interject, if only to help her student understand his current environment.
“Hang on a second, let's back up a bit. You know what happened during lunch?”
Wilkes can barely contain his laughter.
“Yeah... Mr Watson's bike went up like a Roman candle. Dickhead.”
“This isn't funny Wilkes!...”
“An art teacher's mid-life crisis going up in flames... it's quite funny.”
Ms. Yang betrays her true feelings with a little snigger, before Mrs Yeardley’s dagger-like stare reminds her of her duties.
“...and don’t EVER speak that way about one of your teacher’s!” Why did you do it?! I won't ask again!”
Wilkes sits up straight in his chair and starts taking things a bit more seriously.
“What is it you think I’ve done here?”
Mrs. Yeardley responds with incredulity.
“You malevolently incinerated the school that took you in. You betrayed our trust in you. You proved that you were never good enough to walk through our hallowed halls.”
“But I didn't... Yeah, okay I went back there to do a bit more remedial maths, but that’s it.”
“You stink of cigarette smoke, and you expect me to believe you went for ‘a little quiet study’?” Mrs. Yeardley has raised an eyebrow, before Wilkes rallies.
“All right, I had a quick roll-up… and you can't hear yourself think in the Library. I stubbed out my fag when I heard Mackesson's bike, and legged it. I ran past Janine Sanders from the 12E, ask her if you don't believe me!”
Ms. Yang continues her quiet questioning.
“How did you know it was Mr Mackesson's bike?
Wilkes responds immediately.
“I grew up with it. My uncle sold him that leaking rust-bucket last year. It's been dumping oil in the shed ever since.”
Mrs. Yeardley now has all she needs.
“So you threw a lit cigarette-end into an oil puddle and you think you did nothing wrong?”
Wilkes suddenly figures out what the head’s getting at.
“No! I'm from a family of mechanics, I know fire prevention. Talk to Janine!”
“Okay. Good. Well, we'll see you later.” says Mrs. Yeardley, who in that one statement knows she has gone above and beyond the call of duty with regards to “innocent until proven guilty”.
Wilkes leaves. A miasma of David Beckham’s signature cologne fills the air, followed thirty seconds later by it’s wearer: Mr. Mackesson, from the Art department. A thirty-eight year-old man who believes every reflective surface was placed there for him.
The Headmistress says hello.
“Good afternoon Bill, sorry about your motorbike.”
“It's no problem ma’am, I was thinking of getting a new one anyway.”
“Do your shirt up. You’re a teacher, not bloody Tarzan.” Ms Yang cannot help herself. “You called 999 didn't you?”
“Yep. I parked up, went after Janine who looked upset about something, then returned to the sheds when I smelled burning. Called the Fire Department and the rest you know.”
Next Janine Sanders is called in. She's very prim, very quiet and her attitude screams the term "bookworm" to the world. The teacher's notice she has a black eye but say nothing for the moment.
“Ms. Sanders, thank you for joining us. I hope you haven't been too put out by this little distraction.” the Headteacher simpers.
The Head of Sixth Form, also called in for the grilling, is far less enamoured with this spoilt little thing, and trying to be fair opens with:
“Were you anywhere near the incident?”
“Of course, how do you think I got this?” Janine replies with disgust. She’s pointing to her fresh shiner.
Mrs. Yeardley is aghast. “What happened to you, you poor dear?”
“I was heading towards the bike shed, when Wilkes barged past me, and ran me into the wall. I was lucky he didn’t smash my glasses.”
Ms. Yang finds this suspicious.
“Why were YOU heading towards the bike sheds?” she asks.
“It's... where I go to draw for Mr. Mackesson. When I got there, the fire was already going.”
“You didn't call for help?” Ms. Yang enquires.
“Mr Mackesson was already there, he was taking care of it.”
“What is there to draw back there but old brickwork and corrugated iron?”
Mrs. Yeardley has of course heard more than enough.
“Well I think that covers everything my dear... thank you for indulging us. I hope this terrible incident hasn’t troubled you too much?”
And with that, the Head of this august institution has finished her investigation. Young Ms Sanders nods in deference and leaves. Mrs. Yeardley announces to her subordinates:
“Well that settles that. Get Wilkes back in here, the little arsonist will be excluded before the sun sets.”
Earlier that day, by the bike sheds.
Wilkes is stress-smoking whilst trying to recite the book he has in his other hand. His eyes are closed. Anyone around would hear him say:
“Okay... SOH-CAH-TOA. Opposite over hypotenuse use Sine, Cosine for adjacent over hypotenuse and Tangent is opposite over adjacent.
He checks his book, affirms he's right by throwing his hands in the air, and then reacts to the sound of a very ill motorbike heading towards him.
“Oh, bugger.
Wilkes finds a damp patch of the ground without oil stains on it and quickly stamps out his cigarette. It's still smouldering. Wilkes runs past Janine Sanders. He engages her quickly.
“All right sugar-tits?
The very prim girl turns her nose at him.
“You're disgusting!” she shouts at his retreating form. Wilkes continues running, and continues laughing, his day an unqualified success. Sanders gets to the bike sheds and takes out her sketch book. Mr. Mackesson parks his bike, and turns to Janine. He smiles rakishly towards her.
“All right sugar-tits? He says.
Janine starts giggling coquettishly. The two of them embrace and kiss passionately. With adoration in her eyes, Janine makes an announcement.
“I've got some great news...” she says “...I'm pregnant!”
The man twice her age pulls away immediately.
“What?! We need to fix this. Let's get you to a Doctor.”
Ms Sanders recoils in horror.
“You're not killing our baby!” she says defiantly. Mr. Mackesson acts decisively and unilaterally, like all incompetent men think they need to do.
“This is a mess!” he shouts. “We need to sort this out” he yells whilst he gesticulates widely. “...and you need to listen to the adult here!”
Janine has found her nerve. She fires back.
“You're sleeping with a 15 year-old, your opinion doesn't count. You said you were going to leave your wife, you didn’t. I tested your commitment, you failed.”
Mr. Mackesson slaps Janine so hard that she stumbles. Mr Mackesson ends the “discussion”.
“Listen you stupid little girl! We're done. Clean break. If you don't like it, I've still got those very intimate charcoal drawings you posed for last year... very expressive. If you don't want them hitting the school facebook page you'll keep these silly stories to yourself.”
Mr. Mackesson leaves Janine by herself. She takes out her sketch book and rips out some pages whilst in floods of tears. She finds the still smouldering dog-end and lights the pictures up. She throws them towards the motorbike, which goes up, yes, like a Roman candle.
In the Head’s office, just as Mrs. Yeardley is reaching for the phone.
Ms. Yang has one last arrow to loose into the fray. She says:
“Wait a minute... Janine doesn't take art does she?”