She tells Seb that the petition and ‘more than a few’ complaints have been officially presented to the governors. They want to avoid a tribunal, but there is pressure, immense pressure, Harriet tells him, from the parents; they want to be involved in the decision about Seb’s future. ‘You see, they feel you involved them with your assembly, and I rather take their point. It feels incorrect to sideline them now.’ She sniffs and blinks blue-veined eyelids over blue eyes.
‘What are you suggesting – some kind of parent forum?’
‘Precisely,’ she says, unable to meet his eye. ‘We’ve taken advice from the local council and we’re going to invite parents to present their views publicly, and then us governors will have a separate, closed meeting – according to the school constitution – when we will decide whether your employment here is still in the best interest of the school or not.’ She glances at him quickly before looking away. ‘As time is of the essence, Mrs Greene will send out an email informing parents as soon as possible. It’ll be held on Monday afternoon, after school. We’ll have the governors’ meeting later in the week and then present you with our final decision.’
The parent forum is unexpected, especially so soon, but everything else is as he thought it would be, even down to the way Harriet looks: tight-lipped and frowning, never once straying from her script.
By four p.m. the school is relatively quiet. Seb calls Rosie, but there’s no answer. He aches to be with her, with his own kids, but he can’t ignore it any more, he knows he has to do it eventually. He sits and picks up his work phone; he hasn’t looked at his emails since Anna’s radio performance earlier and as he opens his inbox his teeth clench together and his jaw immediately aches.
There are over a hundred emails waiting for him. Most of the subject lines are written in screaming capitals, many with exclamation marks – one is simply titled, ‘SHAME!’ He knows he should open them methodically one after the other but instead he clicks, almost greedy, trying to move quicker than the acid he can feel rising up in a wave from his stomach, heading for his throat.
Dear Sebastian Kent,
My daughter, Ada Barton, will never again attend Waverly Community while you are head teacher …
The next contains a link to testimonies from women coerced into prostitution, men paying their traffickers to rape them.
You exploit these women’s desperation so you can abuse their bodies. Let’s hope this doesn’t happen to your own daughters, you disgusting man.
The next is a porn clip, the photo of Seb from the school website grinning, stuck on top of the male actor’s face as he has sex from behind with a bored-looking woman filing her nails.
There’s one from a group called Men Stand Strong! telling him he should be proud of himself, that wives should provide sex for their husbands – isn’t ‘with my body I thee worship’ in the marriage vows after all?
There are a few from email accounts Seb doesn’t recognize, each one progressively worse than the last.
Do your kids a favour, Mr Kent, get rid of yourself. Sooner the better.
I hope you never see your own children again, you sick fuck.
Me and my mates are coming to arse rape you until you die. Ha, ha, ha!
He reads them all and when he’s done, he puts his phone screen-down on the desk and sits back in his chair. He should, he thinks, feel something. Rage, perhaps, horror or fear. But he’s strangely empty where feeling should be. It’s peculiar: these furious strangers – people in general – suddenly mean nothing to him. Like he’s unclipped himself from everyone else apart from a very few. He just wants to go home. He wants to go home very, very badly.
He looks out of the window and decides it’s just about dark enough to leave, and he hurries down the little path that leads to the car park. He studies the ground as he walks close to the wall, avoiding the lights, and as soon as he’s out of the school grounds and on to the pavement he feels something solid and too close. Out of nowhere he sees an arm reaching out for him, trying to shake his hand, and hears a voice saying, ‘Seb, Mr Kent, hi, I’m Mark! So glad I caught you. I was about to give up.’
Seb keeps walking. He doesn’t owe this man anything.
But the man keeps talking. ‘I’m a producer for The Talk Show – you know, on BBC Radio Sussex.’
Seb shakes his head. ‘No, no, I’m not interested.’
Seb starts walking away but he’s not quick enough as Mark trots like a companionable dog beside him. He should tell him to go, to leave him alone, but up ahead there’s a group of kids dressed in cheap synthetic black and lurid greens, comparing the sweets in their little pails. They could have siblings at Seb’s school; a couple might even be old enough to be at the secondary school already. Seb can’t risk someone recognizing him, especially if there’s a bit of commotion getting Mark to leave him alone; besides, with Mark gesticulating by his side, Seb thinks people are less likely to recognize him. If he keeps his eyes on the pavement, they’ll seem like a couple of commuters on their way home. Seb moves himself to the inside of the pavement, away from the road, and keeps his head down, nodding occasionally as Mark blabs away. ‘What I’m saying is that obviously our website has blown up with comments after the I Heart Sussex show about you and your … umm … situation and, well, we want to give you the chance to respond, especially as some of them mention your dad, so …’
Seb stops walking. It’s worked. Mark has his full attention now. ‘What, what do they say about my dad?’
‘Have a look yourself, mate.’ Mark’s come prepared; he hands Seb his phone with the BBC Radio Sussex page already loaded.
The screen shines in the darkness as Seb automatically scrolls through the words before him:
‘The late Prof. Benjamin Kent was a colleague of mine and I have to say he would be appalled at his son’s humiliating and shameful behaviour.’
The next reads, ‘Agreed. I’m glad he doesn’t have to live through this. Benjamin always led by example and it’s such a pity his son has failed to do the same.’
Shame, not blood, throbs through Seb. The posts are anonymous, but still, they knew Seb’s dad’s name – they’re legitimate. The thought that what he’s done and this whole spiralling mess is tainting his dad’s memory pushes Seb somewhere beyond shame, beyond feeling. Like all his emotional receptors have short-circuited and switched off. He looks up, briefly, at Mark, who is looking back at him, eyes wide, half his mouth raised, his expression a reluctant ‘told you so’.
Seb scrolls down a bit on the phone to get away from those comments about his dad. He reads, ‘Why are you so surprised? Privileged arseholes like Mr Kent have been screwing over hard-working people like this poor woman since time immemorial …’
Again, his thumb automatically scrolls down and down and down; the words, the endless, endless words, blur on the screen. He stops at random: ‘It’s time the Head Cunt is taught a lesson, time for him to know what it feels like to be desperate …’
‘See what I mean?’ Mark asks, taking his phone gently back from Seb. Mark doesn’t seem to notice that Seb hardly hears a word as he keeps talking. ‘It’s bigger than you think, this thing. Not quite viral but heading in that direction. Bacterial, maybe?’ Mark snorts at his own stupid joke before he appeals to Seb again. ‘Look, everyone has something to say about your story – everyone, that is, apart from you. Which is where I come in.’
It’s time for Mark to go.
‘I’ll think about it,’ Seb mutters.
‘The show is on tomorrow afternoon; it would literally be perfect timing in terms of—’
‘I said I need to think about it, OK, Mark?’
Mark pulls back, slightly chastened. Seb notices how young he really is, guesses Mark was probably the kind of kid at school to always try his best but never quite make it on to that podium. The kind of kid Seb adores, so he adds, more gently, ‘Look, why don’t you give me your details and I’ll be in touch.’