Free Disappearing Home by Deborah Morgan Page B

we all pile in and thump Mr Thorpe until he drops to the floor, staring up at something that looks like his nose sticking out of Tommy Taylor’s teeth. He grasps at the place on his face where it once was. We watch him watch Tommy swallow it down whole.
    Mr Thorpe starts to shake Tommy’s sleeves. Up and down they go, like a scarecrow in a windy field.
    â€˜Maybe they’re up his sleeve, crumbs hidden inside his ripped cuffs? Is that why you nibble them?’
    He bends down, drags the jumper up over Tommy’s head. His ears get stuck in the neck and he lets out a moan. Mr Thorpe pulls harder; they spring pinky-red back into view. Once the jumper is off, Mr Thorpe shakes it, throws it to the floor.
    Trisha Fisher puts up her hand again.
    â€˜What, girl?’
    â€˜I need the toilet, sir.’
    He checks the clock on the wall. ‘You can wait until break.’
    Trisha Fisher leans forward ready to pounce at the clock.
    â€˜A scabby little mouse has poked its greedy nose into my biscuit tin and ate the lot. What’s to be done?’
    Gavin Rossiter puts his hand up.
    â€˜What is it, Rossiter?’
    â€˜You could lock them away, sir, so scabby little mice can’t get them.’
    â€˜Lock them away? What do you think they are, prisoners of war?’
    Trisha Fisher’s hand goes up again. Her wide scribbly mouth is closed tight. Her mum’s been up to the school before; she told Mr Merryville Trisha’s got to go to the toilet whenever she needs to cos she’s got a weak bladder.
    Mr Thorpe looks at her, his voice has risen to a scream. ‘I said wait.’
    He walks back over to Tommy. ‘I know who to lock away in a cupboard. Dirty little thieves who steal things that don’t belong to them.’
    My face burns.
    Somebody squeaks pissy wissy at Trisha Fisher.
    She bursts into tears.
    Mr Thorpe walks back to his desk and leans against it, like it’s an old friend.
    I look across at Stephen Foley; he’s got his palms over his ears. The sound of the bell makes us all look at the clock.
    Tommy Taylor jumps up, wearing just his vest. Slips back into his seat. He stoops, not taking his eyes off Mr Thorpe, paws around the floor for his jumper, finds it, holds it to his chest. The bell rings again. Breathless, we wait to be dismissed. With a careless hand, Mr Thorpe waves us away. Tommy legs it across the room, wriggling back inside his jumper. Trisha Fisher, cupping the middle of her skirt, knees locked, takes baby steps towards the door.
    Once we are on the playground, I hear Anthony Greenbank talking to Gavin about Mr Thorpe. ‘He’s a loony.’
    â€˜I know,’ Gavin says. ‘All over a crummy biscuit.’ They don’t laugh. It’s too soon to pretend it was funny.
    Anthony tells Gavin about Arthur Raynard. ‘He used to let me off if I never had enough money. Once, these big kids robbed my dad’s paper money off me. When I told him what had happened, he gave me the
Echo
for free. Dolly would never let you off like that.’
    I turn to Kevin and whisper. ‘Who was Arthur Raynard?’
    He shakes his head. ‘Dolly’s husband, you nit.’
    I can hear Dad’s shiny cherry blossom shoes
clit-clat
down the stairs. Stop halfway. He taps his pockets but the matches aren’t there, so he turns around, shoes
shish shish
back up the stairs.
    The scrape of the key in the lock then his voice from the hall: ‘Get my matches off the mantelpiece.’
    And Mum, handing them to me out of her pocket.
    In the hall, holding open the front door, see him shake them to his ear. ‘They’re not mine. Off the mantelpiece, I said.’
    Back into the living room, Mum’s already got them open. Takes out a pinchful, tucks them, goodnight God bless, inside the box I hold.
    When he’s gone, I walk into the kitchen. Mum is rolling the tip of her cigarette across the electric ring. Little sparks of fire fall to