Free The Broken Ones by Sarah A. Denzil Page B

are smudges of mud on his face again. No amount of sending him to the bathroom to clean up actually seems to work.
    “It’ll help you for your test at the end of the year.” It’s not strictly a lie, but I have tested them more than is necessary so far this year. I usually throw in a lot more practical activities and, well, fun lessons, but I’m itching to listen to the file from the recording device. I can only get through two hours at work, and then the rest I’ll have to listen to while I’m at home.
    “We hate tests, Miss.” A tall boy called Sam puts his head in his hands dramatically. Kids can be very dramatic over the most ridiculous things.
    “I don’t hate tests.” Alice has a smug smile on her haughty little face. I know I shouldn’t dislike her, but…
    “All right, that’s enough, everyone. Settle down, now.” The longer they faff around, the longer it will take for me to sit down and listen to the MP3 file. I raise my hands for silence before quickly handing around the materials for the test.
    With the children finally organised, I pull the recording device out of the top drawer of my desk, where I put it for safekeeping while taking the register. I open my laptop and place the USB stick into the correct port. Noah is the first to look up at the noise. He watches me put the headphones on with interest. I shoot him a hard stare, and he gets back to his work. Chloe was the only child not to react to the news of the test today. Instead she scribbled in her notebook and giggled to herself. I had to turn away, repeating what Alisha had said to me. It’s not my place. I can’t get involved.
    I play the file. Before I left for work, I managed to find the part of the recording where Mum was going to bed. I fast-forwarded to a few moments after I’d helped her into bed and left her alone. That’s what starts when I click on play.
    There’s silence. Then a small sigh, followed by the sound of bedsheets moving. I imagine her trying to get comfortable, rolling from one side of the bed to the other. I can see the floral sheets in my mind, and her dry, dyed hair spreading across the pillow. I can see the lump of her body beneath the duvet, and the pastel pink cushioned headrest. The classroom has almost completely disappeared. I’m there.
    Bowing my head over a pile of marking, I raise the volume a few bars to make sure I don’t miss anything. I need to be certain that I hear everything that went on in that room. With horror, I realise that I’m excited. The anticipation of listening into my mother’s private life is almost delicious. I’m enjoying this. After years of her blocking me out of my life, of watching her sneak around with married men and keep secrets from me, I’m finally getting an insight into a part of her life I know nothing about. But what sort of insight will it be? A seven-hour recording of her snoring all night?
    As the time goes on, and the file remains silent except for the odd sound of Mum shifting in her sleep, or snoring, I begin to lose that excitement. Instead, I actually start marking the work in front of me, with the sound of the file merely background noise. The children yawn, stretch, and scribble across their pages. I find my attention shifting to Chloe, who is bent over her work, but moving her pencil in circles rather than writing.
    Impatience begins to grasp me. I only have forty-five minutes until break time. When I set the recording, I told myself I would listen to it all. But maybe I don’t need to. It was in the early hours of the morning when Mum came into my room, frightened. Perhaps I can fast-forward the file to about 2am. I work out what time I put Mum to bed, and what time I went to bed myself, then I fast-forward the file a number of hours until I think it’s about 2am. Then I click play.
    Still nothing.
    I answer a question from a student and go back to my marking. Noah’s homework has an orange mark on it that I can only assume came from a glass of