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
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
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.’