Discipline and Dilemmas (2)
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Wednesday, 9 October
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The headmaster couldn't sleep. He rolled over in bed and looked at the clock again. Still only ten past five in the morning. He'd been away from the school for way too long for his liking. He'd originally planned to be back on Monday but his mother had been taken ill just as the conference ended on Friday so he'd ended up spending what turned out to be a very long weekend with her. He always worried about the school when he was away and although he felt Wicklow was fairly trustworthy it was the first time he'd left him in charge. Whenever he closed his eyes, he kept seeing visions of unruly schoolgirls running riot, letting off fire extinguishers in the corridors, and smoking in the toilets, the school falling into disrepair, the teachers losing control and threatening to go on strike. Eventually he gave up trying to get back to sleep and decided to get up and go in early instead.
A couple of miles away on the other side of the village, Jenny couldn't sleep either. She rolled over and pressed the button that illuminated her bedside clock. She was relieved to find it was still only five thirty, so she had a couple of hours before she had to get up. She'd spent the previous evening typing up her notes, working late into the night and half-watching TV before slipping into bed at around midnight.
Outside, the wind changed direction, and the cold October rain rattled against the window. She shivered and tugged the duvet up to her nose. With her boyfriend still away in Germany, the bed seemed huge. Jenny stretched out happily beneath the duvet, enjoying the warmth and sense of space. She closed her eyes quickly sinking into that lovely state halfway between sleep and consciousness, her mind going over the events and images of the last few days.
Mr Lean had seemed very pleased when she'd agreed to go to the pub with him. Was it just a friendly drink with a group of teachers on Friday or did Mr Lean see it as more of a date? Would that be a bad thing? What would Derek think about her going out with one of the teachers?
Her mind also kept returning to the girl, Holly. Jenny tried to imagine how it would feel if it was her standing there in Wicklow's study, the threat of a caning hanging over her. Being forced to stand still, hands on head, whilst Wicklow lifted her skirt with the tip of his cane. Pleading with him to stop as he exposed her bare thighs. She felt a warm flicker of arousal deep in her belly as she imagined watching him become hard, his thin lips set in a cruel grin as he used the tip of the cane to stroke her through her panties.
"How disgusting," she muttered as her hand drifted between her legs.
Was it just Wicklow and Hunter or were there other teachers molesting their students? And perhaps most worryingly, what would happen to her if they ever found out she was really an undercover journalist?
Imagine how angry Wicklow would be if he found out! She found herself fantasizing about what might happen. Perhaps Wicklow and the headmaster would find out and want to take matters into their own hands. She pictured herself sitting in front of the headmaster's desk, nervously chewing a fingernail, waiting anxiously as he finished reading the report in front of him. She couldn't recall what the headmaster looked like, so she conjured up the image of a faceless, authoritarian figure; tall and dark and in his fifties, neither good-looking nor ugly, and smartly dressed in a smart, dark grey suit.
"Do you know what this is?" he'd snap.
Jenny would shake her head dumbly.
Instead of handing it to her, the headmaster would spin the paper around with his fingertips and beckon her to come closer, curling his finger. He'd keep his fingers on the paper so that she'd be forced to stand and lean forward over the desk, supporting her weight on her palms as she craned her head to read the small type.
She'd see it was her CV. Not the fake one, the real CV with her real name and listing her current occupation as a journalist for the Echo.
"What's this?" she'd say innocently.
"Perhaps you need to look more closely," he'd growl as he'd grab her wrists and pull them towards him, forcing her weight onto her elbows.
"What are you doing? Please, you're hurting me!" she'd whine as she'd try but fail to pull her hands loose.
"Don't play the innocent with me girl, we know all about your lies. Your real name is Jenny Coombes, isn't it?" he'd insist angrily, his face burning red.
"Please let me go, this is all a mistake," she'd reply, still struggling to free her wrists.
He wouldn't let her go though; he'd pull her wrists even further towards him so that his stern, craggy face was inches from hers. She'd realise what a vulnerable position she was in now, stretched over the desk, her smart office skirt riding up over her the back of her legs.
"Now then girl, tell us the truth before things get a lot worse for you," he'd say threateningly.
"Okay, it's true," she'd whimper. "I'm sorry. I'll get my things and leave, okay?"
"You're a journalist aren't you? From the worst kind of gutter press. Looking to dig up some dirt about the school?"
"Fine, you got me. You win. Listen, I'll just collect my things and leave, alright?"
"Well I'm afraid it's not as simple as that," he'd continue, smiling wickedly. "Young ladies who break the rules must be punished, mustn't they Mr Wicklow?"
"That's right, headmaster, and she has been especially deceitful," said in a sinister voice that was suddenly right behind Jenny.
"Well," the headmaster would say. "Let's not keep the poor girl waiting then."
"No, please, wait!" Jenny would mew as she felt Wicklow eagerly grasp the hem of her charcoal grey skirt. He'd ease it slowly up over her legs enjoying her discomfort.
