There was no such thing as “special needs” back in my time at school. There was a school for the disabled (Victoria School) for kids with conditions like spina bifida or cerebral palsy, but autism, ADHD or dyslexia did not exist in the eyes of education. Those kids were thrown into the comprehensive schools and told to get on with it.
There was a mute in my year called Kenwood. He was a foot taller than everyone else in our year. He looked two years older than everyone else, like a kid who had stumbled into the wrong classroom.
Kenwood never said a word to anyone. I often wondered if he was mute or just quiet. Confirmation came in craft class, when the teacher went round the room asking questions but skipped Kenwood because she knew he couldn't answer.
Kenwood went everywhere with his friend Stuart. Stuart was a foot shorter than everyone else in the year - short and slight. He acted as Kenwood's voice and, because Kenwood couldn't voice an opinion, Stuart directed Kenwood’s actions and thoughts. The pair reminded me of Dr Evil and his henchman.
In the playground at lunch one day Stuart said, "Go punch that kid in the face." Stuart pointed at a group of kids on the far side of the playground.
Kenwood marched across the playground like an automaton. Whack! He laid the kid out on the floor, turned around and calmly walked back like nothing had happened.
All the kids within reach of the victim stood agog, shocked and helpless. No one could challenge Kenwood. He was now one of the largest kids in the school; just as large as the fifth year students.
Kenwood got dragged into the head teachers office but, because he couldn't talk, Stuart had to go with him. I'd have given anything to be a fly on the wall in that room.
"Kenwood! You know it's wrong to punch another student in the face. Stuart, why did Kenwood do that?"
"I've no idea, sir. He doesn’t say anything, does he?"
I regarded Kenwood as a psychopath, not a bully.
Bullies hit you because they want something: "Give me your Twix." Whack! "Now, give me your Twix."
Psychos do not want anything from you. They just want to hit you. Psychos are dangerous.
There were a couple of psychopaths in my year at school. The other was named Lee, who was in my Art and Design class.
One morning our art teacher left the room to get supplies from the class next door. Lee crept up behind me, grabbed me around the neck and pulled me backwards off my stool.
Everyone on my table started cheering, "Lee! Lee! Lee!" I thought it was a jolly jape and tried to tap out.
"Yeah, well done Lee. You got me."
That was the cue for Lee to squeeze harder. He crushed my throat and I couldn't breathe.
At this point I was practically lying on top of him, my legs raised slightly on the overturned stool. I tried to jab him with my elbow but he had placed his other arm horizontally across my back ready to block those jabs.
My next thought was to push my thumbs into his eye sockets. I reached over my shoulders to grab his face. His head was much lower than I was expecting. I thrashed around trying to keep hold of his head and, as he swung his head from side to side, I struggled to find his face.
With the frantic struggle I was already running out of air. I could feel my head going light and dizzy.
The only thing I had to work with was his arm that was around my neck. Everyone has veins on the back of their hands. I knew if I could rip the skin off the back of his hand I could cause a bleed and he would have to let me go to deal with the blood.
Unfortunately I had recently cut my nails. I had nothing to scratch with. As I lost consciousness I was simply stroking the back of his hand.
My friend Anthony was sitting directly across the table from me. He spotted I was turning blue and, as my vision faded out, he shouted, "Let him go Lee. Let him go!"
I found it ironic that everyone cheered when the attack started but looked so concerned by the end result. The reality of violence is so much more shocking than the fun presented on TV.
I am told I walked to the school sick bay, but I don't have any memory of it.
My next memory is of lying on a bench in sick bay. A teacher that I didn’t recognise was sitting next to me. It was now half way through the lunch break. She asked how I was feeling and checked if I needed lunch. I ate some food from my lunch box before the teacher left to grab something before the canteen closed.
The bell rang for afternoon lessons and, with no teacher around to give me leave to go home, I trundled off to afternoon registration.
I was a few minutes late, the classroom was full when I entered. Everyone turned to stare. They sat open mouthed with looks of shock and disbelief. They looked at me like a ghost had just walked into the room.
As I took my seat my mate Gary said, "I thought you were dead.".
Some kids from my art class had reported me losing consciousness, through gossip and whispers this had grown into an ambulance arriving and my dead body being taken away. News of my death had been greatly exaggerated.
To this day I still stagger cutting my nails. One hand one week, the other hand next week. It seems pathetic to think I still do this now, after all those years, but coping mechanisms bring comfort and are hard to abandon.
Those years at senior school were an ordeal. I did not feel safe in the first 4 years I was there. My daily goal was to get through the day without being dragged to the floor and beaten.
I used any excuse not to be on the playground at lunch time. There was Chess Club on Monday; I worked in the art room on Thursday; I stayed in the woodwork department when morning lessons finished on Friday. The teachers let me use the classrooms because I was trusted to work and not cause damage. The less academically minded boys had to endure the playground.
The following year, Lee had a mental breakdown in the playground.
The usual lunchtime football match was underway. Lee was actually a great player; fast with good dribbling skills. When he was not suspended we'd argue over having him on our team.
The incident started with some sliding tackles, which got complimentary shouts from other players, "Nice one, Lee. Get stuck in!"
Then Lee started tackling players on his own team. "Lee, you know Andrew's on our team, right?" No one was confident to be on the ball. A crunching tackle could come at any time. The match came to a stop.
Lee picked up the ball and started drop-volleying the ball into people's backs. He missed someone and the ball flew onto the roof of the music block.
Without a ball to use as ammunition, he then started attacking boys at random. Kicking the back of their knees, dragging them to the floor and kicking their faces.
In the past, this would have been the signal for a mass brawl but on this day we found we had out-grown it.
Everyone backed off. The playground emptied as we walked away onto the grass verge.
One of our best players, Andrew Salter, was standing next to me. He looked on in disbelief and in a tone akin to a disappointed parent he commented, "for fucks sake, we just want to play football."
Mr Greene came sprinting across the playground. Normally he would pluck boys from the melee and drag them into the building, but today there was only Lee on the playground. Lee was now running from person to person like a crazed dog looking for a target to take down.
Mr Greene put his arm around Lee and led him away. I watched him give Lee a pat on the shoulder, a fully patronising "mommy make it better" affectionate tap. We were all astonished. We couldn't believe what we were seeing - this psycho is getting love for doing this?!
It was then that I noticed Lee was crying.
Lee was being abused at home.
My hell was school - the place I never felt safe, from 9am to 3pm.
Lee's hell was home - the place he never felt safe, from 3pm to 9am.
When Lee got suspended this changed to 24 hours a day at home.
When he was allowed to return to school he directed his pent up rage on those around him. Within a week or two he got suspended again, and the cycle would restart.
It took 4 years for someone to put their arm around him and ask, "what's going on?"
I’d like to say times have changed. Schools now offer better support to violent children who are struggling with their mental health. However, the government still adopts a strategy where victims of violence are ignored once they themselves have reacted with violence.