A Quick Snifter

Johnny sat outside the headmasters office, his left foot tapping the
tiled floor in nervous apprehension. He couldn't remember the last time
he'd felt like this, but despite the fact it had probably been 20 years
since he'd been to school, the emotions; fear, worry, nervous paranoia;
made it seem like it was only yesterday.
He glanced at his watch. A quarter past seven, late, he thought. The
letter had specifically requested his presence for seven and he'd been
left waiting for at least half an hour. He looked at the lazer clock
suspended neatly on the opposite wall, as though expecting it to tell a
different story. A quarter past seven. He sighed and resumed his
nervous tapping, beating out time to a popular song running through his
churning mind.
There was a faint hum and a small machine appeared, hovering three feet
above the ground.
"Mr Rocquefort?" queried a disembodied mechanical sounding voice. That
was one thing Johnny had never understood - with all of today's modern
technology they had yet to develop a synth'd voice that sounded even
vaguely realistic.
"Yes," he replied, his voice deliberately neutral.
"If you'd be so good as to follow me," the machine intoned spinning 180
degrees and arcing off down the corridor. Johnny had to be quick on his
toes just to keep up with it as it hurtled ahead of him.
With a faint bleep the robot came to a halt outside an unmarked heavily
fortified door. Johnny could just about make out the singe marks of
what appeared to be a recent flamethrower attack.
There was a loud buzz and an authoritive voice issued from a nearby
wall speaker. "Come."
Johnny pushed at the heavy door which swung in with a well oiled hiss,
revealed a large softly carpeted room lined with book shelves and
ornate portraits of stern looking men. His gaze shifted to the man sat
behind the desk, a dead ringer for the paintings on the wall.
"Ah, Mr Rocquefort," the voice was warm and welcoming, a hand gestured
towards a leather upholstered chair.
"Mr Bainbridge," Johnny responded, taking the proffered seat.
"Joint?" The headmaster asked.
"I wouldn't say no."
Bainbridge stood and crossed the room to a small cabinet. Pulling it
open and extending a flap he immediately and expertly began to skin up
a spliff, his nimble fingers creating a connical masterpiece. Moving
back to his desk he reached for a lighter, sparked up and took a long
heavy drag. Leaning back in his seat he exhaled with a loud sigh,
expelling the blue acrid smoke towards the mottled looking ceiling.
After taking another quick drag he carefully passed the joint over to
Johnny.
With a slight cough, Bainbridge smiled and said: "That's good shit. I
got it off one of the third grade boys. I think his dad works for one
of the big three."
Johnny gave a brief nod and puffed out a massive cloud of smoke, his
eyes watering with pleasure.
His good mood immediately evaporated as Bainbridge leaned forward in
his chair and fixed him with an icy stair.
"Pleasantries aside however, I'm afraid this is serious Mr
Rocquefort."
Johnny nodded mutely in response. He hadn't expected anything
less.
"It's about your son, Timothy... I don't know how to put this so you'll
forgive me if I'm blunt. He's been caught with alcohol."
Johnny let his eyes widen in shocked surprise.
"Yes, I'm sure it's a surprise to you. I've known your family for a
long time, and this kind of thing is certainly not something I'd expect
from a Rocquefort." Bainbridge continued.
Johnny raised his hands in surrender. "Surely a drop or two of alcohol
can be overlooked." He smiled a placating smile.
The headmaster leaned back his chair, his fingers rolling another
reefer.
"Well, yes, I suppose a drop or two is something that can be
overlooked. Unfortunately Timothy had an entire bottle of gin, and
that," he paused to lick the paper, "is not something we can just
ignore."
Johnny sat still, stunned. He'd known about Timothy's drinking for
sometime. It was hard to miss it really, the sneaking out of the house
or the constant offers to walk the dogs. The fact he was constantly
consuming mints by the thousands in an attempt to hide the smell. But
Johnny just thought it was a phase, something he'd grow out of. Hell,
they'd all experimented when they were young, the odd bit of beer,
maybe some cider. But gin? He had no idea it had become so
serious.
"I'm afraid it appears Timothy has been supplying other boys in the
school." Bainbridge continued. "A number of lads were caught drinking
behind the bike sheds and they've pointed out your son as the
source."
"But..." Johnny began.
"I'm sorry Rocquefort," sighed the headmaster. "We searched his locker
and his bag. It had a false bottom and we found two large bottles of
gin. We don't know where he got it from and he refuses to say." He took
a large drag on his joint and allowed the smoke to drift slowly out as
he talked. "The only thing we can think is that he's been in touch with
a dealer over on the estate."
Johnny shook his head in disbelief. "Timmy? I don't understand... I
knew that he'd dabbled, but I didn't think..."
"No, quite often with these things the parents are always the last to
know." The headmaster quickly stood and brushed a burning ember from
his tunic. "The police were informed, I'm afraid. Timothy has been
taken in for questioning, but they'll release him back to the custody
of the school once they're done."
Johnny sat still, tears running down his cheeks. "My boy, my little
boy," he whimpered, his voice barely audible.
Bainbridge reached forward and pushed a button, opening a draw on his
desk. Reaching in he pulled out a slip of paper and a pen and slid them
across to Johnny.
"I'm afraid the only thing left for you to do is to sign the punishment
permission slip for us," he leaned across the desk. "It's for the
best."
Johnny nodded mutely and with a shaking hand signed the piece of
paper.
"Good," boomed Bainbridge, taking the sheet back and dropping it into
the drawer. "You can pick up the body on Monday. Goodbye Mr Rocquefort,
and you have my sincere condolences."
The door behind Johnny swung open.