The Classroom

by A. L. Bird

  Kirsten shakes her head. ‘She’s taken her. Christ! OK, we need to call police, social services, the news – shit, who else do you tell? Who looks for children?’

  Yvette uses her low, quiet tone again. ‘And tell them what, Kirsten?’

  ‘That my child’s been kidnapped!’ Kirsten shouts.

  But she knows exactly what Yvette means. She can’t tell the police anything, without telling them everything.

  The only person she can call right now is Ian. He must know something. He must.

  Chapter 40

  BECKY

  ‘Come on, keep your hat on, Harriet. It’s part of the adventure!’ Becky whispers to Harriet. She doesn’t want to draw the other coach passengers’ attention to the hat – that’s not the point. It’s the opposite of the point.

  ‘But I don’t like it!’ Harriet protests.

  Becky can’t blame her. It’s a drab, black beanie hat, grabbed with haste from a food and wine store where Becky had kept her head down and the transaction short.

  ‘Look, I’ve got one too!’ Becky says. ‘Matching hats! Awesome, right?’

  Harriet goes back to staring out the window.

  It’s a long way to Bristol.

  But it’s the only place Becky can think of to go. It’s where her sister lives. Julia. The cool one, without children. Even if they can’t stay with her, she’ll have an idea of where to put them, right?

  Becky doesn’t know if it’s safe to phone her, or even text her. If Kirsten’s gone to the police, surely they’ll have some whizzy way to put a track on the phone. It’s best just to turn up on the doorstep, plead asylum. Becky knows it’s one of the first places the police will look. But she just needs to be there for a night, get some sanity from her sister, then move on. Maybe her sister is good with kids. Maybe that’s why she was so enraged when Becky gave hers up.

  ‘The wheels on the bus go round and round,’ Becky sings quietly to Harriet.

  ‘They don’t,’ Harriet retorts. ‘It’s a coach, not a bus. You said.’

  True, true, she had said that.

  ‘It’s the same sort of thing though, isn’t it? They’re from the same family.’ And by the way, so are we, Becky wants to add. How is she going to tell her? When? Maybe when they get to Julia’s place.

  Harriet shrugs.

  Why isn’t it this difficult at school? Harriet always seems golden there, like she can do no wrong. That’s the child Becky has daydreamed about being with. Not this sulky and difficult person.

  Still, that’s a good thing, right – she’s getting to know her child properly. With all her imperfections. No, imperfections is the wrong word. Harriet is perfect. Of course she is. All her idiosyncrasies. Being a proper mother, not just admiring Harriet from afar.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ announces Harriet.

  Becky brightens. She’d thought of this, at least. Proudly, she pulls out of her bag the two tortilla wraps she’d bought at the food and wine store, along with the hats.

  Harriet looks at them and her little lips curl slightly.

  ‘Mummy said we could have turkey dinosaurs for lunch.’

  She would, wouldn’t she – just the kind of trashy food that a woman like Kirsten, too busy to cook, would foist upon her daughter. Not that the tortillas are much better. But they’re on the run. Different rules apply.

  ‘We don’t have any turkey dinosaurs, I’m afraid, sweetie. You’ll just have to get some later. Maybe Auntie Julia will have some.’

  ‘I don’t have an Auntie Julia. And I want some turkey dinosaurs!’

  Harriet’s lower lip is starting to quiver, and her voice is rising higher. Becky really wishes she’d forgotten the healthy eating thing and just bought some crisps. Children like crisps, right?

  ‘When can we get some proper food?’ Harriet demands.

  Becky suspects that ‘in about two hours, if the traffic is good’ isn’t the kind of answer that Harriet’s after. While she’s thinking of what to say, a man’s head appears between the seats in front of them.

  ‘I couldn’t help overhearing the little lady,’ he says in a heavy Scottish accent. ‘Would cake count as “proper food”, by any chance?’

  He holds up a chocolate muffin.

  It’s on the tip of Becky’s tongue to say that they can’t possibly accept food from strangers, but Harriet is too quick for her.

  ‘Cake!’ she shouts in glee.

  The man smiles widely and passes the muffin over the seat.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Becky asks.

  But if he isn’t, it’s too late, as most of the cake seems to already be in Harriet’s mouth or spread over her face.

  ‘Aye, I’m sure. I could do wi’ losing a little weight, anyways!’

  ‘It’s very kind of you,’ Becky says. ‘Thank you.’ Even though, she is, of course worrying that (a) this man might be a paedophile who will later try and lure her child away and (b) this incident means that he will remember them if later quizzed about it.

  But nothing now is worrying Harriet at all, it seems. Soon, the bus/coach dichotomy is forgotten, and Harriet is happily singing about wheels going round. She repays the kindness of the man in front by kicking the back of his seat repeatedly.

  Maybe Becky has misjudged Kirsten ever so slightly. Maybe processed food and sugar do have their uses.

  That’s the only thing Becky is going to take any kind of guidance on from Kirsten, though. Becky knows she has it in her to be a better mother than Kirsten has even been. For a start, a biological entitlement to it. And so, if Becky has her way, Kirsten isn’t going to see Harriet again.

  Chapter 41

  KIRSTEN

  Kirsten slides into the car seat next to Ian. She takes in his appearance, and sees her own shock mirrored on his face. Yes, she probably looks like shit – his (ex?) lover has stolen her child. But he looks pretty awful too. Chin stubbly, eyes baggy, collar awry. She can’t imagine that going down well with Ofsted. The car isn’t in much better condition either. There’s a sleeping bag on the back seat, covered with random bits of paper. Ofsted work, presumably. It doesn’t cease just because Harriet has gone.

  Kirsten sees him following her gaze.

  ‘We’re so nearly there,’ he says, his voice rasping. Is that whisky on his breath? ‘The final inspection is coming up. If I can just—’

  ‘Our daughter, Ian,’ Kirsten says gently.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He nods, but Kirsten senses his brain isn’t really there. It’s like she’s communicating with someone on the other side of a precipice. ‘I don’t know anything,’ he says.

  ‘You must do,’ Kirsten says.

  It’s a reprise of the conversation on the phone. But Kirsten thought if she could put aside her sense of betrayal, for just a few minutes, look Ian in the eye, she’d be able to deduce whether Ian was telling the truth.

  ‘We can go to her flat, if you like,’ Ian volunteers. ‘Kirsten, I want to help, but—’

  ‘But how would we get into her flat?’ Kirsten asks, voice sharp. Is he sleeping with her, after all?

  ‘I’m sort of the landlord,’ he says. ‘I’ve got keys.’

  What that probably means is that their money – her money – has been funding Becky’s accommodation for years. Ian had said he wanted to avoid confrontation with her but what an expensive – and risky – way of doing it! Keep your enemies closer and closer, so that they move gradually nearer to you, in a flat you pay for yourself … this could so easily descend into a marital spat, but now is not the time. Kirsten’s not even sure if there’s a marriage left to spat about. ‘If you’ve got the keys to her flat, why not go and live there?’ she asks, looking round the car again.

  Ian looks down at his hands. ‘I thought about it. Tried it, even. But when I got there, it seemed too much of a transgression. After everything. I’m responsible, Kirsten. For all of it.’

  And that is whisky on his breath. Because he takes another swig of it now.

  Kirsten takes the bottle from
him and puts it in the back seat. ‘You’re not responsible, Ian. Your drink was spiked.’

  ‘I was physically responsible, and she was in my care. I just need to prove I can be better, that I’m not that man; if I can just buy a bit more time, stop it coming out before we get the school sorted, there’s a chance people will see, understand, I’m not like that, I’m better, I’m …’ He trails off, hand over his face. Sobbing.

  Kirsten puts a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Give me the car keys,’ she says gently. She doesn’t want to see her husband like this. But she wants to find her daughter more.

  When they get to the flat, Kirsten sees that, more likely than not, Becky didn’t have a plan. In the bathroom, there’s a toothbrush in a holder by the sink, a dressing gown slung over the side of the bath. It’s not the flat of someone who’s taken everything and fled. But the main thing is – there’s no sign of Harriet. No Frozen kiddy toothbrush or lurid toothpaste, no Minnie Mouse flannel, like at home.

  Kirsten wipes away a tear. This can’t be happening.

  In the main living space – the cramped sitting room with adjoining kitchenette – there’s nothing given away either. Some exercise books and other work-type papers slung in a corner. Unwashed coffee cups. More of them over in the kitchen. There probably isn’t a dishwasher. The whole place has a stale, hopeless air. It’s no place for her child.

  ‘When did you last talk to Becky?’ Kirsten asks, again.

  ‘This morning, I told you,’ Ian says. ‘She phoned me. She said she got a letter from the school, then said she was going out. Over to our house.’

  Kirsten ignores the ‘our’. There’s nothing for Ian there at the moment.

  ‘What did she say she was going to do when she got there?’

  Ian shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Talk to you. Try to see Harriet. Something.’

  Kirsten stares at him. ‘For Christ’s sake, Ian – do you get how important this is? She’s run off with our child!’

  ‘She’s run off with her child.’

  ‘Why are you being so black and white, and biological about this? We’ve been bringing Harriet up for five years. And who knows what Becky is planning!’

  ‘She won’t try to harm her, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘You can’t know that! And what do you mean by “harm”? Imagine how Harriet must be feeling, swept away like this. She must be terrified!’

  Ian puts his hands up in front of him, an old gesture of backing down. ‘OK. OK, you’re right,’ he says.

  ‘And I’ve had a letter from Clare’s lawyers, in case you care, threatening to go public after Becky wrote to Clare again. Apparently Becky’s in our control – if we don’t contain her, Clare’s going public. With everything. And if she doesn’t, then apparently Becky will. Unless we give up Harriet.’

  Kirsten watches as Ian runs a hand through his hair. Does that mean he cares? She can’t tell anymore.

  ‘And you’re still not willing to compromise?’ he asks her.

  She ignores the question.

  ‘Where would she go?’ Kirsten asks him. ‘Come on, you must know something about her! Any friends, any family, that she’d run to.’

  Ian wrinkles his nose. ‘They’re mostly estranged, I think.’

  ‘Why, what’s she done to them?’

  Ian looks at his hands. ‘I think it’s mostly about what we’ve done to them.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing to anyone,’ Kirsten says.

  ‘You still believe that?’ Ian asks.

  Kirsten looks out the window, draws in the desire to yell at Ian. She’s about to start again when Ian pipes up with: ‘Can’t you just give them some time together? It might contain this whole business. Becky might calm down a bit, once she’s spent some time with Harriet. She might stop this line about talking to the press and deal with it calmly.’

  The man just finds it impossible to think about anything but himself, and that school, his name, his reputation, Kirsten realises. It’s become his fixation, just like keeping Harriet safe has been hers.

  Kirsten shakes her head. She can barely control the rage now. ‘“This whole business”?’ she parrots back at him scornfully. ‘Ian. This is about Harriet. A person. Not your career. A small girl’s life. Harriet is not safe. She’s with a woman who you’ve just admitted isn’t calm, apparently has no plan, but has kidnapped Harriet. If we leave Becky to do that, and the press gets hold of it, we’re in a worse position – apparently negligently not giving a shit about our child. And if something, God forbid, happens to Harriet, beyond whatever she’s already going through, even if your little secret doesn’t come out, we will have to live with that for ever. Do you see that? Do you get it on any level?’

  Ian begins to nod to himself.

  ‘Right,’ Kirsten says. ‘Can you think about where the family live, have a look round, try to figure out which of them she might realistically contact?’

  Ian nods. ‘Her sister Julia’s the most likely bet; she’s slightly less estranged from that one. She lives in Bristol, I think.’

  ‘Finally – thank you! Find out where she lives. Get onto her. I’m going to talk to the school. For all they know, this is their fault. They’d be shitting themselves, if they knew – it will ruin them, one of their teachers, kidnapping a student.’

  Ian nods, but he has a distant look in his eyes.

  ‘We have a plan then, do we?’ Kirsten asks him. She’s itching to get to the school, but she wants to know first that he’s actually going to do something.

  ‘Just one last thing,’ Ian says.

  ‘What?’ snaps Kirsten.

  ‘If I find Becky, what do you want me to do with her?’ he asks.

  Kirsten pauses. As much as she is furious with Ian at the moment, knows so little of his secret life, she detects a depth to his question.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asks.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ he says, quietly. ‘What do you want me to do with her?’

  Kirsten swallows. So. Ian has been thinking the same thing Kirsten thought not long ago. That their life would be much simpler without Becky in it.

  But she’s not going to say that out loud to Ian. For all she knows, he might be recording this. His own leverage, for once.

  ‘I think …’ she says. ‘I think you should do whatever seems best at the time to get Harriet back to me safely. And to keep her with me.’

  Ian nods. ‘Fine.’ And then he goes to the kitchen, opens the drawer, and takes out a knife. ‘I’ll be sure to take this, then.’

  Chapter 42

  BECKY

  ‘Becky! Jesus, what a surprise, what are you—’

  Julia stands on her doorstep, staring at Becky and Harriet. She’s wearing a tight blue sequined dress, eye liner pen in hand.

  Harriet bursts into tears. ‘I want my mummy!’

  ‘Hi, Julia,’ Becky says.

  Julia shakes her head. ‘Shit, Becky! I don’t know what you’re doing. But come in.’

  The hallway to Julia’s house is full. Running shoes, party shoes, bags, a bike. For some reason, a ‘Men at Work’ road works sign – as in a real one, from a road. And now, a crying child and a long-lost sister.

  ‘What’s happening, Becky? Why didn’t you call to say you were coming?’

  ‘I didn’t know if it was safe,’ Becky says. Her words feel stupid, melodramatic. She tries to hug Harriet to her, but she won’t yield.

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be safe? Becky, who’s the child?’

  Julia bends down to Harriet. ‘Hey, kiddo. What’s your name?’

  Harriet keeps crying.

  ‘Can’t you guess?’ asks Becky.

  Julia’s jaw slackens. ‘Becky, really? Shit. What’s been going on? I’m so sorry, I had no idea you were living together, that you had her back. That’s amazing! You should have told me!’

  Becky would love for her sister to believe this alternate reality. That Becky somehow officially ‘had Harriet back’.

  But it�
�s a fairy story. And it will only take thirty seconds for Julia’s brain to catch up – that a girl wailing for her mummy isn’t consistent with Becky being in maternal bliss. Or, indeed, in Bristol.

  There, Julia’s face is clouding over.

  ‘I don’t totally have her back,’ Becky admits. ‘But I’m working on it.’

  Harriet cuts off whatever Julia was going to say in reaction by making a bid for freedom through the still-open door.

  ‘Harriet!’ Becky shouts. ‘Come back, sweetie!’ She grabs Harriet’s cardigan, and pulls her back through the door, shutting it behind them. She puts on the chain. Harriet is in proper sob mode, more like a toddler than a child in reception year. Snot is streaming unchecked down her face, and her lashes are stuck together with tears. Becky loves her and hates her. She just wants her to stop crying. Like she had with her niece, all those years ago.

  ‘OK, look, whatever’s going on, we have to calm this child down, OK?’ Julia says. ‘Or we’ll have all the neighbours calling the police, if they’re not already following you.’

  Becky sees the quick look Julia flashes at her, assessing whether the police might already be about to turn up. Becky looks away.

  ‘Shit, Becky! Right, what can we do for you, young Harriet?’

  Julia bends down to Harriet and talks to her with the practised ease of one used to talking to young children. She must be a good auntie to her other niece, daughter of the boring (conventional) sister Becky still isn’t allowed to see.

  ‘She likes cake,’ Becky says. Maybe that will solve everything this time too.

  ‘Um, the only brownies I have are ones I wouldn’t recommend you share with a child,’ Julia confesses. ‘Some special ingredients.’

  Becky rolls her eyes. Julia – still the party animal.

  ‘Harriet, do you want to watch something?’ Julia asks.

  There’s a slight break in the crying.

  ‘Come on.’ Julia holds out her hand. Harriet takes it, scuttling away from Becky.