The Classroom

by A. L. Bird

  ‘Any news?’ she asks when she phones Mrs McGee.

  ‘Ms Robertson was apparently close with one of the male teachers. Went on a date, once. I don’t encourage it, but it does happen. Of course, he’s shocked to hear what’s happening – couldn’t believe it of her. Anyway, he’s sent her a message.’

  ‘And?’ asks Kirsten.

  ‘And she hasn’t replied.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Kirsten asks. She knows she rang Mrs McGee; it’s not like Mrs McGee phoned claiming to have an update. Although, frankly, she should have done – a link being established, a message being sent. That’s something.

  ‘Phone me if you have any more news,’ Kirsten says, then hangs up.

  Next she tries Ian again.

  ‘Any update?’ she asks.

  ‘The sister’s there,’ Ian says. He’s talking quietly, like he doesn’t want to be overheard.

  ‘Why didn’t you phone me?’ Kirsten asks. ‘What’s happening? Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘She wasn’t very forthcoming,’ Ian says.

  There’s an edge to his voice. He sounds stressed, nervy.

  ‘You didn’t …’ Kirsten asks, without really knowing what she is asking.

  ‘What? Stab her?’ Ian laughs.

  Kirsten tenses. ‘I don’t know what’s so funny.’

  ‘Just because I’m out to “silence” one person, doesn’t mean I’m suddenly a mass murderer, Kirsten.’

  ‘No, I know, I just wondered if you’d, maybe, used the knife to – oh, I don’t know, persuade her a bit.’

  ‘She’d phone the police,’ Ian says.

  ‘What, and give away her sister’s whereabouts?’ Kirsten says. ‘I’m assuming she hasn’t told you anything.’

  ‘Nothing,’ Ian says. ‘Swears blind she hasn’t seen Becky for years. Didn’t say anything about Harriet until I prompted her, so if she’s lying, she’s good.’

  ‘I don’t buy it. You’d go to family, at a time like this. Your sister would be there for you.’

  ‘Would your sister?’ Ian asks.

  Kirsten ignores him. She doesn’t want to get into the fact her sister hasn’t spoken to her for five years. Wasn’t there for her when, she supposed, she’d done a similar thing to what Becky has just done – taken Harriet away from her real mother.

  ‘So where are you now?’ Kirsten asks.

  ‘Outside the sister’s house still,’ Ian says.

  ‘What, in the car?’ Kirsten asks.

  ‘No,’ Ian says. ‘Outside. Like, outside her front door. In case she comes out. Or Becky comes out.’

  Or Harriet, Kirsten thinks. She shivers at the thought of Ian lurking with the knife outside a house where their child might be living.

  ‘What will you do if the sister does come out?’ Kirsten asks.

  ‘Try and make her talk again,’ he says.

  ‘But you said …’ Kirsten trails off.

  ‘I said I hadn’t used the knife to try to persuade her. I didn’t say I wouldn’t.’

  Chapter 48

  BECKY

  If Harriet’s silence in the day was bad, her crying in the night is worse.

  It starts at 1 a.m. Before that, Becky had been conscious of Harriet wriggling round in the bed next to her. After the wet sofa of the night before, Becky kept telling her to get up if she needed the toilet; once she even got up, turned the light on, and proffered a hand to lead her there.

  But it wasn’t that. It was the prelude to the tears. Harriet cries and cries and cries.

  Like in those very first moments of her life. The first hour, to be precise, before her daughter was taken from her, given to Kirsten. Good strong lungs. They’d done skin-to-skin contact immediately after the birth, for the good of the baby, trying to keep her warm and content while Becky was sorted out. But it had nearly destroyed Becky. Crying herself now at the memory, at that brutal psychological wrench, Becky hugs and shushes Harriet, strokes her head, like she had done when she was so newly born. Finally, finally, she is here with her little daughter again.

  But this time, looking at Harriet, she knows she is capable of taking care of her, however difficult it is. Last time, she couldn’t understand how on the one hand she could feel such huge love for a little newborn creature but be told it would unleash some kind of monster in her. Kirsten and Ian must have paid Dr Clare well.

  Becky shushes and cradles Harriet until she seems a little bit more peaceful. As they both seem to drift off to sleep, Becky feels a surge of pride that she has, at last, helped.

  The tears, however, had apparently been a prelude to the nightmares.

  ‘Mummy, mummy save me!’ is the only intelligible scream that Harriet gives. The rest are murmurs, whimpers, cries. Along with them are shivers, trembles, sweats.

  Becky turns on the side-light, and looks at the poor five-year-old girl in the sheets beside her. This isn’t right. This isn’t something that is going to ‘sort itself out, given time.’ This is creating trauma and terror in the little person that she loves above all else.

  Julia is right. Becky knows what she needs to do. She must put her own hurt, her own trauma, to one side. She will get Harriet settled and the next day, Becky will speak to Kirsten. Arrange a meeting. Get something sorted out, so that they can work out a practical way of both being in Harriet’s life. For Harriet’s sake.

  ‘It’s OK, sweetie,’ Becky whispers to Harriet. ‘We’ll call your mummy tomorrow, OK?’

  And Harriet’s body suddenly relaxes, the whimpering stops, and her child sleeps. Becky feels like finally she’s done it, learnt the lesson – that motherhood is about putting your child first. That’s enough for today.

  Then the bedside phone rings. Becky had turned her mobile onto silent earlier, but she sees there are twenty missed calls from Julia. Shit. She picks up the landline.

  ‘Hello?’ she says.

  ‘I’m putting through a call from your sister,’ says a sleepy-sounding voice.

  There’s a click, then Julia comes on the line. ‘You’ve got to get out,’ she says, before Becky even says hello.

  ‘What?’ Becky asks, sitting upright.

  ‘Ian knows where you are. He has a knife. You have to get out now!’

  ‘Shit, what, you told him where we were?’

  ‘Look, I’m not proud of it, but he had a knife, Bex – apparently fear makes me talk. But you have to go. Now.’

  Shit. Becky jumps out of bed, still holding the handset. Why would Ian use a knife on her sister? Why was he so worked up to find out where they were? Had Kirsten been threatening to go public, or something? And should she really be worried? He was hardly going to harm the mother of his child, or his child. Was he?

  ‘Becky, are you listening to me, you have to leave. He left five minutes ago; he’ll be there in ten. Promise me you’re going?’

  There’s panic in her voice. Becky can’t argue.

  ‘We’re going. How about you, are you OK?’

  ‘He didn’t actually use the knife, just held it to my throat.’

  ‘Shit, Julia!’

  ‘I’m fine. Now go!’

  Becky shakes Harriet awake. ‘Harriet! Harriet! We have to get up!’

  Harriet continues sleeping peacefully. Damn Becky’s consoling words earlier – she hadn’t thought that the idea of even just speaking to Kirsten would make such a difference.

  Becky grabs their things, and tries shaking Harriet again. It doesn’t work. Frantic, she takes the glass of water by Harriet’s side of the bed and throws the water over her.

  Harriet jolts, then wakes up.

  ‘We have to go!’ Becky says to her. ‘Come on, get up, stick my jumper on over your clothes.’ Harriet had left home in the middle of the day, wearing light clothes. It was the middle of the night, now; Harriet would be freezing.

  ‘Are we going home to Mummy?’ Harriet asks.

  Her face is bright, and her eyes shine. Becky can see her yearning for the right answer. Amid the panic, she softens.

/>   ‘Yes, Harriet, we’re going home.’

  After all, it was the last place Ian would look.

  Chapter 49

  KIRSTEN

  Trust Ian to cock it up so massively. He’d managed to get the sister – Julia, apparently – to tell him where Becky and Harriet were, but he’d missed them. By the time he’d got to their B&B, hammered at the door to make the owners let him in, then up to Becky and Harriet’s room, they had left. Some of their things were still in the room – Becky’s coat, a hairbrush. Nothing of Harriet’s. But she’d definitely been there – the receptionist had confirmed it with Ian.

  ‘Well, they can’t have gone far!’ Kirsten had shouted to Ian. ‘Drive around and look for them, for God’s sake. Show people their pictures on your phone! Check the bus stations, the train stations. We need to find them.’

  Christ, he should have killed the sister, stopped her tipping Becky off.

  Kirsten puts her hand over her mouth in shock at the thought. But Ian ought to have done something, shouldn’t he, to stop Julia calling Becky? Like taken her phone, locked her out of her house, something. But he’d screwed it up, and now Harriet was missing again.

  That was four hours ago. Occasionally Ian phones her just to say he hasn’t found them, but he hasn’t phoned for an hour. He’s probably fallen asleep in some lay-by somewhere. She should phone him, wake him up. But she’s crashingly tired herself. She hasn’t slept in about fifty hours now. She puts her head down on the arm of the sofa, just to doze.

  She’s awoken by a bell. She checks her phone, but it’s not ringing. It tells her it’s 7 a.m. It doesn’t explain the bell. It sounds again.

  Door.

  She runs to open it. She’s not expecting anyone, so it must be news of some kind. Through the glass of the front door, she sees two shadows. Oh God, it had better not be the police. Ian, Becky and Harriet – an incident, deaths. But hold on, one of the shadows is so small. It can’t be …

  She opens the door.

  ‘Harriet! Oh my God, Harriet!’

  Kirsten bends down, hugging Harriet to her, crying, laughing, stroking her little girl’s head, kissing her, hugging her some more. Harriet clings to her, and won’t be separated, even for Kirsten to look at her. Kirsten will never let her go, ever again.

  Picking Harriet up, Kirsten looks now at the other figure.

  Becky.

  Kirsten wants to slam the door in the face. Or kick her down the stairs. She certainly doesn’t want to invite her in. But she knows she has to.

  ‘You’d better come through,’ she says, her voice ice.

  Together, they go into the living room. Kirsten puts Harriet onto her knee, where Harriet just clings on, thumb in her mouth, head on Kirsten’s chest.

  ‘Now, perhaps you’d like to tell me why you kidnapped my daughter.’

  Kirsten expects her words to create an angry response. Expects to be told Harriet isn’t her daughter. Expects to do battle.

  ‘I’d rather explain why I brought her back,’ is what Becky says.

  ‘Be my guest,’ Kirsten tells her, in probably the least hospitable tone she has.

  ‘Harriet loves you,’ Becky tells her.

  Kirsten snorts. ‘I think I knew that.’

  Becky shakes her head. ‘No, I mean really loves you. I had this fairy tale in my head whereby I would take her away, and make her happy – I thought she wasn’t happy here, that all she needed was a day with me, her “real” mum—’

  ‘Shh!’ says Kirsten and covers Harriet’s ears.

  ‘She knows,’ says Becky. ‘That’s why we’re back. I explained to her that I was her mummy, but she wouldn’t accept it. Wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t sleep – anything. She just pined for you. It wasn’t right. So I brought her home.’

  ‘Well, it’s very good of you,’ Kirsten says. What she wants to say is ‘How dare you? How dare you do that to my child?’ But Harriet has had a horrendous time. The last thing she needs is a fight in front of her. She needs security, safety, certainty. Always.

  Kirsten has a plan forming in her mind.

  ‘I mean it,’ Kirsten says. ‘It’s good of you, to bring her back. You could have fled overseas, just ignored her views. Done worse. I thought I might never see her again.’ Despite herself, Kirsten starts crying. Not little tears, that she could maybe rub away, pretend she had an itchy eye. Proper sobs escape her. Harriet wriggles closer in to her chest.

  ‘It’s all right, sweetie. You’re home now. I’m just crying because I’m so happy to see you.’

  ‘I’d like to be clear, though,’ Becky says. ‘We need to find a way for me to have a part in Harriet’s life and for her to have a relationship with me. To understand who I am.’

  Kirsten nods. ‘Look, I get that now. I didn’t before, and I’m in no way condoning what you did. It’s been horrible for me and for Harriet.’ Her voice gives way; she lets it. ‘But it’s made me understand how desperate you were to see her. Your little girl. I shouldn’t have ignored that.’

  Becky nods. ‘Thank you.’ She sheds a few tears of her own. Kirsten sees them roll down over the black shadows under Becky’s eyes. Kirsten’s plan might just work.

  Kirsten continues. ‘But look, you must be exhausted. I am, I haven’t slept since Harriet … left. And by the looks of you and Harriet, you haven’t either. I can’t work out how we’re going to do this until I’ve had some sleep.’

  ‘I’m not leaving until we’ve worked something out,’ Becky says.

  Kirsten raises a reassuring hand. ‘No, I get that; don’t worry. I was going to offer if you wanted to kip in the spare room for a couple of hours, then we’ll regroup. I’ll get Harriet into bed with me.’

  ‘How do I know you won’t do a runner?’ Becky asks.

  Kirsten rolls her eyes. ‘Look, you can barricade my door from the outside if you want to. What am I going to do – drive my dearly returned daughter in a car I’d almost certainly crash? Have you told the police on me? No – look, I understand we need to get this sorted out. For Harriet’s sake.’

  Becky nods. ‘For Harriet’s sake.’

  Kirsten shows Becky to the spare room, Harriet holding Kirsten’s hand the whole way. Kirsten is pleased now that she’s always followed her mother’s advice to keep the bed made up. Her mother used to say it made a house look civilised, and was less work if you wanted guests. To Kirsten, through her own tired eyes, she knows how inviting it must look. The soft bedding calling you in.

  Becky turns to her. ‘Thanks, Kirsten. This is so good of you. I didn’t expect you to be so – decent.’

  Kirsten shrugs. ‘It’s the only human thing to do,’ she says.

  Kirsten takes Harriet upstairs with her to the master bedroom. She wasn’t lying; she needs to sleep too. And she is looking forward to curling up side by side with Harriet. But first she needs to call Ian.

  ‘She’s back,’ Kirsten tells him. ‘Becky’s sleeping in the spare room now.’

  Ian swears. ‘I’m still roving round Bristol,’ he resays.

  ‘Well, come back. Fast. She’ll be asleep for hours. She might not notice if someone stops her waking up.’

  Ian doesn’t say anything at first. Then he says, ‘You still want me to …?’

  ‘I’m not having Harriet taken away from me again. We’re locking ourselves in the bedroom – I don’t trust that woman not to take Harriet while I sleep, but give me a call when you get here. I’ll come and let you in. Then it’s between you and Becky.’

  Ian is silent for a few moments. ‘I do think it’s best, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ Kirsten says, hugging Harriet to her.

  Hanging up on Ian, she slides the bolt across the door of the bedroom.

  Then she picks up Harriet, nuzzles her hair, and lifts her into bed. Hugging her daughter to her, she falls into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 50

  BECKY

  Smoke.

  That’s the smell – or rather the taste – that wakes Becky. And not the kind o
f cosy smoke that comes from slightly overdone toast. Real smoke. And she can see it, billowing under the door. There’s a high-pitched beeping sound as well, the feeble attempts of a smoke alarm to wake her. Who knows, maybe they did.

  She jumps out of bed, but falls to the floor, weak. Shit. She must already have inhaled some. It’s filling the room. Keeping low, she slides to the door and, praying she’s not about to unleash an inferno, opens it.

  Outside, the heat and the light are staggering. Has Kirsten torched her, then? Is this what the sleeping beauty routine was about? She’ll be long gone, with Harriet, and a claim on the insurance.

  But what if they’re still here? What if Harriet’s still here?

  Becky had heard them go upstairs. She looks over the banisters. There’s smoke billowing round the hallway, with flames licking at the staircase. It will be impassable in less than five minutes, maybe. Becky drags herself up the stairs. That’s when she hears the banging.

  ‘Help!’ she hears Harriet calling. ‘I can’t open the door!’

  Oh God. Harriet’s in there, and she’s trapped. Where’s Kirsten, for God’s sake? She wouldn’t … no, of course she wouldn’t.

  ‘What’s going on, Harriet? Is the door stuck?’

  ‘It’s locked, and I can’t reach the bolt! And I can’t wake Mummy!’

  Ah. So Kirsten didn’t trust her – that’s what this was about. Fair enough in a way.

  ‘We’ve got to get you out! The house is on fire! Is there something you can stand on?’ Becky shouts through the door.

  ‘No!’

  ‘There must be!’ Becky splutters. The smoke is getting worse, the fire getting louder. ‘Is there a wardrobe? Look in there, for a shoebox or something.’

  Failing that, Becky will have to find something to bash the door open. She can’t see anything.

  There’s silence now from within. Becky looks down the stairwell and can see flames.