Don’t Breathe
Heleyne Hammersley
Copyright © 2021 Heleyne Hammersley
The right of Heleyne Hammersley to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2021 by Bloodhound Books.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Print ISBN 978-1-913942-32-8
Contents
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Also by Heleyne Hammersley
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Before
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Before
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Before
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Before
Chapter 10
Before
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Before
Chapter 13
Before
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Before
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Before
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Before
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
After
Acknowledgements
A note from the publisher
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Also by Heleyne Hammersley
The Kate Fletcher Series
Closer To Home (Book 1)
Merciless (Book 2)
Bad Seed (Book 3)
Reunion (Book 4)
Thrillers
Forgotten
Fracture
…for Judy – you were right!
Prologue
‘I don’t have any money!’ the boy wailed. ‘If I had, I’d give you some.’
‘Some?’ the older boy said. ‘Some? If you had any money, you’d give me all of it.’
The younger boy stared at his tormentor, his lower lip trembling as he tried not to cry. If he cried it would be much worse. He’d cried last time and the beating had been really bad. It hadn’t been worth it either. He’d tried to hide his dinner money in his sock but the bully had just pulled the shoes and socks straight off his feet and thrown them into a wet corner of the school field before taking the two pound coins and leaving his victim barefoot and bleeding.
‘Kneel down! Turn out your pockets!’
The boy did exactly as he was told, dropping a fifty-pence coin and two tens onto the grass. It was all the money he had: his mum had given him it that morning and told him not to ask for more until next week.
The other boy scooped up the coins. ‘Good. You know what to do next. Eyes down. Stay still. Don’t speak. Don’t breathe.’
The boy followed the instructions, taking a huge gulp of air and holding it in his lungs. The first time he hadn’t followed orders the bully had turned round and kicked him in the head. He wasn’t going to take any chances. He knelt, perfectly still, eyes down, holding his breath until it finally burst out of his chest. The other boy was gone.
It had been happening for months now, ever since he’d started at the grammar school and he knew that it would keep happening for the next three years, until the older boy left, unless he got kicked out.
He’d thought about telling his mum, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. His mum would just tell him to stand up for himself – since his dad had left, he was supposed to be the man of the house.
He could have told his form teacher, but Mr Griffiths taught PE and in his lessons he was always going on about being tough and beating teams from other schools. The boy doubted that Mr Griffiths would have any time for people who couldn’t fight their own battles.
There was nobody. He was on his own. The tears flowed as he contemplated three more years of misery.
1
The classroom door opened suddenly, crashing back against the wall and adding to the half decade’s worth of scuff marks and dents in the pale blue paint. Donna supressed a flinch at the noise but pasted a bright smile on her face as she looked up to welcome the latest arrival. She knew who it would be. A quick glance at the time in the corner of her laptop screen had warned her to expect him. The service bus always arrived ten minutes later than the school transport and she was still to persuade him to catch an earlier bus to get to registration on time.
‘Morning, Miss,’ Harley Morton greeted her, his lopsided grin an ironic invitation, challenging her to berate him for his tardiness, yet again. Donna smiled back as she took in his appearance. Dark hair, long on top with closely shaved sides; T-shirt advertising a band she’d never heard of; and, in direct contravention of school rules, jeans and expensive-looking trainers.
‘Afternoon, Harley,’ Donna greeted him.
He nodded, ignoring the irony and took his customary seat at the back of the classroom.
‘Right, now that everybody’s here, a couple of announcements. There’s a meeting for anybody going on the German trip at break in L17. Class photos will be taken tomorrow in the hall. Sixth formers are expected to have their pictures taken during their free periods – no skipping lessons.’
Some good-natured griping followed but Donna knew that none of them meant it. Apart from Harley, her form group were a decent bunch and had stayed on in sixth form because they had ambition and plans for their future. They weren’t natural rule breakers or challengers of authority. She’d been relieved when the final tutor group lists had been published eighteen months ago and she’d recognised nearly all the names of the students that she’d been allocated. Every one of them had been expected to achieve levels eight or nine in their GCSEs and excellent predicted grades for their A-levels; and every one of them had done exactly that – apart from Harley. He’d been an above-average student for most of year twelve but, since coming back after the summer holiday, he’d changed. Donna had no idea what was going on with the boy, but his attitude seemed to be worsening by the day.
‘Ten minutes to the bell, guys. Check your timetables, finish that last-minute homework or chat – quietly.’ Donna scanned the room to check that her instructions were being followed and then tapped on her keyboard to check through her PowerPoint presentation for her first session of the day – a year-seven lesson about Roman Britain culminating in an exercise where they got to plan the layout of their ideal Roman fort. It was probably a bit more ‘fun’ than academically rigorous, but it was the last week of term and at least it wasn’t a DVD, the banning of which by the senior leadership team had caused much grumbling among her colleagues.
Donna loved teaching history. From year seven to A-level it was always a joy because it was a chance to share her pas
sion with young people. Some of the other staff saw her as a bit of a starry-eyed idealist, but she didn’t care because she knew that her students appreciated her enthusiasm and expertise.
She’d got off to a bit of a shaky start to her career, though. Two years in an inner-city comp in Sheffield had nearly put her off for good. There had been something serendipitous about the job advert that had offered her a better school and the opportunity to return to her native Cumbria to indulge her love of hill walking, so applying for a job in a school in a small town on the edge of the Lake District had taken very little consideration. Now, with a sixth-form tutor group and a timetable which included a hefty dose of A-level and GCSE history, she was content. She even had a classroom with one of the best views in the whole school – across the playing fields to the northern fells.
A loud scream of laughter from the back of the room prompted her to automatically shush the class without even looking up to see what was going on.
‘Sorry, Miss,’ Lauren Jefferson mumbled but the apology was obviously empty as another laugh immediately followed. Donna looked up to see three students huddled over something on the desk.
‘Hey! Phones away. You know they’re supposed to be in your bags when school starts.’
The three culprits had the good grace to blush and there was a hurried rearranging of seats as Tom Cleaver slid his phone into his jeans pocket. Donna stared at him for a second and then went back to her planning. She hadn’t been overly pleased to see Tom’s name on her form list. A bright student with excellent grades and plans to study law, he was good at keeping himself out of trouble. He was the son of the headteacher, Cam Cleaver, but he always played down the relationship when interacting with staff and his peers.
Still five minutes until the bell. Donna checked her register for the next period and was guiltily glad to see that the most disruptive member of the year-seven class had a V next to his name indicating that he was on some kind of trip or educational visit. They were a lovely class, but one of the students could be a bit challenging at times and she was relieved to not have to worry about whether he’d ‘kick off’ – the phrase the teaching assistant used to describe the boy’s periods of non-cooperation.
Feeling fully prepared for the day ahead, Donna finally gave in to the lure of the large windows that formed the whole upper wall of one side of her classroom. The view was stunning, and she loved that she could watch the seasons change even though she was trapped inside for much of the day. Today was no different. The skeletons of the oak trees that marked the north and east boundaries of the school fields were black against a pale blue winter sky, contrasting with the darkness of the evergreen bushes that formed a border around the tennis court. Beyond the greenery the fells towered, a dusting of snow covering the very tops. She could make out Skiddaw and beyond that Lonscale Fell and the back of Blencathra. All places that she knew well; that she’d walked in all conditions and at all times of the year.
There was something grounding about the mountains. Even when she was struggling with a tricky class or the latest nonsensical edict from the senior leadership team, the mountains were her constant. A long look and a deep breath and she was ready for most things.
Just as she was about to tell her form group to pack up their possessions and tuck the chairs under the desks, a movement from near the most northerly oak boundary caught her eye. She struggled to focus on the interplay of light and shadow, trying to work out what it was that she’d seen. The trees around the field were a well-known hang-out for the small but dedicated group of smokers that seemed to span all the year groups – even some of the year sevens seemed to have arrived with a dedicated vaping habit – but all students should have been in school. Anybody hanging around on the perimeter would end up in serious trouble.
Donna was torn. She could get involved; send a message to reception and report the culprit but based on what she’d seen there wasn’t anything to report. Maybe a quick email suggesting that it might be worth checking out the thin strip of woodland? She turned to her laptop and then back to the window. It was there again. This time there was no doubt. There were figures amongst the trees. Figures dressed in black – not students then: the uniform was bottle green. Possible trespassers? That raised an entirely different set of questions and responses. Donna had attended enough safeguarding training over the years to be well aware that everybody on the school site should be accounted for and any visitor was required to sign in at reception. But there were gaps in the boundary – a footpath that ran along one side of a farmer’s field was only separated from school property by a low wire fence and the football field was only separated from the farmer’s crop by a hawthorn hedge. There was no spare money in the budget to improve the fencing, so students sometimes took advantage of the short cuts the holes offered.
The figures were moving quickly towards the outlying block of classrooms occupied by the history and geography departments, striding across the football pitch as though they had every right to be there. Donna knew that she might be the only one who had seen them: her room was at the end of the block with a rarely used computer room above it. All the other rooms faced north or west.
Trembling hands hovered over her keyboard as she tried to formulate an appropriate message without conveying any sense of urgency or alarm to her students. She risked another glance at the field. They were male adults judging by their size and stature, four of them, all moving quickly, all wearing ski masks. As the nearest one approached the side of the building, Donna was horrified to see that he appeared to be carrying some kind of machine gun. Was she imagining things? Was this part of some role-play that the drama department had organised? Or was it a drill – designed to test the resilience and reactions of school staff? Donna had no idea, but she knew that she had to act quickly.
The email might not be read until it was too late. Reception was always busy for the first half hour of the day with calls from parents and so there was no guarantee that there would be an urgent response. Donna scanned the classroom. Keely was sitting closest to her. If she could get the girl to leave now, she could cut through the geography room next door and go out the front of the building.
‘Keely?’
The girl looked up as the bell rang and the others got to their feet.
‘Miss?’
Donna scribbled a note. ‘Take this to reception. Go through G8 and use the front door. Quick as you can.’
The girl shrugged her school bag onto one shoulder and disappeared through the door into the next room as the others started to file towards the main door of the classroom.
‘No,’ Donna snapped. ‘Stay.’
‘But the bell’s gone, Miss Frith.’
‘I know. I just need you to stay put for a few minutes.’
Harley looked like he was about to say something but then pulled out a chair and sat back down. As though taking his actions as their cue, the others started to do the same.
Donna didn’t know what to say. She knew that they could all be in jeopardy but to risk them leaving the room and encountering a group of armed men seemed more dangerous than keeping them here. Should she tell them to get under the desks? Or line up against the wall where they couldn’t be seen if a gunman peered casually through the glass in the door? She didn’t know.
She’d heard about schools in the USA where they had shooter drills, practising for just this kind of situation but nobody in the UK expected it to happen.
‘Guys. I think there might be an incident,’ she began, aware of the trembling in her voice. ‘I’m not sure but I think that there may be intruders on the school site.’
A rush of questions and confusion – the opposite of what Donna wanted. ‘Shut up, all of you!’ she yelled. ‘We need to keep quiet and stay where we are. It might be an idea to line up against that wall.’ She pointed to where she wanted the students to assemble.
‘Miss. Lock the door,’ Jess Moffatt suggested urgently.
Donna started to pull out the drawe
rs in her desk. She hardly ever used her master key because the students could be trusted to spend break and lunch time in the classrooms. Where the hell was it?
She leaned down for a better look, hands shifting frantically through pens, pencils and assorted scraps of paper. The key was nestling in the back corner behind a pencil sharpener and a board marker. Donna let out the breath that she’d been holding and straightened up.
‘Good idea,’ she said to the girl, with the most normal smile that she could manage.
She’d only taken two steps away from her desk when the door was thrown open and her worst fears were realised. Framed in the entrance was a dark figure dressed in black, army-style fatigues. Donna noted the buckles and pockets and webbing, her brain distracting itself from the real threat, the real danger.
Two girls screamed as the man took a step inside the room and another, almost identical, figure materialised at his back as though he were regenerating.
‘All of you, stay still,’ the first man said, raising his gun to shoulder level and fixing the barrel on Donna. ‘And shut up.’
He turned to his companion. ‘Get the key off her and lock the door.’
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