A Trick of the Mind

by Penny Hancock

  I felt parched and ill, and watched through the vast window in Patrick’s bedroom the soft peachy light creep up over the Thames, the shapes of ships and pilings and the buildings on the other side gradually solidifying.

  I thought of Chiara telling me I barely knew him, was I sure I should move in with him? Finn saying, ‘But he’s not your type, Ellie.’

  Were they right? But they didn’t know him, didn’t know what he’d been through.

  I rolled over, threw my legs over the edge of the bed, but then I felt Patrick’s strong arms hauling me back towards him.

  ‘Patrick, I need to get to work.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ellie, if I upset you last night. I’m going to make up for it.’

  Later I got up and pulled on my clothes. It was Friday – a teaching day and I couldn’t be late.

  I went into his bathroom to tidy myself up as best I could. I washed my face, took a toothbrush out of a holder and cleaned my teeth. My knees felt weak and painful, my eyelids heavy as if I couldn’t open them properly. It was an effort to think, to put one thought coherently in front of another. I would put my teaching clothes on. I would brush my hair and then quietly I would leave and go to work. I needed time to assimilate what Patrick had told me last night. To think about what I was doing. Where my sense of responsibility for Patrick’s injuries had seeped over into passion, where my passion had seeped over into obsession. Whether my obsession had led me to a place of entrapment?

  Should I have left last night when all he told me about Stef and the demands he had made had made me feel uneasy? But where would I have gone? The flat was let. Finn was angry with me. Chiara had run out of patience with me.

  Stupidly I must have accepted more and more drink from him until I lost the will to think for myself.

  Now in the sober light of day, I rationalised. Patrick had violent mood swings, that was clear. But they were part of his frustration with his injury, the outbursts a form of fury with all that had happened to his wife as well as to him. Of course he was afraid I might leave him. Of course he was afraid that my friends might try to pull me back into their world. All I had to do was hang on in there with him, tend to him, and he would recover both physically and emotionally. I was perfectly capable of looking after myself if he got stroppy with me again. But I owed it to him to stand by him. I owed him more than he would ever be aware of.

  As I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to make myself look presentable for work, I considered his saying he didn’t want me to meet up with my friends any more. In the sober light of morning this seemed ridiculous, there was no way he could enforce such a demand. I wouldn’t make him meet up with them, while it felt humiliating to him with his fresh injury. I would just keep my two worlds separate. He didn’t need to know.

  I got into school early and said hello to Jim, the caretaker, who as usual lurked in his storeroom looking for staff members to swoop on so he could regale them with his latest football stories. I stopped and he asked me if I had heard the latest news of the Hammers and I reminded him I didn’t follow football and he reminded me that my new studio was on the site where the team was founded and I should therefore take a certain pride in them. In the middle of a sentence, he paused and frowned.

  ‘You bin in a fight?’

  I’d absent-mindedly swept my hair up as I talked and now I let it fall.

  ‘Sorry, luv, probably shouldn’t mention it.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ I could feel myself blushing. He must think I had a hickey – how undignified! We moved on, discussed the likelihood of the Hammers ever reaching the top of the Premier League. There was something comforting about this chitter-chatter: I wished all I ever had to occupy my mind was whether West Ham were going to win their next match. I left him counting replacement packs of toilet paper and passed the kitchens where I waved to Pauline, a warm woman whom the children adored – this school had more children on school dinners than any other; even kids whose parents were willing to make them packed lunches went for the hot dinner option because Pauline laughed and chatted as she served them up her lovingly cooked old-fashioned nursery dishes: shepherd’s pie, toad-in-the-hole or macaroni cheese, culinary miracles when you thought of her restricted budget.

  ‘You OK, Ellie?’

  ‘I’m fine thanks. You?’

  ‘You look like you didn’t get much sleep last night. Out partying, were you?’

  ‘You could say so, I guess.’

  She smiled and winked at me.

  I nipped into the staff loos and looked at my neck in the mirror. A pink mark beneath my ear which did indeed look like a lovebite. Then I remembered, vaguely, the pressure of Patrick’s thumb on my throat as he spoke into my ear:

  ‘You wouldn’t leave me, would you, Ellie?’

  I covered it up with make-up as best I could, and plastered some concealer on the bags under my eyes.

  I dumped my bag in the staff room and went to the urn to make a cup of herb tea.

  Very few teachers had arrived yet.

  ‘Ellie. At last! Mrs Patel been looking for you – she’s been wanting to talk to you.’

  I turned. Betty, one of the TAs, was filling her mug with water, the label from her herbal teabag dangling over the edge. She’d lined up her Cup-a-Soup and her Weight Watchers crackers on the counter.

  ‘You won’t have heard about Timothy, it’s ghastly. None of us can quite believe it.’

  Betty was a gossip – every day she had some new drama to relate. I didn’t feel like this now. I pulled the teabag out of my mug, looked around for the compost bucket.

  ‘Timothy. It’s unbelievable what that child has gone through.’

  I turned. Caught her unawares. She was enjoying this, I could tell. There was a wicked gleam in her eyes. She was dressed as usual in bright turquoise, with her trademark costume earrings dangling from her ears. The colours felt too bright for my delicate head this morning. I felt uneasiness crackle up through me. Fear about what might have happened to Timothy on top of my own worries. I couldn’t bear the thought of his coming to any harm.

  ‘Last Friday’ – she crossed her arms over her bust, half closed her eyes so she avoided meeting mine as she went on – ‘his sister was supposed to be picking him up, but she didn’t turn up. Decides to walk home on his own. Gets home to find his dad drunk as a lord beating up his mum so bad she ends up in hospital. Has to witness it all. All by himself.’ Betty was obviously relishing being the imparter of bad news.

  ‘That’s not right.’

  She looked at me through tightened, triumphant lips.

  ‘Timothy’s sister did pick him up. I saw her.’ Even as I spoke, doubt crossed my mind.

  She shrugged. ‘You were taking the class that afternoon so I’m sure you would know.’

  ‘Where is he? I noticed he wasn’t in on Monday – has he been in school at all this week?’

  ‘Nope. Poor little chap, he’s really struggling to get a word out. The speech therapists are flummoxed. They reckon it’s a kind of elective mutism. Caused by trauma.’

  ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘Yes it is. Everyone’s asking who was responsible for letting him go home alone last Friday afternoon – I told Mrs Patel you were teaching. She wants to talk to you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  My mind rewound to last Friday. I’d been desperate to get away, to get back to Patrick. He had asked me to get home early so he could take me out of town to a new restaurant he’d heard of.

  And Timothy had been trying to talk to me.

  And I’d told him I didn’t have time.

  I went over the end of the afternoon, tiny detail by tiny detail. I remembered – of course I wasn’t responsible. Timothy’s sister had been there, on her phone, I could remember quite clearly because I noticed her funny outfit with those bits missing from the shoulders – I’d seen her before, that night I’d gone down to Suffolk, I knew what she looked like.

  Timothy had wanted to carry on talking, and perh
aps I had been too preoccupied to listen. But then most teachers were too busy to listen. Usually I was the exception. Last Friday I had wanted to appease Patrick. Get back quickly as he’d asked me to. I hadn’t had time to hang around or to listen to Timothy, who must have wanted to tell me about his stepdad.

  I didn’t want to spend any longer in the staff room with Betty. I couldn’t bear to feel her eyes on me, I needed to sort it out. I walked out of the staff room not bothering to take my cup of tea, a familiar sort of dread stirring in my belly.

  The uncomplicated smiles on my children’s faces and the funny things they liked to show and tell would be a welcome distraction.

  I hoped to see Timothy’s little pale face, his eyes fixed on me, searching for an opportunity to talk. But he didn’t come.

  Again I tried to relive last Friday’s home time in minute detail. Timothy said his sister was picking him up and taking him to Westfield. I saw her.

  Her back, only, now I thought about it.

  I hadn’t spoken to her.

  Had I seen her?

  But the children were coming in. ‘Miss Stanley,’ came their voices, one on top of another, ‘can I show my stickers, miss?’ ‘Can I show my new trainers?’ ‘Miss, I got a picture of Charles and Camilla on horses’, ‘I got lollies to give out, it’s me birfday’, ‘I’ve wet me pants’, ‘I spy wiv my little eye something beginning wiv ler . . . litter . . .’ and I had to put all my anxiety aside, for the morning at least.

  As I passed the head teacher’s office after the school day had finished, she called me in.

  ‘Ellie, we’re not accusing you of anything. Timothy’s version of events is of course unreliable, but I do need your account of what happened last Friday.’

  I liked her, this motherly-looking Asian woman who you imagined might have loads of children of her own. Instead she had had none, and had once confided in me that she regarded her own childlessness as one of her life’s tragedies. She made up for it, she said, by treating every child in the school as though they were hers. Or at least as special to her as if they were her own. But I knew she had a ferocious side when it mattered, when there was any hint of injustice. Either on behalf of the children or on behalf of her staff. I admired her. I wanted her approval.

  ‘You were teaching last Friday afternoon, weren’t you?’ She looked at me over her glasses. I noticed she’d done her hair differently, she looked prettier than usual, she’d curled it or something, it fell loose to her shoulders where normally she wore it tied back.

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘And you dismissed the class at three thirty?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Martha Humphries was on duty on the gates. Making sure none of the children left without an adult. But she says she doesn’t remember Timothy coming out?’

  ‘He stayed behind for a few minutes to talk to me. He often does.’

  She frowned.

  ‘And you didn’t tell him it was time to go home?’

  ‘Of course I did. But it’s hard to hear him properly in class. The others all have so much to say, and he can’t get a word in edgeways. I like to give him a chance. It’s become a bit of a routine on a Friday afternoon. He was telling me about his stepdad. He doesn’t like him much by all accounts.’

  ‘Yes. It didn’t occur to you to report that to Paula? The Child Protection Coordinator?’

  My mouth had gone dry.

  ‘I’d already talked to Paula about it. She was going to report it.’

  ‘Right. I’ll chase her up. Now, what I need to get to grips with is exactly what happened on Friday afternoon in as much detail as possible, if you can, Ellie. Why didn’t Martha see Timothy leaving?’

  ‘It was about three thirty-five. I remember looking at the clock. No later. I saw the other kids had all gone, the playground was empty. Martha must have left the gates assuming everyone had gone. But I checked Timothy’s sister was waiting for him. She was there.’

  ‘Did you speak to her?’

  I felt myself getting hot and uncomfortable. I’d only seen her back.

  ‘No.’

  Because I’d wanted to leave.

  I was desperate to get away.

  To see Patrick. To keep him sweet.

  ‘Because as far as we can tell, Timothy walked home by himself that day. Which might not have been a problem, though of course it isn’t sensible to let a child with his needs go home alone . . . if he hadn’t walked in on the scene he found when he got there.’

  I waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t, she left me envisaging something horrible, Timothy cowering as he witnessed whatever unthinkable things he had seen. Perhaps even becoming a victim himself.

  ‘Ellie, it’s a fair assumption I make of all my staff that they put the welfare of the children before everything else. It seems you were in rather a hurry to get away last Friday.’

  I could feel my palms grow hot. The raw, skinned feeling. I had the urge to look behind me three times. To find something to tap. I wanted Timothy to be safe.

  I tried to swallow.

  ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘Timothy? Not really. Social Services are involved. My only concern at the moment is to clear your name – I could do without a disciplinary hearing. I value you, Ellie, I just want to get the facts straight in case I have to put it to the governors.’

  ‘I left as soon as I saw his sister.’

  ‘You didn’t talk to her? Ask if she was with anyone? She’s only eleven herself.’

  Eleven! The girl I saw looked older than that. But then they matured early these days.

  ‘Ellie?’

  ‘His sister often picks him up. Mum’s got five of them. She can’t always be there.’

  ‘Timothy says his sister didn’t come that day. That you’d gone off in your car, so he’d walked home alone.’ She was looking at me intently. ‘I’d like to feel I could trust my staff to stay until they know every child is accounted for.’

  ‘I know, of course . . .’

  ‘It didn’t occur to you to go back to the classroom to tidy up, to be there in case there were any further problems? Children leave things behind sometimes, you can’t just assume that because they’ve gone, you can rush off.’

  I couldn’t speak.

  ‘Well I think I’ve made my point.’

  There was a silence. I wished I could be anywhere but here. I wished I could turn back the clock, reverse time, do things differently. Again!

  I’d not only put Timothy in peril, I’d let down one of my favourite colleagues.

  ‘We’ll let it pass for now and if there’s any questioning of your conduct by the governors I’ll stand up for you, Ellie. I know you would never deliberately jeopardise a child’s safety. Perhaps though, try to hang around till four in future? Have a chat to whoever is picking up? However exciting your weekend is going to be.’

  She winked at me.

  I blushed, stupidly, thanked her and left, to go and finish up in the classroom.

  What I’d do, I decided, is I’d pop over and see Chiara, she finished work at six in an office near Covent Garden. I’d apologise for being a bit snappy with her when I’d moved out, and explain to her that Patrick was sensitive about his disability. That it might make him look unfriendly, but that he was actually a very sweet and passionate person if only she would take the time to get to know him.

  Patrick needn’t know I’d ignored his request for me to stop seeing my friends. And once he met Chiara properly he would see how lovely she was.

  I needed female companionship, I realised. A bit of normality.

  With this thought, I felt a little more relaxed as I got back to my classroom and pushed open the door.

  Inside, someone sat with his back to me at my desk.

  Instead of the usual delight I felt at the sight of him, I felt the blood drain from me and a lurch of alarm.

  It was Patrick.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I opened my eyes, screwed them tight shut again. The su
n was blinding, streaming straight in, light from above, light from below. It was white light. It pounded against me, making my head throb and ache. There was the smell of ozone, dizzyingly clean, and I remembered we were at Aunty May’s. I felt Patrick’s big strong hand on the small of my back. I opened my eyes and looked up into his. I felt my pupils contract, everything come into focus. He was laughing down at me. Leaning over me, his weight on one elbow, his shoulder muscles bulging. His old self.

  And I found myself dragged towards him, I could smell the tang of him, as he sank his teeth into my shoulder. He moved his hand between my legs, pressing hard, so it almost hurt, but at the same time he was lifting my hair tenderly with his other hand and kissing my neck under my ear.

  ‘Patrick.’ I tried to push him away, surprised by how very strong his hold was.

  ‘Please . . .’

  ‘Ssshh.’

  He clutched me tighter, and I gave in. He wasn’t hurting me, he was being firm, but gentle. The more I tried to wriggle away the tighter he held me. Protesting was pointless, I realised. I’d come too far down this road. I could do nothing but give into him, let our bodies meld with the bright white sea light and the warmth of the room. Part of me liked it. Part of me knew instinctively it was safer to go with it.

  We’d driven down to May’s the night before.