I wait.
‘You see, it’s complicated.’
‘That’s okay. I can talk about complicated things. I’m forty-three. I’ve had lots of practice. Don’t gawp at me like a shell-shocked goldfish. Will you at least admit that George Donbavand is a real boy, who until recently was a pupil at Beaconwood?’
Mr Fisher stares down at his hands. His interlocked fingers clench and relax, clench and relax, as if trying to mimic a heart pumping blood.
‘Lachlan, I have a distraught fourteen-year-old daughter who can’t understand why her friend’s been expelled for something he didn’t do, even after she and he both explained to the head that he didn’t do it. How do you think she feels when I tell her that same head teacher is now flat-out denying the existence of the boy she describes as “my best friend in the whole world”? Is it the mission of this school to fuck with its pupils’ heads until they can no longer distinguish between illusion and reality?’
‘No. No, it isn’t. Justine, I’m terribly sorry about all this. I really am.’
‘Then tell me the truth. What’s going on?’
‘I … Can you leave it with me?’
‘No. Tell me now.’
‘That’s impossible. I’m so sorry, but … if I could explain, you would understand. Truly.’
‘I think that might be the most irritating statement I’ve ever heard.’
‘Yes, I can imagine. Look, I promise – you have my solemn word – I’ll do my best to sort this out. As soon as I’m able to, I’ll be in touch. Hopefully later today. Do we have your current contact numbers in our records?’
‘Yes.’ I want to scream at him and pummel him with my fists, but I’ve got to be practical. He’s my best chance of finding out.
‘I should get back to my class,’ he says. ‘Tell you what: I’ll ring you this evening either way.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Only ring me if you can tell me the truth. Come on, Figgy.’ Let’s get round this corner and then we can smash our fists against some walls. Well, I can.
‘Justine!’
I stop. ‘What?’
‘George is real. He was a pupil at this school until a few days ago. He and Ellen were best friends.’
I close my eyes for a second. ‘Thank you.’
‘Justine? The kind of friends they were … are, I should probably say …’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve never seen anything like that between two secondary school students before. Between two people before,’ he amends. ‘It was … well, I suppose I can’t say what it was, as an outside observer. But it seemed more intense than any relationship I’ve ever seen between adults.’
Chapter 8
Remove All Sharp Items, Chop Down All Trees
Bascom Ingrey blamed himself for the death of the flaky-eyed bumcracker, whose name turned out to be Jack Kirbyshire. Lisette and Allisande saw that there was no doubt in either of their parents’ minds that Perrine had murdered him, and so they didn’t doubt it either. It was now undeniable that those who found themselves in close proximity to Perrine were likely to fall to their deaths from high windows.
Bascom took this latest tragedy harder than hard. It half destroyed him. He was unable to teach and Sorrel took over all subjects. Every lesson, from Maths to Geography to Science, consisted of watching videos and eating marshmallows. Sorrel had evidently stopped worrying about relevance. There had been three days of nothing but Cagney and Lacey, for example. To say that class discussions were no longer intellectually challenging was an understatement. Lisette was really worried. She knew she wouldn’t get into Cambridge University on the strength of her ideas about why Harvey Lacey was always in his pyjamas.
Officially, Jack Kirbyshire’s death was recorded as an accident, but the local police knew the truth as well as all the Ingreys did. They just couldn’t prove it.
The mood in Speedwell House was a dark one. The bumcrackers no longer sang, joked or listened to the radio. Bascom and Sorrel weren’t sure if any of them suspected Perrine of murder. None of the family had said anything to them, of course, but Perrine was so obviously an alarming child that anyone intelligent would suspect her, they thought.
‘We can’t let her out of our sight,’ Sorrel told Bascom. ‘Any of the bumcrackers might try to kill her now. We must remove all sharp and heavy items from Speedwell House and chop down all trees from which nooses might be dropped.’
‘Would it be so terrible if a bumcracker tried to kill Perrine and succeeded?’ said Bascom.
‘You can’t mean that!’ Sorrel was shocked. ‘You don’t want to give up on her, do you?’
‘But what if she’s evil? The sort of evil for which there’s no hope.’
‘Well, then you ought to give up on her for sure.’
‘She can’t be evil,’ said Bascom in anguish. ‘I refuse to believe it.’
He stopped in his tracks. ‘Oh, my sainted stars!’ he whispered.
‘What is it?’ asked Sorrel. ‘Have you thought of a plan?’
‘Music!’ Bascom exclaimed. ‘We forgot music! The girls need to learn it. They did at school, though the lessons weren’t up to much, were they? A few half-hearted choruses of “The Windmills of Your Mind”, while bashing some cymbals and a triangle.’
Sorrel frowned. ‘I don’t quite see what you’re saying.’
‘Bach, Beethoven, Mozart – proper music lessons! That’s what the girls need. That’s what Perrine needs. That child has a soul, and I’m determined to find it. Music is the way. The pathway to the soul! Or it could be. I can’t believe I forgot about music when I was devising their home-schooling curriculum. I know why I did: it’s because I’ve got a tin ear. I’m musically illiterate, but I’m no philistine. I know how important music is. Obviously, it’s not a subject I can teach …’
‘Oh, I can do it,’ Sorrel offered cheerfully.
‘Hmm. I’m not sure,’ said Bascom. ‘No offence, but—’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t just play them old Rolling Stones albums.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘I’ll make them learn “Sloop John B” by the Beach Boys, and then we can all sing it together, with the harmonies and everything.’ Sorrel was proud of her ambitious plan.
‘No, no!’ said Bascom, annoyed. ‘That’s not what I mean at all. I mean proper musical. Classical.’
‘Oh, don’t be a snoot-nose!’ Sorrel teased him.
‘Sorrel, this is vitally important. We need to get someone in. A specialist.’
‘From Nottingham?’ Sorrel asked.
‘No, not necessarily. I’ll make some enquiries.’
‘All right, darling, but please don’t get your hopes up. I do worry that it might not work.’
‘It has to work,’ said Bascom. ‘It will work.’
And so it was that, a few weeks later, David Butcher, a former organ scholar of King’s College, Cambridge, arrived at Speedwell House with no idea at all of what was in store for him.
9
‘Thanks for coming in, Justine.’ Lesley Griffiths isn’t smiling. She hasn’t since I arrived. Oddly, this gives me hope. I’ve seen too many people slap a smile on a lie recently, to make it look better. If the truth is about to arrive on the scene, it’s fitting that it should wear a serious face.
Lachlan Fisher didn’t ring me last night as I hoped he would. Instead, Lesley rang to say she’d spoken to Mr Fisher, and was I available to come in for a chat tomorrow afternoon? If so, they would both clear their diaries.
And now tomorrow is today and here I am, in Lesley’s office. She’s sitting at her desk, with Lachlan Fisher behind her in the armchair in the corner of the room. I wish he’d pull it forward. He looks like a child who’s been dragged along to an event against his will and told to sit quietly until the grown-ups have finished talking.
I want him in this conversation. Without his intervention, I’m convinced it wouldn’t be happening.
‘No puppy today?’ he says.
‘I left him w
ith my husband. And Ellen. She’s at home today.’
‘Is she okay?’
‘No. When I woke her up this morning, she told me she didn’t want to go to school. I said, “Wonderful. Hooray.” I’ve been encouraging her to stay away from Beaconwood since pupils started vanishing into thin air and having their existences erased, so … today’s a good result for me.’
‘I understand your anger,’ says Lesley. ‘No doubt I deserve it. This is an unusual situation, and I suspect I’ve made a hash of it. The handling of it, I mean. Only I’m not sure how else I could have dealt with it without—’ She breaks off and sighs. ‘Would you like a cup of tea before I launch in? I could certainly do with one. Lachlan?’
‘Glass of water for me, please.’
They’re both looking at me, waiting for my order.
‘Before we get on to drinks … Lesley, was there a boy at this school until a few days ago called George Donbavand?’ I am actually holding my breath.
There’s a gap that no one’s putting any words into. I stare at the clock on the desk, reminded of its presence by the ticking that’s suddenly audible.
‘Yes,’ Lesley says eventually. ‘There was.’
I knew that already. I knew it. I didn’t need you to tell me.
‘He was in my form,’ says Mr Fisher.
‘So you lied to me?’ I say to Lesley.
‘Yes, I did.’
Presented with a longed-for, long-suspected fact, my first impulse is to doubt more strenuously. Suddenly, I’m being told there is a George Donbavand – but what if the truth after the lie is just another lie?
‘Did you expel him?’ I ask Lesley.
‘No.’
‘Did you expel his sister, Fleur?’
‘Again, no.’
‘Is she still a pupil here?’
‘No. Much to my regret. Justine, I know why you think I expelled George. I pretended to.’
‘You …’ I sit forward in my chair. ‘You pretended to expel him?’
‘I did, yes. George believes he was expelled.’
‘Right. The only problem with that is: it doesn’t happen, does it? Ever. Why would a child who hasn’t been expelled believe that he had been?’
‘This is what I’m going to try and explain to you,’ says Lesley. ‘Are you sure you don’t want tea or coffee before we start?’
‘I’ll have a coffee.’ Damn. The words slipped out before I could stop them. I haven’t drunk coffee since leaving London. Haven’t felt the need for it. I do now, and that’s a bad sign. If I’m craving an energy boost, that means I’m veering off my true path.
One cup. A solitary exception, not a relapse.
Lesley rings someone – probably Helen Minchin – and asks for a tea, a coffee and a water. Then she says, ‘All right, might as well start. No point us all milling around awkwardly while we wait for drinks. Justine, what you said before – “That doesn’t happen, ever” – I must warn you that there’s a lot of that in what you’re about to hear. Unfortunately, many things one expects will never happen – because, frankly, one can’t credit them – have been happening. As to how to deal with them … I’ve been in a bit of a quandary.’
‘Go on,’ I say.
Lesley glances over her shoulder at Lachlan Fisher, who nods his approval.
‘George and Fleur Donbavand – both pupils at this school since reception. Parents? My first impression was: nice, normal dad and unhappy, neurotic mum. Mum in charge, sadly. Dad totally under the thumb – a Prefect Parent if ever I saw one.’
‘Prefect parent?’
‘Yes: parent in name only. More like an older child with special privileges – ones bestowed by the Power Parent, who could remove them at any time. Anyway. Mum Donbavand wore all available trousers, so unhappy and neurotic carried the day as far as the family went. Always a shame when the better parent is the dormant one, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t think you’re any sort of good parent if you sit back and let your other half harm the kids,’ I say. Then I wonder if I’ve been unfair. I haven’t met Anne Donbavand. Do I have the right to imply she’s damaging her children based on a few second-hand comments?
‘Oh, me too,’ Lesley agrees. ‘I didn’t say “good”, though. I said “better”.’
‘You’re suggesting it’s not difficult to be a better parent than Anne Donbavand?’
‘What I’m not doing is denying that Stephen Donbavand could and should be stronger. But he isn’t, and wasn’t, so. After a while, over a period of some years, the parental anxiety levels became a problem. Emails asking for details of who was preparing the hot lunches, and did we make sure to get proper references for all those people. Demands to be informed whenever an exchange student or non-permanent teacher came to school, the same questions about references there. In the end I invited Parents Donbavand in for a chat, hoping to get to the bottom of it all. I’ve met many an anxious parent in my time, but this was different. The security questions they asked … It was as if they thought someone was intent on attacking their children. So I got them in and asked them directly: “Do you think someone’s out to get Fleur and George? Someone who might stoop to applying for a job in our canteen so as to poison them?”’
‘And? What was the answer?’
‘Lots of incoherent screaming from Mum: why was I asking? What did I know? That sort of thing. It was a short meeting. She stormed out almost immediately and Dad scuttled after her. A few days later there was an email from Dad: could they come in again? They’d obviously decided – well, she’d decided – that she wanted to talk. I said yes, of course. She was perfectly calm for our next meeting. Apologised for her behaviour on the previous occasion, then told me she and her family don’t exist.’
‘What?’
‘Her very words. I’ll never forget it. No such people as Anne, Stephen, Fleur and George Donbavand. Those are false names, she said, because they’re in hiding. In answer to my question from last time – was someone out to get her children? – she told me that, yes, she feared they were. Someone was out to get all of them, hence the assumed identities.’
Is this some kind of joke? Apparently not.
‘How long had Fleur and George been at the school when you had this conversation?’ There’s so much I want to ask, I don’t know where to start.
‘Hm.’ Lesley’s mouth twists as she tries to work it out. ‘I could dig out my old diaries and check, but … Fleur and George were both still in Juniors.’
‘A long time ago, then?’
‘Oh, yes. We at Beaconwood have been living with this knowledge of the threat to the Donbavands for years. Each new member of staff we hire has to be informed. Lachlan’ll tell you.’
‘It’s true, Justine. I think we must be the most security-conscious school in the country because of it. Once you hear something like that, you can’t help but worry. You’re in charge of protecting two students whose parents have told you they’re endangered. You start to see threats everywhere: visiting speakers, other children’s parents …’
‘We got used to it,’ says Lesley. ‘You get used to anything, don’t you? We watched George and Fleur like hawks all day long, vetted everyone who entered the building as diligently as we could. Anne Donbavand asked to be informed in advance of anyone Fleur and George might come into contact with, so that she could vet them too.’
‘It was time-consuming,’ says Lachlan. ‘Long emails had to be sent every week: the names of anyone new who was due to be in school the following week, any new families starting at the school …’
‘Wait. You’re telling me that when Ellen came to Beaconwood, you had to email Anne Donbavand and give her our names, so that she could check us out?’
Lachlan hard-blinks at me a few times before turning to Lesley. He wants her to deliver the unwelcome news.
‘I don’t think she can have investigated every name we gave her, else she’d have got no work done – the woman’s a workaholic from what I can gather – but yes,’ say
s Lesley. ‘When I knew that Ellen was coming to Beaconwood, I emailed Anne to tell her. I did it whenever we had a new family.’
I’m annoyed to find myself believing what I’m hearing: believing, at least, that Lesley’s no longer lying to me. I’d be happier if I still had doubts. This story is already too disturbing, and we haven’t got to the expulsion part. Sorry: pretend expulsion.
‘The first time Alex and I came to look round, without Ellen – did you warn Anne Donbavand in advance that we were coming?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is unbelievable.’
‘Isn’t it just? Thing is, we’ve never had a visitor to the school for whom secrecy is a priority. You and Alex weren’t concerned that no one should find out you’d been here, were you?’
‘No, but—’
‘No one is,’ Lesley glides smoothly over my unfinished objection. ‘I figured it wouldn’t do any harm to anyone else if I … kept Anne informed. Kept her off my back, more importantly.’
‘Didn’t she also threaten to take Fleur and George out of Beaconwood?’ asks Lachlan.
‘Yes. Sorry, I missed out that part. It became clear at a certain point that if we weren’t prepared to put these … reassurance measures in place, the ones Anne demanded, then she would remove both children.’ Lesley’s mouth sets in a firm line. ‘I wasn’t having that. At least with Fleur and George at Beaconwood I could guarantee they’d be exposed to six hours of sanity, five days a week.’
‘Hold on.’ I’m confused. ‘Are you saying Anne’s insane, and there’s no real threat to the family?’
‘No, I believed her,’ Lesley says. ‘But think about living like that – in hiding, knowing that if anyone finds out who you are, it might be curtains for you. Imagine it! Anyone’d go loopy. I think that’s what happened to Anne Donbavand. She wasn’t as bad when I first knew her. She got worse. Told me she’d nearly not risked sending George and Fleur to school in their new life. Toss-up between us and home-schooling, it was. I thought about poor old Fleur and George in that house all day long, with Anne’s dark, paranoid fears for company – frankly, I’d have done anything to keep them here, as long as it didn’t harm anyone else. So, yes, I went along with most of Anne’s strange requests.’
A Game for All the Family Page 17