The woman officer pushed Sophie face down onto the carpet and forced her knee into her back. Then she twisted Sophie’s arms behind her, unclipped the handcuffs from her belt and snapped them around Sophie’s wrists.
‘Don’t you worry! Don’t you worry!’ Sophie shouted. ‘That was only the first bite! I’ll eat the rest of you yet, you cow! I’ll eat every last scrap of you and pick my teeth with your bones!’
Between them, Jerry and the woman officer pulled Sophie up onto her feet. Jamila had pressed the panic button and two more uniformed officers burst their way into the interview room.
Sophie threw her head violently from side to side and spit flew out of her mouth. ‘I’ll eat the rest of you yet, you miserable bitch! I’ll chew you and swallow you and digest you and you’ll become me! Then you’ll know who murdered Mike! Then you’ll know! But it’ll be too late for you then, won’t it? Far too late! Just let me get my teeth into you, you bitch! You won’t stand a hope in hell!’
The three officers dragged Sophie, still screaming and kicking, back to her cell. Jerry looked at Jamila’s bleeding hand and saw that Sophie had bitten her right through to the bone. He pulled three tissues out of the box on the table, folded them up into a pad, and pressed them against the teeth-marks.
‘You’re going to need stitches, or butterfly bandages at least, and sterilising, too,’ he told her. ‘God knows what’s wrong with that girl, but you don’t want to catch it.’
Jamila’s lips were pursed and she was wincing with pain. She nodded, and Jerry could see that she was trying hard not to cry. If she hadn’t been his superior officer, he would have hugged her and kissed her and told her that she was going to be fine.
18
Laura rinsed her muesli bowl and left it in the sink. Then she went through to the bathroom to brush her teeth. It was a dull grey morning and when she saw herself in the mirror over the washbasin she thought that she was looking tired and old.
She had been head teacher at St Blandina’s primary school for four years now and this term had been her hardest. Three of her best teachers had left to get married and the Ofsted government inspector had given her school an ‘inadequate’ rating. Her dyed-brown hair was dry and wiry and she had pouches under her eyes and deep lines on the sides of her mouth. And to think she had once been the prettiest girl at her teacher training college.
She was just about to start brushing her teeth when she heard a rattling, scuffling sound from out in the hallway. She listened, still looking at herself in the mirror. The rattling continued, and it seemed to be coming from the cupboard where she hung up her coats and kept her outdoor shoes.
At first she thought it might be an airlock in the central heating pipe – but that always made a knocking noise. This was softer and quicker, almost furtive, as if there were somebody trying to hide themselves behind the coats.
She put down her toothbrush, went across to the cupboard and opened the door. Three coats and two jackets were hanging on a rail, and her shoes and boots were neatly arranged in wooden compartments. The rattling and scuffling had abruptly stopped, although she was sure that the coats were swaying slightly on their hangers.
She left the cupboard door open while she went back into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Although she couldn’t understand why, she couldn’t help feeling that she was no longer alone in her flat. She was on the point of calling out, ‘Who’s there?’ until she thought to herself: Don’t be ridiculous. Both the front and the back doors are locked and all the windows are shut. Nobody could have got inside without my knowing.
She gave her hair a quick primp, and then she went back to the cupboard and lifted out her thick brown tweed coat. As soon as she had put her arms into the sleeves, and before she had even started to button it up, she felt a hard jolt, as if somebody had come up behind her and grabbed her by the shoulders. She gasped, and stumbled forward, so that she collided with the frame of the bathroom door on the opposite side of the hallway, hitting the right side of her forehead.
Half-stunned, she tried to turn around to wrest herself free from her attacker, but she was dragged bodily back into the cupboard. She fell among the other coats and jackets, and the impact of her falling made their sleeves flap up and almost smother her. She struggled to free herself, but they kept flapping up as if they were alive, and they were trying to wrap their arms around her.
She reached over her shoulder with her left hand to push off whoever it was who had seized her, but it was then that she realised that there was nobody there. It was her coat that was gripping her. It had fastened itself onto her shoulders and her back and it was clinging to her as if it were three sizes too small.
She took hold of her right cuff and tugged it, but she simply didn’t have the strength to pull it off. She jerked it again and again, harder and harder, but she still couldn’t budge it.
She stood still, and took several deep breaths. The coat was so tight that it was making her feel panicky. I can’t think why it’s suddenly got so tight, but if I can’t take it off normally, I’m going to go to the kitchen and get my scissors and cut it off.
The other coats and jackets were still swaying, even though she was standing still, and the sleeve of her khaki raincoat suddenly flipped up over her shoulder and brushed itself against her cheek. She took two or three unsteady steps forward to get out of the cupboard, and staggered towards the kitchen as if she were drunk. The coat was even tighter now, and she felt that it was going to break her collarbone and force her shoulder-blades together, and she was finding it hard to breathe.
She opened the drawer in the kitchen and took out the scissors she usually used for cutting chickens, and string. As she was about to cut into the left-hand cuff, though, she hesitated.
Why does she want to take it off?
It’s hurting. It’s far too tight. It’s making me feel panicky.
Tell her to relax. Tell her that she doesn’t need to worry. The coat is her and she is the coat. It won’t hurt her so long as she understands that.
How can I be a coat? I don’t understand.
We’re like conjoined twins now, she and me. I can enter into her, and then we’ll be together, the two of us – inseparable. I know she’s not happy at the moment. I can feel it. I know that she’s tired and disappointed. But I can give her the life that I once had. I can come back, through her.
Laura slowly lowered the scissors and then she laid them back in the drawer. She was right. The coat didn’t feel as if it were crushing her any more. In fact it seemed to fit her perfectly. All she could feel was a prickling sensation across her shoulders and down her back, but that wasn’t altogether unpleasant. In a strange way, it was slightly erotic.
She left the kitchen and went back to the cupboard in the hallway. She looked at the coats and the jackets hanging there, and she thought: You’re alive. You’re my brothers and sisters. Don’t worry – we’ll find people like Laura for you, too. People you can embrace. People who will give you back the lives you’ve lost. You’ve suffered enough. Now it’s your time.
The coats and the jackets swung on their hangers as if they were silently showing their approval.
*
She parked her Mini Clubman at the back of the school and went inside.
St Blandina’s was a large red-brick Edwardian building on the corner of Hillbury Road overlooking Tooting Bec Common. It had been named for the Christian martyr who was the patron saint of young school-children. St Blandina had been half-roasted on a red-hot grille and then wrapped in a net and thrown into an arena to be tossed by wild bulls. Lately Laura had been feeling that she had been suffering almost as much. Not only did she have to deal with Ofsted inspectors telling her how much her school needed improvement, but she had to cope with carping parents and dim supply teachers and spoilt, arrogant, misbehaving children.
From today, everything’s going to be different. From today, she’s not going to take any more nonsense from anybody. She wasn’t born in this world to suffe
r, not like I did.
She walked along the parquet-floored corridor to her office. She could hear children chattering and laughing in the classrooms, and some of them slamming the lids of their desks.
Why does every school smell the same? she thought. Of paints and paper and children’s wee and whatever’s being cooked in the kitchen for lunch? I hate the smell. It makes me feel nauseous. It makes me feel trapped.
There were seventy-seven children in the school at the moment, between the ages of four and seven. Before the Ofsted report there had been over a hundred, but now it was difficult to make ends meet, financially, and she had been forced to cut down on educational trips and on school dinners, too. Some of the parents had complained that the meals were smaller than they used to be, but most of the children left half of their food anyway, with one or two obese exceptions.
As she reached her office, Leta Clover came out of her classroom, making a point of looking at her watch. Leta was a young supply teacher, originally from Jamaica, with a cornrow hairstyle and huge gold earrings.
‘What time are we going to start lessons, Miss Miller? My class is getting very restive.’
‘Oh, excuse me,’ Laura retorted. ‘Are you pointing out that I’m ten minutes late? I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long! I’m only the head teacher and your employer. How silly of me to assume that I could come and go whenever I pleased.’
Leta’s mouth dropped open. Laura had never spoken to her so sarcastically before – not to her, nor to any of her supply teachers. Usually she made a special effort to keep them happy, and to make them feel appreciated, mainly because really good supply teachers were so scarce.
‘Prayers in five minutes,’ said Laura. ‘And can I hear some girls in your classroom screaming? I won’t have screaming. Go back in there and sort them out.’
‘They’re only playing,’ said Leta.
‘They don’t come here to play, they come here to learn. They can play when they get home. Now go and tell those girls to keep the noise down.’
‘Well, yes. If that’s what you want.’
‘It’s a school rule. No screaming. And no running, either. I don’t want running.’
‘Anything else?’ Leta challenged her.
‘Yes. No impertinence. I won’t have impertinence. Either from the children, or from you.’
Leta was obviously ready to answer her back, but she managed to restrain herself. Without another word she turned around and went back to her classroom, slamming the door behind her.
Right, thought Laura. That’s the end of your career at St Blandina’s, young madam!
She went into her office. There were seven or eight letters waiting on her desk. She quickly sorted through them. Bills, most of them, although there was also a letter from Ofsted about her NTI – notice to improve. She tore it in half, and then tore it in half again, and dropped it into her wastepaper basket. Then she stared at the other letters for a moment before picking them up and tearing all of them in half, too.
She’s in charge now. Properly in charge. She’s not going to allow anybody to make demands on her or tell her what to do.
She sat down at her desk, opened her laptop, and began to write out a letter to parents informing them of her new school rules. If a child was defiant, the parent would be expected to come immediately to the school and remove him or her for the rest of the day. Children who refused to eat their lunch would have to sit at the table until it was finished, even if it meant sitting there until home time.
She could hear the children chattering and laughing as they were ushered into the large hall at the front of the school which was used for assemblies and for meals. Once they had all passed her door, she stood up and went after them, still wearing her coat. The school was well heated, but she didn’t want to take it off, and guessed that she probably couldn’t, although she had no inclination now to try. She felt that the coat was part of her. The coat was her.
19
When she entered the hall, the children were all sitting cross-legged on the floor, with their four teachers sitting on chairs, two on either side. They were all talking and giggling and nudging each other, and one boy was throwing rolled-up paper pellets. None of them stopped when Laura came into the room.
‘Simon,’ she said, coldly.
The boy who was throwing paper pellets took no notice.
‘Simon!’ she snapped.
He stopped, and grinned at her. ‘Yes, miss?’
‘Go to the toilet,’ she told him.
‘I don’t need to go, miss.’
‘I don’t care. Go to the toilet, close the door, and stay there until I say that you can come out.’
All the children burst out laughing, including Simon, although his laughter was more uncertain.
‘What makes you think that I’m joking?’ said Laura. ‘Go to the toilet now and stay there, otherwise I will phone your mother and tell her that you’ve been misbehaving and she has to take you home.’
The laughter died away. The children could see by the expression on Laura’s face that she was serious. Simon stood up and stepped over the other children on his way to the door. His eyes were filled with tears and his mouth was turned down in misery.
Once he had gone, Laura said, ‘Listen to me, all of you! There will be no more talking during prayers. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. There will be no more talking in the corridors. There will be no more running. When you go outside to play, there will be no more shouting and screaming. You have come here to school to learn, and two of the most important things that you are going to learn are good behaviour and respect for your elders. I don’t care what your parents allow you to do at home. That’s none of my business. But here, at St Blandina’s, you will do what you are told. Do you understand that?’
There was silence from the children. Laura could see the teachers giving each other quizzical looks, and Leta shrugging and pulling a face as if to say, ‘Don’t ask me!’
‘Do you understand that?’ Laura repeated.
‘Yes, Miss Miller,’ the children chorused. Some of the younger ones sitting in the front looked completely bewildered, while others looked frightened, and two or three of them gave a little shiver.
‘Right, you can go back to your classrooms now,’ said Laura.
Susan Lawrence put up her hand. She was in charge of the six-year-olds, and had been teaching at St Blandina’s since it first opened.
‘No hymns today, Miss Miller? No prayers?’
‘We’re not singing or showing our devotion to some imaginary deity, thank you,’ said Laura.
‘But – this is a Christian school, isn’t it?’
‘Do you believe in ghosts, Susan?’ asked Laura.
‘Well of course not, but—’
‘Ghosts are imaginary. God is imaginary. We don’t have conversations with ghosts because that would be absurd, and we don’t sing ridiculous songs to God, because that would be equally absurd. These children are here to be educated, not deluded. Now, everybody back to your classrooms!’
She clapped her hands and all the children stood up and filed in silence out of the room, some of them glancing at her worriedly. What had happened to the warm and smiling head teacher who had led them yesterday in singing ‘Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam’ and ‘Arky Arky’? Most of the children had never been spoken to so harshly in their lives and Laura could tell by the way that some of the older ones were smirking that they thought she had been play-acting. Well, they would soon find out.
*
At 10:30, Natasha Bell knocked at Laura’s office door. Natasha was a small, shy young woman who looked after the nursery class. She was pale and plump but quite pretty, with her hair always twisted up in a bun. The four-year-olds all loved her.
‘I’m just going for my doctor’s appointment now,’ she said, cautiously.
Laura carried on typing for a few moments, but then she looked up and said, ‘What doctor’s appointment?’
‘The one I told you
about yesterday, Miss Miller. For my IVF treatment.’
‘Did you? How long are you going to be?’
‘The rest of the day, as I told you.’
‘So who’s going to be taking care of your class?’
Natasha gave her an awkward smile. ‘Well, you are. You said you would. You said it wouldn’t be a problem.’
‘Are you sure I said that?’ Laura’s fingers were still poised over her keyboard, as if she were determined to continue writing her letter.
‘I’ve had to wait three months for this appointment,’ Natasha told her. She was beginning to sound desperate. ‘If I miss this one, I don’t know when I’ll be able to get another.’
‘So you want a baby?’ said Laura. ‘I would have thought you were heartily sick of small children by now. Sick to the back teeth.’
‘Please, Miss Miller. My husband’s come to collect me and he’s waiting outside.’
Laura looked at the screen of her laptop for a moment, and then she switched it off and closed it. ‘Very well. I can’t have you thinking that I’m an ogress, can I? Who’s looking after the little darlings at the moment?’
‘Gemma’s keeping an eye on them for me. She’s given her own class some colouring to keep them out of mischief.’
Laura stood up. Natasha was disturbed to see that she looked much taller than usual, and even though she had her back to the window, and the light was behind her, her face seemed different, with a chin that was broader and squarer, and with much smaller eyes. She was still wearing her brown tweed coat, and Natasha felt like asking her if she was feeling the cold, but she was in such a strange and prickly mood that she decided not to.
Natasha left; and Laura trudged upstairs. There were two classrooms on the first-floor landing – the nursery class and the seven-year-olds. Laura had arranged it like that so that the older children could be asked to help with the infants whenever it was necessary – like taking them to the toilet, which they needed with irritating frequency.
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