by Tom Grieves
She walked along the corridor, wrapped in a storm. She entered the class and taught Year 9 with a bored coldness that the children noticed. It kept them quieter than usual, but their new-found attention didn’t soothe her rage. She glared at Year 7 and taught them without care or attention. She didn’t answer anyone’s questions and she talked over confused but well-meaning pupils.
At break she hid from the staffroom and went, instead, to a narrow windy alley between two prefabricated buildings where she smoked her way through three cigarettes. Kath found her here and, apart from a raised eyebrow, said nothing for a while, smoking a cigarette herself. Crisp packets and cans littered the ground.
‘He needed my help.’
‘Says who? The kid? Sounds to me like he’s got quite an imagination.’
Anna just smoked some more.
‘Oh cheer up,’ Kath said. ‘You could have lost your job. Benton might be a prick but at least he stopped you getting into more trouble.’
‘I guess.’
‘You guess. Have you thought of how a newspaper would twist this? Secret trysts in the back of your car, parents weeping for the childhood snatched from their son, the crimson whore who’s come to steal our children. You know what they do. The rules aren’t just there to protect the kids, Anna, they’re for us too.’
Still Anna didn’t respond.
‘Fine. Be like that. But it’s done now. Move on. Leave the kid alone.’
‘He’s scared of them, Kath.’
‘So go to the police.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not? Anna?’
‘I just … I don’t know.’
‘No, you don’t. We’re just teachers. Leave the rest for someone else, they can be the bloody hero. If The Undertaker says stay away from him, you do it.’
Anna recognised the sense in Kath’s words, but she could not forget. Two pupils – a burly boy and a short-skirted girl – turned into the alley, holding hands, and were startled by the teachers’ presence. They had guilt written all over their faces and they glared at Kath and Anna to make up for it.
‘Don’t look at me like that, Lucy Evans because I know exactly what you and Matt Long are up to,’ barked Kath. ‘Go on, piss off.’
The kids slouched off, grumbling kiddy swearwords.
‘And use a condom, for crying out loud!’
The bell rang to signal the end of break time. Kath crushed her cigarette dead under her shoe.
‘Lucky gits,’ she said with a grin. Anna knew she’d said it to cheer her up, but she was still in her fug. ‘Jesus, here I am, stuck behind the bike sheds with Anna Price. Where did it all go wrong?’
But Anna was too angry to enjoy the joke. She walked back to her class, settled behind her desk and glowered at Year 8 as they wandered cheerfully in. She snapped her way through the lessons for the rest of the day like this. When Toby’s class entered, she wiped her sleeve across her mouth and tried to keep her eyes away from his empty desk. But the maelstrom raged within, unstoppable.
*
Toby sat in Miss Gilbert’s class as she wrote up a series of quotations on the board.
‘Today, we’re going to discuss resonance within the text.’
Toby dutifully wrote the word down, then he felt a nudge from the boy sitting next to him. This was Jimmy Duthie – spiky hair, recurring acne, his tie always loose around his neck.
‘Oi, Toby,’ he whispered with a friendly, conspiratorial smile.
‘Hi, Jimmy.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Oh. Nothing. You know.’
‘Yeah, cos, we all thought you belonged with the mongs in Tiny Tits’ class.’
Jimmy’s eyes laughed at Toby.
‘Don’t talk about Miss Price like that,’ Toby replied.
‘Oh my God, are you banging her?’
Miss Gilbert glanced towards them, but she never bothered to get involved. She turned back to the blackboard and started to underline various phrases.
‘Are you? Are you?’
Toby didn’t reply, he just stared at the blackboard.
‘Is she noisy? Does she like it—’
‘No! Don’t!’ Toby’s voice came out too high, embarrassing him.
‘Don’t!’ mimicked Jimmy and one of his colleagues sniggered. ‘No, she might be minging but she’s not going to put out to you. So what’s going on?’
Toby kept his eyes on the blackboard. Why wouldn’t Miss Gilbert see this?
‘Tell you what, why don’t you explain it to me at break? Just you and me. How about that, eh?’
Don’t look at him.
‘Eh? Freak? Eh?’
Toby feigned a smile, as though something Miss Gilbert had said was suddenly interesting. But he could feel Jimmy’s hateful stare.
*
Anna patrolled the playground during afternoon break. She watched the girls jabbering together and imagined hurtful gossip and bile. She saw violence as the boys jostled for the ball. Across the playground, Toby stood alone, waiting for whatever was coming next. They caught each other’s eye and she offered him a forlorn smile. But then Mr Benton appeared and Toby turned away from her. Anna shouted something half-heartedly at a boy who wasn’t doing anything wrong and he was suitably indignant. As he moaned at her, she saw Jimmy Duthie and two friends walking across the playground towards Toby. Their intentions were clear. Toby saw them coming and froze. Then he glanced at Anna who, in turn looked at Benton. He coolly, coldly, returned her gaze. Jimmy put a hand on Toby’s shoulder, mock-friendly and the three boys led Toby away. Anna was rooted to the spot and a few seconds later, Toby and the boys were gone. Angry, she looked at Benton.
‘Well, you can do something! Jesus!’
Mr Benton just walked away. Job done. Anna was furious. Her fingers dug into her palms as she tried to calm herself. But as she stared at the space where Toby once stood, so miserable and vulnerable, she made a promise to herself.
Later, when Michael Mayhew walked through the gates, he found himself a spot a few yards ahead of the other parents. No one went to speak to him and his position was deliberately aloof. Anna watched all of this from the staffroom . She hurried down to him but found Toby ahead of her, walking towards his father, slower than the rest of the children. He was still limping, but now his nose was swollen and his hair was covered in some sort of gunk – it was purple, sticky. Toby walked straight past his father, ready for the car. Michael didn’t seem bothered by Toby’s appearance or any lack of ‘hello’. He turned to follow him, but Anna stopped him.
‘Mr Mayhew.’
He saw her and smiled, supercilious.
‘Don’t smile at me,’ she hissed. ‘I know you’re hurting him.’
‘No, you don’t. You don’t know anything.’
‘Well, I’ll make sure I do. I’m going to get you … you … you fuck.’
The word exploded from her lips. It shocked her. Michael stiffened, surprised.
‘Well now,’ he said, looking her up and down a little more closely.
‘Whatever I said this morning, in front of the Head, forget it. I’m not stopping. I’m going to be everywhere he is. I’m going to find out exactly what you’re doing to him and I’m going to let everyone know and I won’t stop, I won’t ever stop. Have you got that?’
Anger flashed across his face for a moment. But then he shook his head, mock-weary, and walked off. He unlocked the car with a click of the key and Toby bundled himself in. Anna followed, spoiling for a fight, but the driver’s door slammed shut and the central locking snapped down. The car shot off and Toby glanced up too late to catch Anna’s eye as the car drove away.
*
When Anna returned to her flat she dumped the bag of school books by the door, turned on the lights and poured herself a large glass of red wine from the carefully recorked bottle. She took three angry gulps, but it was too rich and she put it down, annoyed that she didn’t have it within herself to be a big drinker. A nice tidy blouse and skirt,
neat brown suede shoes, a dull mackintosh to cover it all up. She ruffled her hair and it fell back into its unexceptional place.
Anna’s flat was small, acceptable, unfussy, in an unfashionable part of town. Partly this was down to her meagre teacher’s salary, but her heart always sank slightly when she entered and she knew she could do better, somehow. Framed posters of old foreign films she’d never seen adorned the walls. In the hallway was the answerphone. It blinked with a message. She went over, pressed play, then wandered back to the kitchen to get her glass of wine. A man spoke after a moment’s pause: throaty, sonorous, posh.
‘Anna. It’s the old man. I hope you’re well, it’s been … a while.’
She imagined her father sitting at the desk in his splendid study, toying with a paperweight or flicking through papers, wishing the call out of the way.
‘I was wondering if you’d call me when you have a moment. There are things to discuss. Goodbye, love.’
A pause, a moment’s hesitation, as though there was more he wished to say, and then the phone disconnected. Anna went to the answerphone and jammed her finger on the delete button. The call gave her the strength to down the glass and go for a refill.
In the kitchen she opened the fridge, took out some tupperware leftovers and placed them in the microwave. Irritated by the silence, she switched on the radio, but then switched it off again. She looked in at the dishes turning slowly and felt the tension of the day flowing back and forth across her, exhausting her. Then she headed back into the sitting room. She clicked on the TV, feeling the need to be doped tonight, and flicked through the channels, hoping she’d find something appropriate. In the kitchen, the microwave beeped. And as Anna turned to get her dinner, she noticed the television flicker for a moment. It was a fraction of a fraction of a second. But it stopped Anna dead.
The image on the screen was Anna. In the same clothes as she was wearing right then … holding the television’s remote control …
She stared at the screen, her throat suddenly dry. She swallowed and looked again, but the picture was normal now. A reality show. A couple giggled nervously at the prospect of buying their first home. The presenter winked at the camera and Anna switched the TV off. There was her reflection in the blank screen – her clothes, holding the remote. Was this what she had seen?
Anna Price knew herself as a sensible, normal woman. Too normal for her own liking, and not prone to flights of fancy. But still she hurried from the room and returned with her small, orderly toolbox. She opened it, unplugged the TV, attached the right screwdriver piece for her needs, and then methodically began to unscrew the back of the set.
The phone rang again, but she ignored it and didn’t listen out for the message. Soon she was pulling wires out of the back, knowing that she would never be able to reassemble them. Her delicate fingers removed the guts of the television, dumping electronic bits onto the carpet. She ran her hands over circuit boards and wires that made no sense to her until she reached a long black wire that had a small black box at one end … and a tiny camera at the other, which was stuck to the inside of the television screen – pointing outwards. Anna held the camera up to the light, just to be sure. She fiddled with the black box, but it wouldn’t open. She sat back amid the detritus of the dismantled TV, holding the camera in cautious fingers as though it were a baby crocodile. She put it to her lips, whispered quietly into it.
‘What are you?’
And at that instant, the telephone rang again. Anna jumped. She looked at the thing in her hands and dropped it. Frightened of it. She went to the telephone – the answerphone was blinking again from the last message. She waited for it to pick up, but it didn’t, it just kept ringing and ringing and ringing. Unable to bear it, she picked up, her voice breathy.
‘Hello?’
No reply. Not even the sound of someone’s breathing.
‘Hello?’ Still nothing. A fault on the line, maybe. ‘Hello?’ she said again, more confidence in her voice this time. ‘Yeah, funny. Very funny.’ Still nothing. She listened as carefully as she could, scrunching her eyes closed to help her. Silence. ‘I’m not scared, okay?’ she said into the receiver. She hung up. And immediately the phone rang again.
‘I’M NOT SCARED OF YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME?’ she shouted, and slammed the phone down again. And again it rang. Desperate, Anna ripped the phone line from the socket in the wall. Finally silence. Except for her panicked breathing.
And then, from her bag, she heard her mobile phone start up. Such a jolly ringtone. She stabbed it off. Turned off the phone. Put it in her handbag. Then pulled it out of the bag and ripped off the back, removed the battery and threw the pieces back down again.
Silence. It should have been reassuring. But the door was not locked, the curtains were not drawn …
Anna rushed to the door, pinned the scanty chain across it, locked it, then ran to the windows and pulled the curtains tight shut against … against what …? She stopped and wheeled round and looked at all of the tiny nooks and crannies of her cramped flat. If there was a camera in the television, then there could be more. Anywhere. Eyes watching her right now.
‘I’m going mad,’ she said out loud to herself.
And then there was a knock on the door. A loud, sharp bang.
Oh fuck.
She went to the door and peeked through the tiny spy-hole. But there was no one there.
Fucking fucking fucking …
She backed away from the door. But then something pushed her forward. She found her hands were undoing the locks, removing the safety chain. She watched her fingers reach for the latch and open the door.
Kath staggered into sight on teetering heels. She was holding a bottle of wine and had clearly had one already.
‘WOO-HOO! Anna’s hitting the town tonight! Anna’s hitting the town tonight! Hang on: you’re not going like that? Tell me you’ve got a sexy outfit ready and waiting. Tell me, tell me, tell me …’
Anna was so relieved that she threw her arms around her.
‘Alright love, calm down. No need to get all lezzy on me. Jesus.’
Kath pushed her way inside and stopped when she saw the mess in the living room.
‘What the fuck …?’
‘Yeah, I – er – tried to fix it myself.’
‘You big loon. And what’s wrong with your phone? I kept ringing and it kept cutting out.’
Anna started giggling, unable to stop.
‘Have you been on the sauce already?’
‘Yes!’ she laughed.
‘Good girl! Tonight is going to be SO mental!’
SEVEN
Bloody hell, it’s beautiful out here. From where I’m sitting, the land slips down and away and I can see for miles. There are ants by my feet, tugging away at leaves. I watch them for a bit, but then my eye’s caught by the dew. It’s sparkling on a spider’s web. And the sky is a perfect blue, not a cloud anywhere. The cold is so bitter it makes me blink and I have to shove my hands into my pockets, but I’m not moving. Not yet. I watch the contours of the hills and the clean line of trees on the other side of the valley. Everything is so still, so perfect. Empty fields are divided by thickets and old stone walls. A big bird of prey weaves slow circles in the sky. And as I sit here, a deer – a young doe – clatters through the greenery and stops dead, suddenly aware of me. I don’t move but its big, glassy brown eyes watch me nervously as it wonders whether to bolt. I see the tiny scars on its legs from barbed wire or thorny bushes and admire its fine brown coat. I smile at it, but the creature does not understand. It backs up slowly before turning and jumping easily through the thickets and away. I watch it bounce and bob through the trees and bushes and I find myself waving a traveller’s goodbye.
I pull my hands out of my pockets and rub them together, blowing on them. Glancing down, I notice the blood. There’s too much to wipe off casually and I’m cross with myself: It will be all over the inside of my pockets now. But then there’s blood splashed across my thighs and ankles, s
o why should it matter? That’s why the deer ran, of course. It saw what’s behind me.
I’m sitting on the metal footplate at the back of a nondescript black van. It’s new, clean on the outside. The interior has been modified; in the middle is the purpose-built stretcher and the restraints they used to hold me down. In a small suitcase are syringes and drugs. On the walls are various pieces of medical equipment – a defibrillator (that’s what it says on the side), a heart monitor, an oxygen mask and tank. And the three men. They wear similar clothes – dark jeans and dull-coloured T-shirts – practical clothing for rough work. The first man lies on the floor of the van. It’s hard to tell what he looks like cos he’s face down in a pool of his own blood. The second is propped up against the side, his right arm hanging oddly (it’s broken in two places), and if it weren’t for that you might think he was dozing. The third man lies on the stretcher, his neck broken, his eyes open. The flies have found them already.
I stand and stretch. My body is a little sore from the fight but I feel good. I took them down in seconds. I think back to the moment, surprised by the instincts within me. I do not understand myself, do not know my own body. I put my hand on my arm. I don’t lift weights but my biceps feel pumped. I run a finger over my knuckles and remember how they crunched into the second man’s jaw, how easily I snapped the third man’s neck. About three weeks ago we found a rabbit in the garden. A fox had been at it, but the poor thing was still alive, all wide eyes and fast little breaths. I didn’t know what to do, had to use a spade, egged on by Carrie. But this morning I killed three men. My body has memories that it won’t share with me. I get up and glance down at the steel ridges on the footplate, there to stop feet from slipping. When I look at the metal, I think of a serrated blade. I think of how I can twist it for best effect. And I worry that I think like this.
I have checked every detail of the van, but there is nothing here that can help me. The men have no ID and the phones they carry are new, pay-as-you-go, with no dialled numbers and no calls received. There is no paperwork, no map, no satnav to help me learn where they were heading. Even the medical equipment’s serial numbers have been deleted. The thought, the care and efficiency behind it all scares me. It strikes me that the van will soon be missed. I bet they’ll know where it stopped. Others will be coming for me.