Tell-Tale

by Sam Hayes

  ‘Just tell me, tell me. Is it the evil spirits or the ghost or the imps and gremlins? Did they come for Michael? Did they give him his disease?’ I grabbed hold of Miss Maddocks’ arm, surprised at how cool it felt, as if she wasn’t really alive.

  She gave me a kind look. ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding seriously. ‘The bad gremlins came for Michael.’ She turned to go but stopped, offering a few more words. ‘But I shouldn’t have told you that much,’ she whispered before shooting off down the corridor.

  CHAPTER 29

  By the end of the movie, Josie had tears cascading down her cheeks. ‘Oh Mum,’ she said. ‘It was so sad. I didn’t think it would end like that. That poor girl.’

  Nina turned to her daughter. She pulled her close and wrapped her arms round her shoulders. Josie’s hair smelled of the expensive shampoo she’d pestered for. ‘No, neither did I,’ Nina replied in a measured voice.

  They’d come back from Laura’s house together after lunch, Josie protesting that she’d been invited to stay the night, that she and Nat had plans, that there was talk of a party, and shopping the next day. Nina’s eyes had darted nervously to her rear-view mirror all the way home.

  ‘Well, your plans have just changed, young lady,’ Nina had snapped when Josie pulled a face in Laura’s kitchen. ‘We’re spending the rest of the day together,’ she’d informed her daughter, thinking that if she had to stick to her like glue the rest of her life, then she would.

  ‘Things rarely turn out the way you expect.’ Nina’s eyes were completely dry after watching the movie that she’d bribed Josie with. She hadn’t been paying attention to it, preferring to stare anywhere but the screen. Above all else, she’d simply wanted to spend a couple of hours in Josie’s magnetic field, to help forget. ‘I love you,’ she said spontaneously.

  Josie recoiled with embarrassment. ‘Er, you too, Mum,’ she chirped, suddenly bright – too bright. She leapt off the sofa. ‘Think I’ll go to my room. I just want to be alone.’

  ‘Not on that computer again. Why don’t you help me in the garden?’ It wasn’t a very tempting offer, Nina knew, but she needed something as mindless and mundane as weeding to keep her overactive mind occupied until she figured out a plan. Josie’s company would help, and at least they’d be near to Mick in the studio.

  ‘I’m going to read. I’m into a really good book.’ Josie passed through the hall and went upstairs, leaving Nina alone with memories that she thought had long gone.

  She fingered the rusty metal of the hairclip in her pocket, thankful that at least Josie was oblivious to everything. Nina would strive to keep it that way, and keep it from Mick, too. Once again, she checked that the front door was securely locked. She went round rattling every downstairs window, deciding not to bother with the weeding. She would just sit, stay inside near to Josie, and think. She would make best case and worst case scenario plans.

  Nina made herself a cup of tea and curled up on the sofa with a blanket. Work issues would have to wait. She stared at the wall ahead, the one she and Mick had painted together late one night when Josie was young. They’d fallen into bed, their hands tacky with emulsion, stamping prints on each other’s bodies. Marking my territory, Mick had said, before they’d made love.

  Nina kicked the knitted throw off her legs. She was sweating. She was shaking from the realisation that, when it came down to it, there was very little distance between the best and worst case scenarios; that if things were to turn out well, she would first have to pass through the worst.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind if he comes for dinner?’

  Nina snapped out of her reverie. She didn’t know how long it had been since she curled in on herself – ten minutes, ten hours? ‘What did you say?’ She smiled up at her husband. One moment she shook, another she poured sweat. Shock, she thought.

  ‘I’m really sorry it’s such short notice. I finally got an email back from the new gallery owner’s secretary, telling me that the boss was in the area and wanted to meet up immediately. I emailed back and suggested he come for dinner. I’m afraid I don’t know anything about him.’

  Nina sensed Mick’s excitement, but it did nothing to lift her mood. She felt happy for him, of course, but when she understood what he was asking of her, when she realised that in a few hours they would be entertaining a man who could help change their finances forever, she wasn’t sure if she was up to it. Even applying mascara seemed an insurmountable task, let alone cooking a dinner that was fit to serve to an important guest.

  Nina’s eyes were heavy. Mick noticed immediately, countering the imposition by wrapping his arms round her as he sat beside her. He felt her respond, relax, push back against him. ‘Interest from yet another gallery is such a great opportunity for us all.’

  Nina suddenly turned and kissed her husband, pressing her mouth fiercely against his. She gripped the sides of his head between her hands, wanting to become a part of him, to crawl inside him, to hide forever.

  She pulled back, took a deep breath. Mick’s eyes were swimming. ‘We’re taking on the world, you and me,’ she said. Her voice was deep, convincing, and it turned Mick on. ‘A West End gallery.’

  ‘West End indeed,’ Mick agreed. He lowered his lips on to the soft skin at the nape of her neck. He wanted more of what she’d just offered him, but if they were to be ready before their guest arrived, there was no time.

  As Mick nuzzled her, Nina remembered the one and only time she’d not welcomed his affections. She was back there in the hospital, staring at her face in the small mirror in the patients’ toilet.

  ‘Dead,’ she said to herself. She saw a face, some lips, and heard the words, but they didn’t seem to be hers. ‘How can my baby be dead?’

  It was a routine scan at twenty weeks’ gestation. Mick had promised to meet her at the clinic, but he’d had a puncture on the way. There was no way of contacting him – he didn’t have a mobile phone; in fact, they could barely afford the old Fiat he drove around in. So Nina had gone into the dark room on her own, changed behind the screen, and lay down on the couch. There was a lone chair set out on the opposite side of the great humming ultrasound machine. A chair for partners, she thought.

  ‘That’s unusual,’ the sonographer said after a short while, then she didn’t say anything else until, ‘There’s baby’s face, see?’

  Nina gasped. ‘Oh,’ she said, quite unable to speak at the sight of the little snub-nosed profile.

  ‘But I’m having trouble finding a heartbeat, I’m afraid.’ Whatever else the technician said after that, Nina couldn’t remember. The world became skimmed with a protective film that prevented the truth drilling into her.

  A consultant was called, further scans performed, a pregnancy test run at record speed. The baby had died; four weeks ago, they thought. Nina wondered what she’d been doing when her baby decided to give up.

  Then Mick arrived, red-faced, apologetic, covered in oil from the car. ‘Have I missed it?’ he asked, grinning. Nina was lying on her back, her face as white as the gown she was wearing.

  ‘It’s dead,’ she said flatly. No one had told Mick before he came into the scan room. The clinic receptionist had sent him straight in – just another late father who was going to get it in the neck.

  Mick stood still. He asked if it was still inside her. He asked if the baby had come out yet.

  Nina didn’t know what to say. With her eyes, she implored the female consultant, who was preoccupied with writing notes, to suggest what might happen. But she didn’t look up, didn’t see the look of horror on Nina’s face, didn’t notice when, gown flapping at the rear, she heaved herself off the couch and ran into the bathroom. Mick followed his wife, wrapped his arms round her lifeless yet still swollen belly.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ Nina spat out. Mick ignored her. He pressed his face into her hair, stricken with grief that their baby was gone.

  ‘Dead,’ Nina said, staring at herself in the mirror. ‘How can my baby be dead?’ She felt as if she was
dying herself, from the inside out.

  ‘Or we could go to a restaurant if you prefer,’ Mick suggested. There was a squeeze on her shoulder, bringing her back to the present. ‘Nina, I said we could go out for dinner if you prefer. Save you cooking.’

  Nina snapped out of the memory. Her mouth had gone dry. She occasionally thought about Josie’s older sister, even though they hadn’t named the baby. That would have made her too real and therefore harder to lose. There was no grave, just ashes scattered in the river close to where she was conceived one late-night picnic with wine, with stars, with bats skimming between the trees around them. The child was just a breath on the wind, as if she’d never been real.

  ‘I have some fresh fish,’ Nina said. Her words were wispy and fragile, stretching through time. The present-day dilemma hit home again, hammering her head. Her stomach lurched; a feeling of having nowhere to run – and if she did run, what about her family? Were they only allowed a certain number of years together? Should she just be grateful for the twenty she’d already shared with Mick, the fifteen she’d cared for Josie? She’d envisaged growing old with Mick; always imagined a Cornish cottage, a dog perhaps, Josie coming to visit with their grandchildren.

  ‘I’ll cook,’ she said, striding into the kitchen and lifting the wrapped fish from the refrigerator. It would take her mind off things, if only for a few hours. Mick followed, mumbling how grateful he was, that he would help any way he could.

  Nina stared at him for a second, swallowed, and then slapped the fish on to a chopping board. Without knowing how it would help, she stabbed it over and over with the sharpest knife she could find.

  CHAPTER 30

  Dozens of crows flap out of the trees as I skirt the perimeter of Roecliffe Hall. They caw indignantly, flying through the early-morning mist that hangs in the trees as if someone has draped giant net curtains over the school grounds. I stick close to the building, following the buttress of stone flanking the earth. I look up. Five storeys of Victorian red brick reach up to the brilliant blue sky that’s just visible beyond the haze. It’s a beautiful morning, although nothing about my mood matches the day.

  ‘Not this one. Not this one,’ I say, marching past window after window. Most of these rooms are sixth-form accommodation, with some of this wing also being used by staff. It’s school policy to mix up the female staff rooms amongst those of the girls. Supervision is natural rather than enforced, Sylvia told me. All the male staff accommodation is in the same wing as Adam, apart from the headmaster and his wife. They have their own flat. My room is one of only two staff rooms in the attic. I asked Sylvia if I could use the spare room up there for sorting out games kits, but she told me it was locked. ‘Headmaster has the key,’ she said. ‘Waste of good space, if you ask me.’

  I recognise the pale blue curtains. All the others are lilac. The ground slopes away beneath this window, making the sill head height to me. I look back along the row and see that looking in at the other end would be easy because the ground is higher. I stub my toe on something. There’s a rock – a large one that looks as if it was once part of a rockery – directly beneath the window. It’s grey-green from lichen, but my heart skips when I see the muddy footprint on the flat surface. There are grooves in the grass where it’s been dragged to the window.

  ‘Someone was here,’ I say. The sunlight breaks through the mist and light darts off the panes of glass. I see a smeary patch in the lower section, as if it’s been wiped. Grimy streaks pattern the glass.

  Then I see something caught on a splinter of wood on the window frame. I pluck off a piece of snagged tissue – all the proof I need that someone wiped away the handprints.

  In the cold light of day, I don’t think Adam will believe me when I tell him what I’ve seen. I can hardly believe it myself, that someone was spying, looking for something – someone – in the virtually deserted school. As I walk back to the front entrance, the piece of tissue rolling between my fingers, I wonder where it is that a person hides when there’s simply nowhere left to go.

  I’ve barely walked inside the hall, barely wiped the dew from my boots, when Adam is upon me, bright and cheery, asking me things that I can’t take in.

  ‘I was wondering if you’d like to join me. If you’re feeling up to it, that is. It’s a beautiful morning.’ Adam is wearing a bright blue jacket, like someone walking up a mountain would wear, and I see he’s put on walking boots. He’s fresh-faced and smells of coffee. His hair is slightly damp from the shower. It settles around his face in darker, tighter waves than usual. I can’t help staring at it.

  ‘Sorry?’

  Adam pulls a half-grin and sighs. ‘I said, would you like to visit the old chapel with me? I’ve arranged access. It’s in the school grounds so you won’t have to walk very far.’ He stamps his feet on the old tiled floor as if he’ll have a mini tantrum if I refuse. His interest in me has grown since the ordeal with Katy Fenwick. By doing the right thing, I’ve strung a thread of trust between us whether I intended to or not.

  My mouth drops open.

  ‘A chap in the village has the keys,’ he says. ‘With a bit of string-pulling, I managed to wangle half an hour in there to do some research for my book. It’ll be interesting. The building’s sat derelict for twenty years. I could use the company.’

  Adam’s broad shoulders fill the weatherproof jacket, and one of his strong arms leans against the wall as if he’s holding up the entire building. His face travels through a range of expressions, from eagerness to hopefulness to impatience. I want to push my head on to his chest, to seal myself off from everything. I want to cry on him, howl on the nearest, strongest, most trustworthy person I can find. It doesn’t sound like my voice at all when, shaking, I say, ‘Yes. I’ll come.’

  ‘Tell me more about your book. Is it going to be published?’ There’s a lacy splattering of light on the mossy grass as the sun filters through the tree canopy. The lane is dappled and the mist has all but burnt off. Together, we walk towards Roecliffe village. With Adam beside me, I feel oddly safe setting foot outside the school grounds. Together, I am part of a credible couple – not what anyone would be looking for; not likely to be recognised. Although after last night’s scare, there isn’t much reason to feel safe within the school property either. I know I’m yearning for the familiar closeness that can never be mine again – the joke that doesn’t even need to be told to be understood, the shared laughter, the knowing look. But if Adam did take my hand, I’d probably snap away – ashamed, guilty.

  He grumbles and makes an indignant noise about the difficulty of getting local history books published. ‘I’m going to get it printed myself if I have to. It’s not about the money.’

  ‘What is it about then?’ I ask quickly.

  He thinks for a moment. ‘It’s about the truth,’ he says carefully. ‘Researching local history is a lot like archaeology. Miss a piece and you risk misinterpreting the whole event. Damage something and you’ll never know exactly what happened.’ We walk in silence until he says, ‘It’s about putting things right.’

  ‘So why Roecliffe Hall?’ I ask. ‘I’m sure there are more interesting places to write about.’ I’m hoping that Adam is simply passionate about architecture – after all, Roecliffe is a fine example of Victorian gothic folly. As we approach the chapel, my feet fall heavily on the road. I swear there is lead in my boots. ‘Is there something special about it?’ I need to know what he knows.

  Adam stops abruptly and pulls on my arm to bring me to a halt. His face is serious while his electric-blue eyes flash excitement. ‘Don’t you know?’ he asks incredulously. ‘I thought everyone here knew.’ He shrugs and walks on a couple of paces, before stopping again.

  ‘It’s the murders,’ he says, lowering his voice. His eyes flash around the lane as if he thinks we’re being watched. ‘Roecliffe Hall used to be a children’s home until the late eighties. Terrible, ghastly things happened and it was closed down. Those poor little mites.’ Adam shakes his head. I think
I see his eyes fill with tears. ‘Bodies were found all over the place.’

  ‘That’s shocking.’

  Adam’s face soaks up the dappled light. It masks his expression, making him appear sad and determined all at once. ‘When the body of a little girl was found buried in . . .’ His lungs deflate with sadness. ‘The police found many others. It was terrible.’ He swallows back a grief that suggests he knows a lot more than he is letting on.

  I look up at Adam, shielding my eyes from the sun; from the past, and from the future, too. ‘You seem to know a lot already,’ I say, unsure if I should continue. ‘You sound as if you were there,’ I add, my gaze unwavering, looking for even the tiniest reaction.

  Frazer Barnard dangles a pair of keys on a chain. His other hand is shoved deep inside the pocket of his dirty tweed jacket. ‘No one’s wanted to go in there in years,’ he says in a gruff voice. ‘Not after everything was all stirred up.’

  His front door had opened before we reached the end of his weed-strewn path.

  Adam reaches for the keys. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Barnard,’ he says loudly. ‘I appreciate this.’

  I stare at the keys.

  ‘Not so quick,’ he replies, whipping them back. ‘And no need to shout. Rules state that no one can go into the chapel without an approved person accompanying them.’

  ‘Approved person?’ I say. ‘Rules?’ Frazer Barnard glares at me, as if he’s not noticed me yet. His face is spidered with drinker’s veins, the little remaining hair he has is grey and glued down to his skull. His clothes are filthy and, even standing six feet away, I can smell a bitter odour seeping from him.

  ‘Not a problem,’ Adam says. ‘Who’s the approved person?’

  ‘Me,’ Barnard growls.

  In my mind, I hear the single bell tolling through the woods. I see a procession of adults walking slowly down the path with a clutch of children following in their wake. Bluebells drench the lush grass with brushstrokes of azure and indigo. Sun sparkles off the small stream beyond. I hear the excited chatter of children anticipating the Sunday picnic after the service. I see the arched door of the little chapel being unlocked. Then it all goes black as the children are led inside.