The Pupil

by Dawn Goodwin

  I reached behind the bottle of mouthwash and felt around, but there was no pill packet there. I moved a few things, shuffled some others, but the packet was nowhere to be found. I was sure I had put it in there. I rushed downstairs and looked in the kitchen cupboard where they had been originally, but all that was there was the ibuprofen bottle and some multivitamins. I went back upstairs and hunted again, but there was nothing.

  What the hell had I done with my anti-depressants? If Paul found them, he’d know I still wasn’t taking them and there’d be even more questions. Maybe he’d already found them? No, he would’ve said something earlier. Unless he was hanging onto them to make a point at a later stage, like a test he was setting me up to fail. Or was that my paranoia talking again?

  I buried my face in my hands. It was happening again.

  Please don’t let it happen again.

  *

  Viola sat patiently in her car after she left Katherine’s house, ruminating over everything while she waited. Katherine’s husband had looked confused, then furious at Viola being there. Katherine was probably stumbling over her apology behind the closed door right now. What had she told him – or not as the case may be? Had she told him about Sam? Their cosy little friendship? Viola didn’t think so. She logged into the spyware with her mobile phone, but there was no transmission. Curiosity burned through her. After another thoughtful ten minutes of tapping her nails on the steering wheel, the front door opened and Katherine’s husband emerged, dressed in running gear and sporting an expression that betrayed his red-hot anger. He jogged away from Viola’s car up the street at a fast pace, his forehead pulled tightly into a frown. There was no other movement from inside the house for a while. Viola reached around the steering wheel to start the car just as the front door opened again. Katherine herself emerged, her face pale and pinched, her eyes red. A steady drizzle had started to fall. Viola waited a few seconds before getting out of the car and following Katherine at a distance, the flames of curiosity still smouldering.

  Katherine ran through the rain to a school a few streets away. Viola followed surreptitiously and when Katherine darted into the school gates, she made herself comfortable in a bus stop on the other side of the road, partially hidden behind a tree trunk but allowing herself a good vantage point. She pulled her purse from her bag and while she waited, she opened it to gaze at the photo inside, running her thumb over the yellow velvet swatch of material held in her lap as she sat, her eyes flicking over the parents rushing into the playground at regular intervals.

  She could see Katherine standing to the side of the courtyard, just inside the gate, no one speaking to her, as though there was an invisible force field around her. Then, after five minutes, just as the sound of childish chatter began to fill the air, a tall, perfectly made-up woman with auburn hair approached her and gave her a hug before they were lost in the crowd as the classroom doors were flung open.

  Within minutes, children had paired up with their adults and were skipping and hopping back into the street. Viola’s thumb still absentmindedly stroked the velvet as she put her purse away and watched, her eyes gripping the school gates.

  There.

  Katherine emerged with those huge eyes that were so hard to miss. She had her two children with her. Her daughter, whose eyes were identical to her mother’s, had a smile on her face and was chatting away, while her son handed over a PE bag and what looked to be a badly painted cardboard box sculpture of sorts. Katherine had their backpacks slung over each shoulder and was smiling broadly at them as she juggled everything like a packhorse. Viola consumed the threesome with her eyes, taking in every detail; from the girl’s scabbed knee and purple ribbon keeping her ponytail secure to the boy’s untucked shirt and ruffled hair. Katherine herself looked lighter than when she had left the house a few minutes earlier, her smile broad and genuine.

  Viola watched as they walked briskly up the road, their heads bobbing among the other children. Halfway up the street, Katherine stopped and looked over her shoulder, frowning, her eyes scanning the bodies around her. Viola leaned back behind the tree, pressing herself into the hard seat in the bus stop, but there was no chance of Katherine seeing her from here. There were too many bodies in the way. As Katherine moved away again, Viola got to her feet and filtered into the foot traffic on the other side of the road, the yellow velvet now still and clasped tightly in her fist.

  Katherine accelerated, throwing furtive glances around her until they disappeared around the corner at the top of the street. Viola followed at a cautious distance and watched from afar until their front door swallowed them up. She left only when she noticed Katherine’s face appear at the lounge window between the slats of the wooden shutters, her eyes squinting as she scanned the street.

  Viola moved quickly to her car and got in. She clenched the steering wheel, her teeth clamped tight against the scream behind her lips. She threw her forehead against the steering wheel once, twice, three times, relishing in the physical pain, something she could actually feel dissipating rather than the constant debilitating ache she was used to living with every day now. Then she sat upright again and rubbed the velvet against her throbbing forehead in soothing circles, latent rage making her throat constrict.

  *

  I peeled out of the school gates, trying hard to listen to both Lily and Jack as they regaled me with stories of what they had been up to all day, their voices bubbling and popping with joy. Halfway down the street I felt the straps of their backpacks cutting into my shoulders and I stopped to adjust them. Then I felt it again. Eyes tripping over my skin.

  I looked behind me but couldn’t see anyone watching me, just the other parents walking with heads down to their children or gazing at their phones, their shoulders slumped in exhaustion. A few looked like zombies shuffling along behind pushchairs. They were all giving me a wide berth, as though I was contagious, and that was the way I liked it now.

  I looked across the street, still feeling goosebumps of paranoia. Someone was sitting in a bus stop over the road, but the positioning of a tree meant I couldn’t see who it was. But if I couldn’t see them, then surely they couldn’t see me. I started walking again, but upped my pace, almost dragging Jack and Lily along, who still chattered incessantly, oblivious to my discomfort. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching.

  Fear pricked at my heels as I whipped myself into agitation.

  Just get home. Just get home. No one will do anything in public. Not amongst the children.

  Finally reaching the house, I shut the door behind me, closing out the world, and took a deep breath, my pulse slowly recovering. As the kids dumped their coats, I dropped their bags in the cupboard under the stairs and headed straight into the lounge. I squeezed myself behind the armchair in the bay window and peered out into the street. As I strained my neck from side to side, I thought I saw something, a fleeting glance of yellow, but then it was gone, just a line of dark cars parked down the street.

  I pulled the shutters closed.

  My phone chirped from my bag in the hallway. A text message.

  You have beautiful children.

  *

  1 January 1997

  Darren has gone too far this time. He’s been really pissy this week because I didn’t want to go to a stupid New Year’s Eve party with him and all his mates. I said he could go without me, but I wanted to stay home with Mam this year because she’s been really down lately, worse than usual. The Christmas period usually drags her down a bit, but this year seems worse, especially since she’s not been well with the flu.

  Then I heard this morning from Lisa that someone had seen him getting off with Louise Brown at the party last night. I went round to his place and had a go at him and he basically admitted it, saying it was because he was sad that I wasn’t with him and he was lonely! WTF! We had a massive fight, I wasn’t backing down and gave him both barrels, and then he got all aggro and shoved me hard across the room. I slammed into the table and I’ve r
eally hurt my ribs. I’m all bruised on one side. I just left after that and he’s been calling on the phone ever since, telling me how sorry he is, how he didn’t mean it.

  I don’t know what to think. One day he’s as sweet as pie and the next he’s an absolute fucker, all angry at the world and wanting to get pissed all the time, throwing his weight around. He’s come close to hitting me before, I’m sure of it, but I never thought he actually would. I know I should break up with him, but he keeps drawing me back in. I love him.

  All I keep thinking is I don’t want to be on my own like Mam is, sad and depressed all the time and lonely. That surely can’t be better than staying with him? Maybe I need to stop fighting him so much and act the way he wants me to. Then he wouldn’t get so angry. Then he won’t hit me again.

  14

  The sun was setting through the glass doors behind Viola, filling the study with hushed pinks and dusty orange hues. She loved this house. The decor, the furniture, the accents – it was all an extension of her. Sam had made his mark on the London apartment, but this house was all hers – and he felt as uncomfortable here as she did in London. The country manor house had been intended as a retreat when she needed a safe haven and a place to escape. A place without ghosts. It was where she chose to spend most of her time.

  Her desk was heavy and ostentatious with intricately carved drawers and she sat behind it now, her hands flat on the mahogany wood, fingers splayed, her thoughts sorting through themselves. She could feel the smouldering ember of rage in her gut that had become her constant companion since she had met Katherine. A snake coiling around her, spitting acid into her pores.

  Something had changed in Sam too. Ever since they had first met at university, they had been intrinsically tied together, like partners in a toxic tango. She would lead; he would follow. He’d originally fought to have a tiny shred of control, but eventually he came to realise that control rested solely in Viola’s hands and he had accepted that. Every now and again he tried to get his hands on the wheel and she let him think he could handle it, but he always relinquished in the end.

  Viola knew with certainty that Katherine was making him excited about life again, about writing, taking control and shaping his manuscript, her juvenile enthusiasm not yet jaded by criticism, deadlines and ignorance. She was reminding him what the writing process could be like. But then, like this morning, he would have a difficult, unproductive day and his confidence would plummet and Viola would be back in charge, pulling his marionette strings. All it took was that letter from Andrew, piling on the pressure, reminding him of what he had failed to deliver.

  She took hold of her steaming cup of coffee, pushed back from the desk and turned to stare out into the darkening garden. A garden paid for by his talent but her business acumen. There was no denying that he wouldn’t have reached his level of success without her, but then neither would her literary agency have garnered its reputation without him. They still needed each other and Viola was not about to let him forget that.

  The evening spread its shadow over the manicured lawns and tidy flower beds, illuminated here and there by precisely placed lanterns designed to highlight the perfection of the landscaping. It was reminiscent of their marriage – shine the light in the right direction and it creates the perfect pastiche for the outside world while hiding the murkier details in the shadows.

  Katherine reminded Viola of a younger Sam: passionate, full of hope and faith, but whereas he had an ego, she completely lacked self-belief. They clearly got along well and enjoyed each other’s company, and Viola could see why Sam would be attracted to her: understatedly beautiful, statuesque and with a sparkle in those tremendous eyes when she spoke about her writing. But there was also an underlying vulnerability, an exhaustion with life that gave her a whimsical sense of desperation. And she held herself in such tight control. Why? Or was it her husband who enforced such discipline and restraint? He certainly came across as the type when she had met him, brief as it was.

  Viola turned back to her desk as Milo padded into the room and came to nuzzle up against her leg. She fawned over him for a moment, enjoying the feel of his silky smooth, silvery ears between her fingers as she slowly masticated the events of the afternoon spent in Katherine’s home and all the little details she had filed away. She then gently pushed Milo aside and called up the web browser on her laptop, tapped a few keys and opened an old newspaper article. The grainy image accompanying the words was one that had been tattooed into her brain for years; the article one she had read so often that she knew it word-perfect.

  She slammed her laptop shut.

  Milo insisted she resume massaging his ears and she did so, ignoring the fizzing in her veins as memories peppered her subconscious, memories she didn’t want to explore. She forced her mind back to Sam.

  He was certainly captivated by Katherine, but had they acted on any attraction between them yet? She was too far removed from Sam’s daily business to be sure. The last time Sam had been this taken with someone was when he embarked on that ridiculous affair with Lydia Grayson. As far as she knew anyway. He had been discreet about it at the time, but all the same, Viola had found out. And look how that had ended.

  Milo shifted his head impatiently as Viola’s fingers tensed in time with the memories still invading her head and she unknowingly began to pull at his ears rather than stroking them. He nipped at her when it got too much and moved away to his cushion by the fireplace.

  Viola inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly.

  This all needed more thought. She needed to approach this in the same way she would plot out a novel: carefully, taking notice of detail, examining every possible scenario, planning her next move.

  She took another sip of her coffee, but it had grown cold, the liquid turning treacly. She grimaced and headed into the kitchen to make a fresh cup but pulled up short when she saw Sam at the kitchen table, his laptop open in front of him and his forehead in his hands.

  ‘I thought you were heading back into London?’

  ‘No, I can’t face it today. I thought I would be more useful here, but I’m just not feeling anything today. I took Milo out for a long walk, but even that was fruitless.’ His face sagged in defeat. ‘How was Katherine today?’

  Viola turned her back on him and fiddled with the coffee machine. ‘Fine. She has a nice home, typical of those suburban areas, you know. I met her husband too. I hadn’t realised he was so much older than her.’

  ‘Hmmm. Did you go over much of her work?’

  ‘Some… I still can’t shake that feeling of having met her before though.’ She watched his face closely.

  ‘So you keep saying.’ He gave nothing away.

  ‘Maybe it’s just because she reminds me of you all those years ago when you were starting out.’

  ‘Maybe. But she has the chance to be even more successful than me, I think. I really like her style and ideas.’

  ‘Well, she and I had an interesting talk today and she said that since she’s worried about taking up so much of your time, knowing you’re on a deadline, she thinks you should cut back on your sessions for the next little while so that you have some space to write. I told her I would pass that on to you. She was quite adamant actually.’

  ‘Oh.’ Viola noted the disappointment that clouded his face.

  ‘Do you really think her work is that good? I think you’re romanticising it, don’t you?’ The coffee hissed and spat as her mug filled. ‘Anyway, things to do. Would you like me to read over what you’ve done today?’

  ‘No, Viola, I don’t.’ He got to his feet and sloped from the room.

  15

  Needing to speak to someone, I called Helen to tell her about the notes and text messages after I received two more texts over the next few days.

  ‘What do they say? Are they threatening you?’

  ‘No, they’re just… creepy. And imply that someone is watching me – watching the kids.’

  ‘It’s probably some bored mum from sc
hool with nothing better to do. It must be, if they have your mobile number.’

  That had crossed my mind. The only people who knew about what had happened and had access to my phone number were Paul and Helen. But my contact number was listed on the school records in case of emergencies.

  ‘Look, don’t let it bother you. They’ll get bored soon enough if they see you’re ignoring them. But this is another reason why you should probably forget this whole idea of getting your book published. You don’t want all of this brought up again. And if the Daily Mail got onto it, well…’

  She sounded like Paul again. I had a fleeting moment where I wondered if it could be her, if it was her twisted way of showing me what could happen if I didn’t take heed… Or Paul, for that matter… But would either of them be that cruel?

  ‘Yes, fine, I get it. I’ve heard it enough from you and Paul over the last few weeks. No need to keep going on.’ I was unusually snippy, frustration and distrust nipping at me.

  ‘Okay, wow. I’m just trying to help.’ I could hear the hurt in her voice and felt dreadful, but Helen cut short our conversation before I could apologise.

  On top of constantly watching over my shoulder, I also stressed about the missing pills for days, looking everywhere for them. After over a week of not taking them, accompanied by broken sleep and the constant fretting, the only thing that I felt was keeping me sane was writing, so I threw myself into it as much as I could; working through the day while the house was quiet and in the early hours of the morning when my mind was too restless to sleep. I was close to finishing the manuscript and was incredibly happy with it, even if I felt like I was clinging onto everything else by my bitten fingernails.

  With my mind so distracted by other things, the ironing had piled up and the house was dusty and unkempt. Paul would come home every evening and look around with thinly veiled impatience.

  ‘Are you feeling okay? Do we need to have another meeting with Dr Hathaway to look at your prescription?’