by P. Wish
“Tell me,” Jane repeated.
“I—I really don’t know what goes on between the boys,” she said.
“But he was being bullied?”
She nodded, her eyes filling with a mixture of confusion and fear. She backed away.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I should go,” the girl said, hurrying away.
Jane sunk to the floor. The books fell to the floor, scattering everywhere. The girl’s footsteps sped up as she hurried away.
***
At lunchtime, Jane followed the stone path back to the dormitory. She had forgotten to bring her stack of graded papers. At times like this, she was glad she lived on the school campus. As she walked down the stony path, she noticed that her shoes were worn out due to friction. Jane walked up the stairs and went into her room. On her way back out, she heard Mr. McEwan’s sonorous voice from the other side of the door.
“Five years ago?” Mr. McEwan said. “How am I supposed to remember that?”
Jane pressed her ear to the door.
“Mr. McEwan, you told the previous detective that you saw someone that night.” Detective Myers’s voice.
“I saw someone? Hmmmm…I can’t remember. It’s been a long time,” he said, his voice tense. “Who did I tell you I saw? Oh, I remember now. The shadow in the dormitory. I told you about it?”
Myers said something, and Mr. McEwan’s voice dropped an octave. Jane pressed her ear harder to the surface of the door.
“It’s been a long time,” he said, his voice rising again. “I didn’t tell the detective because…I was a little drunk, to be honest. I know I saw someone, but I couldn’t make out who it was.”
Jane’s eyes widened behind the door.
“Where did you see this person? Which dorm?”
“St. Mark’s. It might’ve been Robert, but I couldn’t see clearly. It was very late at night, that’s all I know. The corridors were quiet because the Easter break had just started. Most of the students had left, but the teachers were supposed to be working for another week.”
“What were you doing out there at night?”
“Me? What was I doing?” he repeated. “I came out to get some air. I can’t remember…”
“You said you were mildly drunk.”
“I was.”
Detective Myers was silent for a moment. Jane considered opening the door, but he spoke again.
“Thank you for the information. Do you know anything about the diary?”
“Diary? What diary?”
“Robert Brown’s diary.”
“No. This is the first I’m hearing of it.”
“I see. Thank you for your time,” Detective Myers said.
“Why’re you asking about Robert?” Mr. McEwan said. “He passed away five years ago.”
“Just curiosity,” Detective Myers said. He passed by her door. Jane quickly shut it, closing the narrow gap.
***
At 4:00 p.m., Jane sneaked out of the school gates. The sun was a bright shade of orange and had begun to set. She walked down the road and took a taxi to the West View Integrated Centre. The taxi dropped her off at the two-story building. After checking in for her appointment, Jane waited outside the counselor’s room.
Dr. Natalie Hunter, Clinical Psychologist was written on the door.
A few minutes later, a stout young woman opened the door. He chestnut hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Her hazel eyes turned to the clock and then to Jane. Jane’s eyes fell on a young man in a brown coat who sat inside the room.
“You’re early,” she said. “I’m finishing up—”
“I’ll wait,” Jane said, blocking her face with her palms.
“Thank you,” Natalie said, closing the door. Jane lingered in the corridor, pacing up and down.
The door opened after five minutes. The young man exited the room. As he did so, he made no eye contact with Jane.
“Come in,” Natalie said.
Jane walked in. The room was spacious, with a polished wooden desk in front of the window, facing the door. The blinds were drawn over the window, blocking the bright light from outside. A tube light illuminated the room. Two cushioned grey chairs were placed in one corner of the room, separated by a table on which a few magazines lay.
“Please sit down,” the counselor said, signaling towards the grey chairs. Jane sank into the grey sofa. Her eyes scanned the books and magazines before her. They were books on psychology, with two issues of Psychology Today.
“How are you doing today?” Natalie asked, gathering a few pieces of paper.
“Fine,” Jane said.
Natalie walked over to the blinds and pulled them open. Sunlight burst through the room, illuminating the couch on which Jane sat and the chairs before her. Natalie’s hazel eyes captured the ray of light as she sat in the chair before Jane. She rested a brown folder with loose sheets on her lap and turned to Jane. She placed two forms on the table.
“Jane, please fill these out,” she said. “For your information, this session is confidential. If I assess you and think you require medical help, I will refer to a psychiatrist. The second sheet is a questionnaire that will help me understand where you currently stand.”
Jane filled out the forms and handed them over to Natalie. Natalie read through them and placed them inside a file.
“You don’t seem to display any high-risk behaviors,” she said, sitting back down on the chair facing Jane. “So, how has your week been so far?”
“Good.”
“You said you developed PTSD after your son’s death. Is that what you wanted to talk about?” Natalie asked. “I don’t have your history, so please tell me, how and when did the condition start?”
“It started soon after my son’s death a year and a half ago,” Jane said. “My son…” Her voice broke, her eyes becoming misty all of a sudden. “I’m so sorry…I can’t seem to talk about him.”
“It’s okay, take your time. The tissues are on the table.”
Jane pulled out a few tissues from the box and dabbed her face.
“I’m sorry…where was I? Yes, my son passed away a year and a half ago. He was thirteen.”
“How did he die?”
“He committed suicide,” Jane said in a low voice.
“I’m sorry,” Natalie said.
“He overdosed on a mixture of Prozac and sleeping pills. I don’t know where he got those from. Maybe he’d been planning this and I never knew. When I found his body…actually Ben, my ex-husband, found it when he came to visit.”
“Do you remember what you saw?”
Jane closed her eyes. “I can never forget.”
“And…you moved to Tenterden after his death?”
“I moved here last week for my job,” Jane said. “I quit my job in London after his death.”
“Did you want to get away from London?”
“Yes,” Jane said. “And the familiar faces.”
“Why?”
“Because I had changed. I couldn’t go on being a detective. As much as it broke my heart, I knew it was the right thing to do. Everything reminded me of Charlie. Being a detective requires a lot of emotional detachment and objectivity, which I’ve lost since his death.”
“Did you job mean a lot to you?”
Jane nodded. “When I became a detective, there weren’t many women in the profession. It is a demanding line of work. There are no fixed hours. Criminals don’t give you a warning before they show up. When I was younger, I was attracted by the unpredictability of the work. When I finally became a detective after six years of being in the police, it was a dream come true. I thought that’s what I’d do forever.
“Within a year of becoming a detective, I met my ex-husband. He was a prosecutor and we met during proceedings. After dating for a year, we got married. One year into our marriage, I had Charlie.”
“How old were you when you had your son?”
“Twenty-nine,” Jane said. “The pregnancy was accident
al, but Ben was very happy, so I thought it would all work out. But I knew I wasn’t prepared for be a mother. I had so much to do. I was a new detective and I had to prove myself.”
“Did you ever want to have children?”
“I thought I wanted to have children. Ben certainly did. He was looking forward to being a father. And he was a devoted father. But we were both busy people. I don’t think we became parents at the right time. I would’ve liked to wait a little longer.”
“Until things settled down on the work front.”
“Mm-hmm. While I was trying to climb the ladder at work, Charlie grew up. I didn’t spend much time with him while he was growing up. Ben was surprised when I asked for custody. He was the better parent. In retrospect, I should’ve let him have it.”
“Why did you want custody?”
“I don’t know…it’s always the mother that gets the child. I thought it would come to me naturally.”
“Who did your son want to stay with?”
“He was only six at that time, but I did ask. He said he wanted to stay with me. That’s why Ben let it be.”
“What was your relationship with your son like?”
“I loved him, of course. I felt blessed. I didn’t deserve him. I’ve heard horror stories from colleagues who have kids. One of my colleagues told me that her son poured bleach into their dinner while she was signing for a parcel.”
“Wow.” Natalie’s eyes widened. Jane nodded.
“Charlie was nothing like that. He was a quiet child. Even when he was a toddler, he’d play with blocks by himself. Because neither of us were around, he learnt to be independent. We went out together whenever we could. I took him out to the park or for ice cream on weekends. He loved ice cream. He opened up once he started school. He made a few friends. He was never the straight A student, but he never gave me any reason to worry. I was never called in by his teacher, and if you have kids, you’ll know that’s a miracle.”
“How was the communication between you?”
“Like I said, he was quiet child, but I felt he opened up after the divorce. We’d argue sometimes and he hated waking up early. I’d have to bribe him with ice cream or pizza to get him to school on time. But he understood that I couldn’t be late for work, so he’d eventually wake up. It was just the two of us.”
“Do you think he told you everything?”
“No. We didn’t have that kind of relationship. We didn’t share secrets.”
“What did you think he wasn’t telling you?”
“He was being bullied.” Jane blew her nose. “I discovered that after he died. His teacher told me he was being bullied and suffering from depression. They tried calling me but I didn’t answer. You know how hearing that made me feel?”
“Guilty?”
“Yes. Like a criminal. If only I’d answered those phone calls…he’d be alive.”
“How did you feel when you heard about the bullying?”
“At first, I was angry. I wanted to know who had bullied him and harm them…I know that’s a terrible thing to say.”
“Did you?”
“No. I was a detective. I follow the law,” Jane said. “But I was on the edge, and revenge seems like it will make everything better.”
“It never does.”
“I know.”
“Have you spoken to anybody about this before?”
“I had a few sessions in London. I was worse after he died. I couldn’t go on with life. After six months of not doing anything, I started teaching at the local school. But, even there, I was always reminded of Charlie. I needed to leave London. That’s why I took the job here.”
“Do you feel you could’ve done better as a mother?”
“I know I should’ve done better,” Jane said. “I feel guilty for his death. I should’ve known what he was going through. I should’ve read the signs. When he died…it all came crashing down. I had failed as a parent.”
Jane clutched the edge of the chair for support. Her fingers dug into the hard wood to keep her emotions from taking over.
“Guilt never helps,” Natalie said. “I’d like to know why you decided to seek professional help.”
“I met an old friend recently and I decided it was time to move on,” Jane said. “I don’t think I can go on like this. Getting through every day is hard. I want to go back to what I used to be.”
Natalie noted this down and looked at the clock.
“We’re running out of time today. To wrap this up, do you have any good memories with your son you’d like to talk about?”
“Good memories…after the divorce, things were calm for three years. There weren’t many cases, so I came home early and we spent the weekends together. I loved going out with him. We went to the movies, amusement parks, restaurants…whatever was on that weekend. He loved the zoo. He loved reading about animals. Then it got busier at work. I didn’t see much of him after he turned ten. I assumed he was fine. He hated maths lessons and he’d always complain about the hard toast I made. You’d think I’d have gotten better at it in ten years…
“When I came home, we’d eat and…talk about how the day was. He never mentioned anything about the bullying.”
“Jane, you’re relapsing. Focus on the good memories.”
“I’m sorry…I don’t know how to.”
“Relax. Take a deep breath. Take it slow.”
Jane took a deep breath.
“Is there anyone you can talk to about your, condition?”
“No.”
“Talking to someone helps, but if you don’t know anyone, you can always talk to me. My number is on the card,” she said, placing her business card on the table.
“Thank you.”
“We’ve run out of time today. Should I book you in for another session?”
Jane nodded. She collected her bag and headed out of the room. Her gaze lingered on the closed door as she stood in the corridor. Getting those words out had made her feel lighter.
***
At 5:30 p.m., Jane saw a trail of cigarette smoke in the parking lot when she returned to St. Anne’s. The skies were dark but shredded ribbons of orange twilight still hung around in the night sky. The streetlights had come on. She walked down the cobblestone path to the parking lot.
A white Ford Mondeo stood there and she immediately knew Gary was here. He wasn’t alone. With him in the police car sat another man. He had a red moustache and red hair. The car window was rolled down to let the cigarette smoke out, so Jane could hear what they were saying.
“You sure, Larry?”
“Here, take a look,” Larry said. From the distance, Jane couldn’t see what he was showing Gary.
“That’s him,” Gary said, breathless. “He has a photo on his phone too.”
“Too?”
“I found a photo of Robert in his room when I searched,” Detective Myers said.
“That is strange, indeed.”
“That’s not all. He has Robert’s diary, which wasn’t found five years ago. There’s no mention of a diary in the detective’s case report.”
“The fog thickens,” Larry said. “Why does a Maths teacher who wasn’t here when Robert died have his diary?”
“There’s a connection here. The note…the suicide note said he repents for his sins. Do you think there’s more to the Robert Brown case?”
“To be honest, I thought it was rather strange. It looked like a simple suicide, but…”
“But?”
“Something felt off. Detective’s intuition.”
“Do you think he was pushed?” Detective Myers asked.
“Likely. Since there weren’t any obvious marks or bruises, that is the only probable scenario.”
“Not many people knew he couldn’t swim. It could’ve been someone who did.”
“The question is, why would anybody kill Robert Brown?”
“He must have known something.”
“I looked into his background, and there’s nothing spect
acular in there. His mother works at the Sussex County Council. She’s been a single mother for a long time. His father left when he was ten.”
“She’s a single mother and doesn’t make much,” Gary said, blowing puffs of smoke. “He’s not rich or related to anybody famous.”
“Robert could’ve had some kind of secret information.”
“I did consider the possibility,” Gary said. “If he did, it must be something about the school. It’s unlikely that somebody from outside the school killed him. The case report said as much.”
“Who do you suspect?”
“Mrs. Maeda and Mr. McEwan were the only staff members who were present during the day of the murder. Then of course, there was the administrative staff and the other students but those three are the only ones who’ve been working at St. Anne’s for more than five years. Mrs. Wolverhampton left to go visit her family on the day of the murder, but she left that evening. There’s no telling if she got on the train, though. The kitchen staff had the weekends off, but Irene stays in town so she could’ve technically come to St. Anne’s. If Mrs. Maeda did see someone in the teachers’ dorm, that leaves only one possibility.”
“Mr. McEwan?” Larry asked. “Why?”
Gary nodded. “We’ll need to find out.”
“You know, the more I think about it, the more it seems that Robert didn’t commit suicide,” Larry said.
“I agree,” Gary said. “I read his diary and while I could say he was sad, he didn’t exactly appear to be depressed. I might need to get an expert’s opinion on that. The boy seemed hopeful.”
“Hopeful?”
“I don’t know who it was, but somebody here made his life better.”
“A confidante?”
“Probably. Robert writes in metaphors, and I’m no literary genius,” Detective Myers confessed.
“Want to send it in for a professional analysis?”
“I want to finish reading it first.”
“So, you think the confidante might be the key?”
“It’s not a person, it’s a feeling,” Detective Myers said. “He was going to Oxford for summer school that year. That’s a rare opportunity. Why would he choose to die?”
“The report said that he’d been depressed for some time and that’s why he’d been taking medication. He should’ve gotten better, not worse,” Detective Myers said.