by Jane Holland
The shadow of Tris’s arrest still lies over me though, like a stain on my heart. I do not know what to make of it. It has to be a mistake. Doesn’t it?
Sure enough, the kids begin to stare and whisper again as soon as I park my scooter in the staff car park. I check in with Patricia as agreed, change into my work gear, then stride out across the playing fields in my grey tracksuit and trainers. I’m wearing the Mizunos again, each training shoe conscientiously scraped clean of mud and back in service. Rather like me. But I am better able to ignore the stares of the kids this time, armed with the newfound confidence that I am not mad, and find myself slipping back into the demands of school with ease. Though it’s hardly a full timetable now. The weather is turning hot and sticky, a proper Cornish summer, and I have more free periods than at the start of term.
Some of the kids are at home, or in the library, revising for their exams. Others have finished and left school for good. perhaps planning on an apprenticeship or A Levels at one of the sixth form colleges. There are not too many options in this part of Cornwall for education post-GCSE, but the kids seem to cope. I suppose they don’t have much choice now higher education has been made compulsory up to the age of eighteen. I can’t recall feeling restricted at that age though, and I attended the same school, so perhaps it’s about perspective. You can’t miss what you have never had.
Jenny Crofter and I meet up in the PE equipment store room at the end of the school day. To count balls, which is a more serious business than it might sound. Kids love footballs and basketballs and cricket balls, any kind of ball really, and will take every opportunity to steal them. So we have to do a stock take every few weeks, to keep on top of the situation.
Jenny is still shocked about the police arresting Tris. I can’t blame her. ‘But of course Tristan didn’t kill that woman. How could he have done? And why? Hand me that clipboard, would you?’
I reach for the clipboard. ‘Exactly. There’s no motive.’
‘It sounds to me like the police are desperate to arrest anyone, and as quickly as possible. To make tourists think the police know what’s going on, that it’s still safe to walk in the woods. And for some reason, they chose Tristan.’ She checks the clipboard. ‘How many basketballs?’
I tell her, and she writes the number down. ‘Any loss since last time?’ I ask.
‘No, all present and correct.’
‘I can understand why they feel the need to arrest someone,’ I say. ‘A murder puts people off visiting the woods. Locals too, not just tourists. It’s bad for the pub and the woods’ café and the garden centre. Bad for business all round.’
‘Everyone in the village is talking about it.’ Jenny stretches up to take down the large cardboard box that contains cricket balls, only ever used during the summer term. ‘When my mother saw the police cars arriving, she went along to have a look. They’d taped off the area, and the police were keeping people back, but word started going round the village almost immediately that they’d found a body down there. She asked me not to go running anywhere near the woods until they catch the killer.’
‘And she’s right. It’s not safe.’
‘You hear about this horrific stuff on the news. But you never imagine it happening where you live. Practically right on our doorstep, for God’s sake. Here, hold this.’
I accept the clipboard back again, and watch her count the cricket balls with quick efficiency. ‘I wonder if they’ve brought the body out yet.’
‘They brought her out late yesterday evening. Probably waited for darkness so the reporters would have less of a look-in.’
‘Did you see anything?’
She nods, then shuts her eyes. ‘Shit, I lost count.’
‘Sorry, my fault.’
‘No, it’s okay. I think they’re all there anyway.’ She puts the lid back on the cardboard box and returns it to the shelf. ‘I was taking a walk through the village and saw the commotion, so I went back for a look. They’d put her in a body bag, you couldn’t see anything. It was dark too. But there were still people there, watching the whole thing.’
‘Reporters?’
‘Reporters, yes. But other people as well. There was quite a crowd outside the vicarage, some of them in slippers and sipping cocoa, it was crazy. Dick Laney was there, sitting in his van with his son. They’re an odd pair, those two. Mr and Mrs Parks from behind the village hall. Seth and Vi from the pub. And your friend with the tattoos.’
What a circus this is turning into. And Tris is the unlikely star act now. I think back, remembering his expression as he looked down at that pale, dirty face protruding through the soil. Tris had been shocked, horrified, appalled, all the same perfectly natural emotions I was feeling. Yet there had been something else in his face too.
Recognition?
Belatedly, I realise what Jenny said. ‘My friend with the tattoos? Do you mean Denzil Tremain?’
‘That’s the one. He turned up in his jeep just as they were bringing her out. Didn’t park though, sat there like Dick Laney with his engine running.’
‘Good God,’ I say blankly.
‘Could you count the footballs? There should be twenty-five. I’ll count netballs, then we’re done here.’
I turn to count the footballs, my mind preoccupied. ‘Twenty-four. But we could have missed one out on the field. I’ll check the perimeter fence before I go home.’
‘That would be great, thanks. The budget won’t stretch to all these replacements.’
‘Did you speak to Denzil?’ I ask.
‘God, no. He’s not my sort, is he? Besides, he didn’t stay long. As soon as the body was brought up from the woods, the police went over and moved him on. I expect they didn’t like the look of his tatts. Clipboard, please.’
‘He does have quite a few tattoos,’ I admit, handing over the clipboard. ‘The one on his back is amazing. A phoenix, spreading its wings.’
Suddenly, I remember the tattoo-like mark on the dead woman’s hand. Like a night club stamp. The kind of place where Denzil works when he’s deejaying along the coastal resorts.
‘I don’t suppose you saw which way he went?’
She notes down the final count, then signs the sheet at the bottom as head of department. ‘Actually, yes. He did a three-point-turn in the road outside my house, then headed back the way he came. Though I only noticed because his jeep makes such a godawful noise. Why do you ask?’
‘I thought he might have been coming to see me.’
‘Maybe he changed his mind and went to the pub instead. The Green Man was packed all evening. Everyone wanting to gossip about the murder over a pint, I expect.’
‘Or was frightened off. He’s not keen on the police.’
We leave the stock room and I wait while she locks the door. A sudden violent crash behind my back makes me jump. I turn, startled, my heart racing, ready for action. But it’s nothing. Two Year 10 lads have burst out of the dressing rooms, both skinny-looking boys with spots and dishevelled hair, shouting and shoving each other on their way out to the field for after-school cricket practice.
‘Bloody kids,’ I mutter, sagging against the wall of the corridor.
Jenny frowns and calls after them, ‘Calm down, you two. How many times do you have to be told? No running in the corridors.’
‘Yes, Miss,’ both lads call back, slowing to an unrepentant trot. The other kids trooped out to the field ten minutes ago, so these two are clearly late. ‘Sorry, Miss.’
We look at each other with tired resignation at the sound of the two boys belting for the field as soon as they’re round the corner.
‘Children,’ Jenny says, rolling her eyes. ‘Can’t live with them, can’t kill them. Remind me never to become a mother. I don’t know how all these parents do it. I swear, I wouldn’t last an hour with a screaming baby.’
I laugh. ‘You’ll change your mind one day.’
‘What, when I meet the right person?’
I tease her. ‘Stranger things have h
appened.’
‘Not in Eastlyn.’
‘There’s always Connor Taylor. He’s still unattached. And he’s very hard-working.’
‘Connor? He’s too young for me. What is he? Twenty-six? Older? I’ve probably got at least four years on him. Maybe five.’
‘Five years isn’t so much. It’s not even a box set of Buffy. That show ran for seven seasons.’
She shakes her head. ‘And you think you’re not crazy.’
We walk down towards the staff room where I’ve left my jacket and bag. The corridors are deserted. This is the time I like best. End of the day, hardly any kids about, only die-hard staff, the ones with no families to go home to, and all the classrooms peaceful and empty.
Through the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows in the bridge corridor I see Harry Tenzer out on the field in his blue shorts and polo shirt, a short, athletic man, blowing his whistle for all he’s worth as a pack of Year 9 and 10 kids fight over the football. I try to calculate his age. Somewhere shy of forty, I guess. And conveniently divorced.
‘You could date someone here at the school,’ I suggest, nodding towards the football field.
She glances towards Henry, then smiles to herself like I’ve said something funny.
‘What?’ I ask, puzzled.
Jenny hesitates, then says, ‘I’m gay.’
‘Oh.’
She tucks the clipboard under her arm. A defensive gesture. ‘And I already have a girlfriend, though it’s true we don’t see much of each other. Too bloody busy all the time. So you don’t need to match-make.’
‘I’m sorry, I had no idea.’
‘No reason you should. I keep it very quiet. Schools, you know. A tough environment if you’re even remotely different.’
I smile drily. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘And being head of department has brought even more pressure. More public scrutiny.’ She pauses a beat. ‘You won’t mention it to anyone else, will you? I’m not entirely in the closet, of course. That is, my close family knows. But nobody at work … Until today.’
‘I’m honoured that you’ve told me,’ I say, ‘and I would never dream of breaking a confidence.’
‘Thanks, Eleanor.’
I consider telling her about the shadow man, sharing my own secret burden. But then stop myself in time. It’s one thing to share a few details of your personal life with a trusted work colleague, and quite another to admit to checking under the bed every time you go to sleep.
In the staff room, there’s a tabloid newspaper left folded open on the table to the centre spread. The lurid story of the body’s discovery has even made the nationals. There’s a photograph of my mother again, and one of the woods, looking idyllic. I wonder how long it will be before the press track me down at the cottage. Or find my father.
The thought makes me sick and angry.
Jenny glances at it, then shuts the newspaper and drops it into the wastepaper bin. She shudders. ‘That poor woman. Killed, then dumped in the woods. It feels so … casual. So dismissive. Who would do such a terrible thing?’
‘A murderer.’
She misses my dry tone, perhaps still thinking about what we discussed at lunch time. ‘But you think she isn’t the same woman you saw before?’
‘According to the police she is.’
‘The police think you’re wrong about that?’ Jenny is annoyed for me. ‘I don’t think they’re doing enough, frankly. There are so many empty properties out there. They should be searching them, doing a proper sweep of the valley. This killer is obviously operating out of somewhere remote.’
‘I’m sure they’ll get round to searching them all eventually.’
Jenny nods. ‘Well, I’m off now. I want to do some training tonight. I’m thinking of entering a triathlon in September. First I need to bulk up muscle though, and work on my stamina.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be great.’
‘Thank you.’ Her smile is self-conscious. ‘I can give you a lift home if you want.’
‘I’m heading into town. Got a doctor’s appointment.’
‘Sure you don’t want a lift? I could drop you at the doctor’s.’
‘Thanks, but I came on my scooter today. See?’ I pick up my red helmet from the table. ‘And if you ask me, the vicar did it.’
She stares, astonished. ‘Reverend Clemo? What, with the length of lead piping in the conservatory?’
‘Why not?’ I shrug. ‘To my mind, he’s no more ludicrous a suspect than Tristan Taylor.’
‘Eleanor, can you hear me?’
I nod.
‘That’s great.’
I let myself drift for a moment, enjoying the peace and quiet. But the voice intrudes, brings me back to that shadowy place where I have to look into the past.
‘And you’ve been doing really well at remembering, so well done. But today will be a little different, so I need you to concentrate even harder. Today I want you to remember what happened before you went into the woods with your mum.’ The voice is familiar, but impersonal; I trust it implicitly but I don’t like it. ‘So try to relax and think back to the day before. Can you remember what you are doing?’
‘I’m at school.’
‘Okay. And what did you do after school finishes?’
I know that I need to remember but it’s difficult. The memories are cloudy, that afternoon mingled now with a thousand other afternoons just like it. We would have done whatever we always did, day after day, until the morning she was taken from us …
I pick over the blurry memories, carefully peeling the days apart until I reach the one I want. I am six years old again. I go to the village school and play with my friends in the playground after school. Patter-cake patter-cake baker’s man. Skipping games. I can manage five skips in with the double rope. Most afternoons Mum comes to pick me up after school. Sometimes it’s Dad in his van. When the weather is fine, we walk home together through the lanes, holding hands, while I tell her about my day, the pictures I have drawn, the new things I am learning. Sometimes it rains and Mum drives us back in her car. I sit in the back, staring up at the trees and sky. She likes to listen to the radio while she is driving.
‘She gets a phone call.’
‘At home?’
‘In the car. On her mobile.’
I cock my head to one side, remembering that afternoon, the sound of the phone ringing. Mum frowns, reaching for her phone on the passenger seat
‘She pulls in by the bridge to take the call.’
‘Who’s on the phone?’
‘A man, I think.’ I try to listen into their conversation, but the actual words escape me. It’s too long ago and I wasn’t really paying attention. ‘I can hear a deep voice.’
‘Does she say his name?’
‘No.’
‘What are they talking about?’
‘I don’t know.’ I am finding it hard to breathe. ‘But Mum’s upset. She says … She says no. Keeps saying no. Forget it, and no.’
‘Then what?’
‘She finishes the call, throws the phone in her bag.’ I am worried. I can sense that something is wrong. I watch my mum as she looks in the mirror, glances back at me over her shoulder, says something reassuring, then signals to pull back onto the road. ‘It’s muddy by the bridge. The wheels spin and she gets angry. Says a rude word.’
‘Does your mum often swear?’
‘Never.’
Mum brushes back her hair. She is driving too fast. The trees whizz past. Is she crying?
‘It’s okay, you’re safe here. Take a nice deep breath. That’s it. And another.’ She pauses a beat. ‘Don’t forget, you’re only an observer of these events. Nothing that happened in the past can hurt you now.’
I try to follow her instructions. I know she’s right but everything feels so real, so powerful, it takes my breath away.
‘Listen to me, Eleanor,’ she says. ‘I need you to stay calm.’
My chest is hurting. I use her voice as an anchor,
so cool and steady, keeping part of myself in the present while my spirit is soaring in the past.
‘What do you remember next?’
‘I’m at home in my bedroom. It’s late but Dad’s not there. He’s … gone to a meeting in Truro.’
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes, but I can hear voices.’
‘Where?’
I describe how I creep to the top of the stairs to listen, crouching down to peer through the banisters. There are voices in the kitchen. It’s Mum, arguing with a man. She sounds upset again. My tummy hurts and I want to rush down and protect her, but I’m scared. The man is so angry, raising his voice.
‘Tell me what happens next, Eleanor.’
I hear the sound of the back door slamming. Then silence. I run down the stairs and push through the kitchen door. The lights are still on. There are two coffee mugs on the table, and one chair lying on the floor like it was just knocked over. The room is empty.
‘She’s outside with him, I can see them in the dark.’
Her voice is calm, but there’s something urgent there too. It disturbs me. ‘What does the man look like? Describe him to us.’
I press my face against the glass of the back door. I can see Mum clearly, her head is lit up by the light falling through the kitchen window. But the man is further away.
I stare, trying to make him out. But his features slip away and blur, and staring so hard through the past makes me feel sick. Small and sick and empty.
‘He’s just a shadow,’ I whisper, shaking my head in denial. ‘A shadow man in the dark.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
After my unsettling session with Dr Quick, I ride slowly home on my scooter and try to push its new information to the back of my head. My ‘memories’ in these sessions, if that is what they truly are, and when I remember them at all, do not make any sense to me. But the doctor thinks it may take several more hypnotherapy sessions before the odd things I’m seeing and hearing begin to come together into a coherent pattern.
I take the road through the village on my way home, though it’s the long way round. The roads are dry and the scooter is easy to handle, even on the tight bends coming down the hill towards the church. It’s still warm, the late afternoon sun on my back as I ride slowly past the vicarage.