by C. J. Tudor
I wake, sweating and shaking, batting at my bedclothes, which are tangled and knotted around my naked body.
Shards of daylight poke through the semi-drawn curtains and jab at my eyeballs. I squint at my alarm clock, just as it starts to ring, sending peals of agony through my pounding head.
I roll over and groan. Time for school.
8
‘Sir?’
‘Yes, Lucas?’ I point wearily at the arm waving in the air, and then, before he can say anything, I raise my own hand.
‘If this is another question about Tinder, I think we’ve already covered the fact that dating apps weren’t exactly a thing in Romeo and Juliet’s time.’
Another hand shoots up.
‘Josh?’
‘What about Snapchat?’
The class ripples with laughter. I smother a smile.
‘Okay. You’ve given me an idea.’
‘I have, sir?’
‘Yep. Take one of the chapters we’ve read and rewrite it as if it were set in the modern day. Pay particular attention to parallels and the themes of tragedy and calamity.’
More hands shoot into the air. I pick one.
‘Aleysha?’
‘What’s a parallel?’
‘Something similar or corresponding to.’
‘What’s a calamity?’
‘This class.’
The bell rings for lunch. I try not to wince at the noise.
‘Okay. Get out of here. I look forward to reading those essays tomorrow.’
Chairs scrape and clatter as the children hastily make their escape. Doesn’t matter how interesting you make your lessons or how enthusiastic the pupils, the ringing of the bell always sends them scattering from the classroom like inmates released from prison.
I start to gather my books and stuff them into my satchel. A familiar dark head pokes around the classroom door.
‘Hey!’
‘Hi.’
Beth saunters in – Nirvana T-shirt, ripped jeans and Vans today – and perches on the edge of my desk.
‘So, I hear someone threw a brick through your window last night?’
‘News travels fast in Arnhill.’
‘Yeah, but it never leaves.’
I chuckle. ‘Who told you?’
‘One of the teaching assistants’ cousins works part-time with a woman whose brother works for the police.’
‘Whoah. Better sources than CNN.’
‘More accurate, usually.’
She cocks an eyebrow, which I presume is my cue to confirm or deny reports.
I shrug. ‘I guess someone didn’t like my lesson plans.’
‘You think it was one of the kids here?’
‘It seems most likely.’
‘You have a prime suspect?’
‘You could say that.’ I hesitate. ‘Jeremy Hurst.’
‘Oh.’
‘You don’t sound surprised.’
‘St Jeremy? No. I heard you had a run-in.’
‘You really do have great hearing. If you ever hear what the winning lottery numbers are …’
She grins. ‘Like I’d tell you.’
‘So what do you know about –’
There’s a knock on the half-open door. We both look up. A slightly overweight girl with streaked blonde hair and too much make-up for a school day peers in. ‘This Mr Anderson’s class?’
‘No, next door,’ Beth says.
‘Right.’ She huffs and storms off.
‘You’re welcome!’ Beth shouts after her. She looks back at me. ‘Why don’t we take this conversation out of the classroom? I believe it’s lunchtime.’
‘The canteen?’
‘Screw that. I was thinking more like the pub.’
The worn chairs and benches are gone. The migraine-inducing multicoloured carpet has been replaced by shiny wooden floorboards. Tasteful lamps are arranged on the windowsills and an array of fine wines and bourbons are available at the bar. There’s also an exciting new ‘Gastro pub’ menu.
Actually, none of that is true.
The Fox hasn’t changed at all, not since the last time I was in here, twenty-five years ago. The same old jukebox sits in the corner, probably stacked with the same old tunes. Even some of the patrons don’t look as if they have changed, or moved, since the last century.
‘I know,’ Beth says, catching me surveying the pub. ‘I take you to all the best places.’
‘Actually, I was just thinking that you can probably still smell my vomit in the toilets.’
‘Nice. I forgot you grew up here. Well, not literally in here.’
‘Well, I don’t know.’
‘So, this was your local?’
‘Kind of. Officially, I wasn’t old enough to drink. Unofficially … the landlord wasn’t too stringent about that sort of thing.’
I turn to the bar. I half expect to see Gypsy still serving behind it, but instead a young woman with huge hooped earrings and hair in a ponytail so tight her eyebrows look like they are being held against their will scowls invitingly at me.
‘Getcha?’
I look at Beth.
‘Just a Diet Coke, thanks.’
I glance longingly at the whisky, then say reluctantly, ‘Two Diet Cokes, please. Oh, and a menu.’
‘Cheese bap, ham bap, pork pie or chips.’
‘Heston Blumenthal is quaking in his loafers.’
She stares at me and chews her gum.
‘Chips and a cheese bap, please,’ Beth says.
‘Same, thanks.’
‘Ten pounds sixty.’
Say what you like about her attitude, her mental arithmetic isn’t bad.
Beth starts to fumble in her bag.
‘No, don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’ll get these.’ I reach in my pocket and frown. ‘Shit. I’ve left my wallet at home.’
‘No worries,’ Beth says. ‘It’s hardly going to break the bank.’
I smile, feeling a little guilty. But only a little.
We pay and find a seat – not too difficult – in a corner near one of the windows.
‘So,’ I say to Beth as she sips her Diet Coke, ‘you were going to tell me about Hurst?’
‘Right. Well, there’s probably not that much to tell. The boy is smart, athletic, good-looking and a sadistic little shit. And he gets away with it because of his dad.’
‘Stephen Hurst.’
‘You know him?’
‘We went to school together.’
‘Ah, right.’
‘I hear he’s on the council now?’
‘Yeah. And you know the sort of people that end up being councillors –’
‘People that genuinely want to help their community?’
‘And arseholes that get off on being in a position of power and use it to further their own ends.’
‘Gosh, I can’t think which Stephen Hurst could be.’
‘Yeah, he’s a piece of work. But then you probably already know that. You’ve heard about the plans for the old colliery?’
‘The council want to turn it into a country park?’
‘Yep. Well, one of the reasons it has taken so long to get off the ground is because of Hurst.’
‘How come?’
‘Well, officially, because of difficulties with funding. Unofficially, Hurst has ties to a property company that wants to build houses on the land instead.’
‘Housing? On an old mining site? That would take years for the council to approve –’ And then it hits me. ‘Ah, I see.’
‘Yup. Basically, Hurst Junior is a chip off the old block. And Daddy is on the school board, so every time Jeremy does something that would get any other kid excluded Hurst Senior waltzes in, has a chat with Harry, probably about funding for the new sports centre or the extra science block we need, and guess what? Nothing happens.’
I feel a familiar anger start to stir in my gut. Same as it ever was, I think.
Barmaid of the Year approaches again, brandishing our cutlery like weapons.
She plonks it down on the table.
‘Chips’ll take a mo’. We’re out of ketchup.’
‘Okay.’
She stares at me for a moment longer than is comfortable and I wonder if saying, ‘Okay,’ has somehow offended her. Then she stalks away again.
Beth looks at me. ‘You really do know how to make friends and influence people, don’t you?’
‘My natural charm?’
‘Don’t kid yourself.’
I take a sip of Diet Coke then I say, ‘Julia Morton was Hurst’s form tutor last year, wasn’t she?’
She nods. ‘But I wouldn’t read anything into it.’
‘No?’
‘No. Julia could deal with Hurst. She didn’t take any shit and he didn’t give her too much. She was a tough cookie. She didn’t crumble easily.’
And yet she did, I think. She beat her own son to death. And why not use the gun? A moment of madness? Or something else?
As if she can read my mind, Beth says, ‘That’s why what happened just doesn’t make any sense.’
‘You said she was depressed?’
‘She’d suffered from depression, in the past.’
‘But depression doesn’t just go away. She’d stopped taking her medication. Maybe she had some sort of relapse, a breakdown?’
She sighs. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. And maybe if she had just killed herself, I could understand it. But to kill Ben? She doted on him. I’ll never understand that.’
‘What was Ben like?’
‘Bright enough, plenty of friends. Maybe a little easily led. That got him into trouble a couple of times. But a good kid. Until he went missing.’
‘Ben went missing? When?’
‘A couple of months before he died. Turned up after twenty-four hours, and after the whole village had been out looking for him. Wouldn’t say where he’d been. It was out of character, not like him.’
I let this sink in. Missing. But he came back.
‘I never read anything about that.’
She shrugs. ‘Kind of got swept under the carpet with everything else that happened. Anyway, afterwards …’ She pauses. ‘He was different.’
‘How?’
‘Withdrawn, distracted. He stopped hanging out with his friends, or they stopped hanging out with him. This sounds awful, but he smelled, like he wasn’t washing. Then he got into a fight. Hurt the other kid quite badly. That’s when Julia asked for some time off and took him out of school. Said he was having “emotional issues” because of the divorce.’
‘Why did no one else mention this?’
‘Seriously? Who’s going to say anything bad about a dead kid? Besides, everyone just blamed Julia for his behaviour. His mother was nuts. Must all be her fault, right?’
I think about that unnamed school source. I want to ask more but, right on cue, our charming waitress emerges back at the table.
‘Cheese baps, chips.’
‘Thanks.’
She thuds the plates down and glares at me again.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘You’re renting the Morton cottage?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know what happened there?’
This seems to be question of the week.
‘Yes.’
‘So, what are you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Some kind of ghoul?’
‘Erm, no? Actually, I’m a teacher.’
‘Right.’
She considers this, then she reaches into her pocket, takes out a card and holds it out to me.
Not wanting to incur further wrath, I take it: ‘Dawson’s Dust Busters’.
‘What’s this?’
‘My mum. She’s a cleaner. She used to clean the cottage for Mrs Morton. You might want to give her a call.’
Possibly the strangest sales pitch I’ve ever had.
‘Well, I’m not sure I can stretch to a cleaner right now, but thanks.’
‘Suit yourself.’
She wanders off again. I look at Beth. ‘Whoah.’
‘Yeah, she’s a little –’
‘Rude? Weird? Scary?’
‘Actually, Lauren is on the spectrum. So normal social conventions can be difficult for her.’
‘Right. And someone employed her as a barmaid?’
‘You don’t think every kid should be given an equal chance?’
‘I’m just saying that the hospitality industry might not be the best career match.’
‘Judgemental.’
‘Practical.’
‘Tomayto, tomahto.’
‘Actually, it’s tomahto. I’m very judgemental on that one.’
She grins. She grins a lot, I think. Makes me want to do the same, use muscles I haven’t exercised in a while.
‘Anyway,’ I say, sticking the card in my pocket, ‘you were saying?’
‘Nope.’ She jabs her fork at me. ‘Your turn. So why are you renting the Morton cottage?’
‘You too?’
‘Well, it is a bit weird.’
‘It’s convenient, it’s cheap. And years ago it wasn’t the “Morton” cottage, it belonged to a little old lady who used to throw scraps of bread to the birds and swear at the schoolkids who cycled past. It’s just a building. It has history. Most places do.’
Although most places do not have an infestation of beetles in the waste pipes. I fight down a shudder.
Beth regards me curiously. ‘So, talking of history – is it odd, coming back here?’
I shrug. ‘It’s always odd coming back to the place where you grew up.’
‘Not being funny, but I can’t imagine ever wanting to come back to Arnhill. As soon as I can, I’ll be getting away.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘One year, one day and about’ – she checks her watch – ‘twelve hours, thirty-two minutes –’
‘Not that you’re counting?’
‘Oh, I’m counting.’
‘Well, I know it’s small, parochial, a bit backward.’
‘It’s not that …’
‘Then what?’
‘Have you ever been to Germany?’
‘No.’
‘I went once, just after college. Had a friend working in Berlin. She took me to one of the concentration camps.’
‘Fun.’
‘It was a beautiful sunny day. Blue skies, birds singing, and buildings are just buildings, aren’t they? But the place still had a feel, you know? Like it was in the very air, in the atoms. You knew a terrible thing had happened there, without even being told. Even while you walked around with the guide, nodding and looking all sad, a part of you just wanted to run away, screaming.’
‘That’s what you think of Arnhill?’
‘Nope. I’d go back to Germany.’ She pops a chip in her mouth, then asks, ‘What’s the deal with you and Stephen Hurst?’
‘Deal?’
‘I sense you two weren’t exactly best buddies back in the day?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Something happen?’
I spear a chip. ‘Just the usual teenage-boy stuff.’
‘Right.’
Her tone implies she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push it.
We both chew our food. The chips are all right. The cheese bap tastes like plastic, if someone had tried to make plastic less flavoursome.
‘Harry told me Hurst’s wife is ill?’ I say.
She nods. ‘Cancer. And whatever your feelings about Hurst, that’s gotta suck.’
‘Yeah.’
And sometimes, what goes around comes around.
‘They’ve been married a long time?’
‘Teenage sweethearts.’ She looks at me. ‘In fact, if you went to school with Hurst, you might remember her.’
‘I went to school with a lot of people.’
‘Her name’s Marie?’
Time slows and stills.
‘Marie?’
‘Yeah – can’t tell y
ou her maiden name, I’m afraid.’
She doesn’t have to. Another chunk of my ground-down heart crumbles to dust.
‘It was Gibson,’ I say. ‘Marie Gibson.’
9
Marie and I grew up on the same street. Our mums were friends, so we got thrown together a lot when we were small, shooed off to play while they drank tea and gossiped. We played catch and hide-and-seek and sat on the kerb and ate Fabs and 99s when the ice-cream van came around. This was before Annie was born, so I guess we’d have been about four or five at the time.
I quietly worshipped Marie. She quietly tolerated me – the only other kid her age on the street. At school she would quickly abandon me in favour of more popular playmates. I suppose I took this as my lot. Marie was pretty and fun. I was the weird, insular kid nobody liked.
By the time we reached senior school I had started to notice that Marie was a bit more than pretty. She was beautiful. Her shiny brown hair – she wore it in pigtails when she was little – had been cut into a short, swingy bob. Sometimes she crimped it like her heroine, Madonna. She wore stone-washed jeans and baggy jumpers with sleeves that hung down to her fingers. She got her ears pierced twice in each lobe and at school she rolled up the waistband of her skirt so that it hovered above her knees, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of toned flesh between the hem and her over-the-knee socks.
Of course, by this point Marie barely noticed me at all.
She wasn’t unkind or cruel. At least not on purpose. Occasionally she would walk past me on the street and it was like she was seeing someone she vaguely remembered or couldn’t quite place. She would offer a distracted, ‘Hiya,’ and I would glow for hours at the acknowledgement.
Annie used to tease me sometimes: ‘Oooh, look. It’s your girlfriend.’ And make kissy, kissy noises. ‘Joey and Marie, sitting in a tree, K I S S I N G.’
It was the only time I used to get properly annoyed at Annie. Perhaps because it hit a nerve. Marie was not my girlfriend; she would never be my girlfriend. Girls like Marie did not go out with boys like me: skinny, awkward nerds who read comic books and played computer games. They went out with proper boys who played football and rugby and hung around the playground, spitting and swearing for no reason.