by C. J. Tudor
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Price requested you hand in your front-door pass when you leave.’
My pass. The pass that allows me to enter the school. Harry really isn’t taking any chances.
‘Worried I might sneak back in and steal the school lunch money?’
She doesn’t smile. I wonder how much she knows. How much they all know.
‘Fine.’ I take it out of my pocket and just about manage not to slam it on her desk.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. And pass on my regards to Miss Grayson.’
‘Of course.’
She offers an efficient smile. Then she picks up the pass and, as if I was in any doubt about my suspension being temporary, produces a pair of scissors, cuts it neatly in half and drops it in the bin.
The cottage eyes me resentfully upon my return, its one good window glowering darkly. Look, it seems to hiss from between the splintered wood of the front door. Look what you have done. Are you happy yet?
No, I think. Because I am not done yet. I push at the door. It sticks and then gives with a reluctant groan. I’m not entirely sure the cottage is on my side in all of this. It is too much in cahoots with the past, too much a part of the village. It does not want me here. It has no intention of making me comfortable. But that’s fine too. I don’t plan to be here for very much longer.
I walk inside and throw my bag on the sofa. The room is still in much the same state as when I returned last night. Internal injuries. I consider tidying up and sorting out some of the mess. Then I go and smoke a cigarette.
Perhaps Hurst has done me a favour. Speeding up the inevitable. After all, I never intended to stay, did I? I never intended to settle back down in a place that holds such dark and painful memories. The wounded animal doesn’t escape the trap only to throw itself back into the metal jaws and wait for them to pulverize its bones.
Not unless it has a damn good reason.
I’d like to say the reason was Annie, or the message. But it’s not that simple. Even all that guilt and recrimination weren’t enough to drag me back here. Not on their own.
The truth is, I was desperate. I needed to get away and I saw an opportunity – to settle bad debts and old scores at the same time. Perhaps it had always been at the back of my mind. I knew I had something that could screw up Hurst’s life. The idea he might pay money for it came later.
I hadn’t expected him to be quite so determined to hound me out of the village. But despite all his threats and manipulations, ultimately, Hurst has played his hand. He doesn’t have anything left. There is only one way to get rid of me now and, although I’ve no doubt that Hurst is capable of murder, the stakes are higher. Is he willing to risk his career, his comfortable life, his family?
I’m hoping the answer is no. But on the other hand, I wouldn’t bet on it.
I close the back door and walk inside. The feeling of coldness is on me again. I can hear the walls chittering. I am starting to become used to both the cold and the incessant tinnitus of the cottage. I’m not sure whether, like tuning out Simon’s monotonous drone, this is a good thing. Once you become accustomed, you become complacent and then you become either complicit or consumed.
I wander back through to the living room and take out my phone. I pull up Brendan’s number. He answers on the second ring.
‘What do you want now?’
‘Isn’t it enough to hear the dulcet tones of your voice?’
‘You’d better be wearing underwear.’
‘I need a favour.’
‘Seriously? You know, right now, I have gerbil shit in my beard.’
‘I thought it was hamsters.’
‘Gerbils, hamsters, who gives a feck? The little bastards spent all last night kicking crap on to my head. How long do I have to stay here?’
‘Do you still have that holdall I asked you to look after?’
‘Holdall? What holdall?’
‘Sides literally splitting.’
‘Yes, I’ve got it.’
‘Can you courier it to me overnight?’
‘Joe –’
‘Look, I just want to say, you’ve been a good friend. Thank you.’
‘Don’t go all mushy on me.’
‘Well, I thought I’d say it in case I actually do.’
There’s a pause and then Brendan says with heartfelt emotion: ‘Just feck off before I end up doing an Ozzy Osborne on one of these feckin’ gerbils.’
He ends the call. I glance at my watch. It’s 3.30 p.m. I stare around the wrecked living room. I pick up Abbie-Eyes from the floor and place her back on the armchair. She observes me with one cold, blue eye. The hollow socket yawns darkly. I look around but can’t see her other eye anywhere. I have a sudden mental image of it being carried away on the backs of scuttling beetles. I thank my imagination. I really needed that.
My phone starts to ring, making me jump. I press Accept.
‘Hello?’
‘Were you going to mention playing hooky? I might have joined you.’
Beth. Of course.
‘How did you get my number?’
‘From Danielle on reception. I know her brother. He’s in my pub-quiz team.’
‘So I suppose you know what happened?’
‘Harry told me that you were taking a leave of absence.’
‘That’s what he called it?’
‘What would you call it?’
I hesitate.
‘You’re leaving, aren’t you?’
‘I think I might have already left.’
‘Jesus – that’s got to be a world record.’
‘I’m glad my brevity impresses you.’
‘Don’t tell everyone. Is this about yesterday, with Jeremy Hurst?’
‘No.’
‘Then what?’
‘It’s a little complicated.’
‘How complicated?’
‘Well –’
‘A few pints complicated or several glasses of bourbon complicated?’
I consider. ‘Definitely the latter.’
‘Right, I’ll see you in the Fox at seven. Line your stomach first.’
She ends the call without saying goodbye. Why do people keep doing that?
I should have said something. I have questions. But I suppose they can wait. I sit down heavily on the hard sofa frame and think about making a coffee. Then I glance at Abbie-Eyes, or maybe that should be Abbie-Eye. I shake off a shudder. Decision made.
I head back out the door and walk down to the chippy.
25
The Fox looks even more run-down and dilapidated tonight. It’s decaying, I think. As if my presence here has started some sort of chain reaction. As if this small, shrivelled place has been held in some mummified state and now a crack has appeared, a little bit of oxygen admitted into the rarefied environment, and suddenly everything is rotting from within.
I push open the doors and walk inside. A quick appraisal informs me that Hurst is not here and nor are any of his goons. A few elderly patrons – probably the same ones from the other night – vegetate at tables, staring into their pints of ale and lager tops.
Beth isn’t here yet but I spot one familiar face. Lauren is back behind the bar, which, while not exactly evoking rainbows, sunshine and tweeting birds, is at least better than Nosferatu’s surly countenance.
I smile. ‘All right?’
She stares at me as though she has never seen me before in her life.
‘Joe Thorne. Teacher. We bumped into each other up at the old colliery site.’
‘Oh. Yeah. Right.’ Her face moves a little. Could be a smile. Could be a twitch of annoyance – hard to tell. ‘So, what can I get you?’
‘Erm, bourbon, please. Double.’
‘Make that two.’
I turn. Beth stands at my side. Her hair is loose for once and falls around her shoulders in semi-dreadlocks. An oversized leather jacket swamps her small frame and makes her legs, in sprayed-on black jeans and DMs, l
ook even skinnier.
A nose ring glints as she grins at me. ‘You are the talk of the staffroom, Mr Thorne.’
‘Really? Might explain why my ears are burning.’
‘Yeah, well, that might also be the effigy Simon has of you that he is sticking pins into.’
‘I imagine he is overcome by sorrow at my premature departure.’
‘If singing “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” is evidence of his sorrow, then yes.’
Lauren plonks both glasses down upon the bar. The delivery is abrupt but, just by glancing at them, I can tell she has been generous with the measures.
‘Nine pounds, please.’
‘Thanks.’ I pay with my last twenty, wondering how far over my overdraft I currently am and how long before the bank stops all my cards.
Beth picks up her glass. ‘Shall we?’
We walk towards a table in a far corner. One thing the Fox does have going for it is plenty of dim, dusty corners in which to lurk if you would rather not be seen or overheard.
Beth sits herself down on one of the hard wooden chairs and I follow suit. We both take sips of our drinks – mine a bit larger than hers.
‘Soooo,’ she says meaningfully. ‘Want to tell me what really happened?’
‘What’s Harry said?’
‘You have taken a leave of absence for personal reasons.’
‘What does the grapevine say?’
‘Oh, you’ve had some kind of breakdown, Hurst Senior got you sacked, you’ve been abducted by aliens – that type of thing.’
‘Right.’
‘So which is it?’
‘Aliens, naturally. They have taken over my body and my real self is in a cocoon in the cottage.’
‘Hmmm. Almost believable … except everyone saw Hurst with Harry today.’
I look down into my glass. ‘I lied to get the job here. I faked a reference from my old school. I did not leave under a halo so much as under a cloud. Harry found out.’
‘O–kay. What did you do at your old school that was so bad?’
‘Nothing, actually. But I intended to steal money from the school safe to pay a debt.’
I watch her take this in. ‘But you didn’t?’
‘No.’
She nods, considering. ‘So how did Harry find out –?’ Then she holds up a hand. ‘No, wait. Simon. Didn’t Simon mention he knew you from somewhere?’
‘Yeah. And I’m guessing Simon knows Hurst.’
‘I didn’t realize he did … but then Simon is just the sort of bum bogie who would stick himself up anyone’s arse to get a bit further up the ladder.’
‘Bum bogie?’
She raises her glass. ‘And that’s being kind to him.’
‘Well, obviously being a bum bogie works. Because here I am – currently and probably permanently – jobless.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure. Harry likes you. The kids seem to like you. Harry knows he’ll have a hell of a job filling that post.’
I shake my head. ‘Hurst won’t let Harry take me back on.’
‘You and Hurst aren’t really ancient history, are you? What is it between you two?’
I put my glass down and look at her across the table. In the dim light she looks younger again. It softens the faint lines around her mouth and on her forehead. Her dark eyes seem very wide and her skin very soft and pale. I feel a tug. I wanted one thing about this place to be good and honest. Just one thing.
Beth frowns. ‘What are you staring at? Have I got something on my face?’
‘No …’ I pause. ‘Nothing.’
She continues to stare at me, suspiciously. Then she says: ‘So you were about to tell me about you and Hurst.’
‘Was I?’
‘You were.’
‘The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?’
‘Something like that.’
‘We fell out, badly, in our teens. Stupid, looking back. Over a girl, as these things usually are.’
‘Was the girl Marie Gibson?’
‘Yes.’
The lie comes easily.
She sips her drink. ‘I wouldn’t have had her down as your type.’
‘Why? What do you think is my type?’
‘I mean, she’s pretty but –’
‘But what?’
‘Don’t take this the wrong way –’
‘Okay.’
‘I know this seems a shitty thing to say with the cancer and everything, but she always seemed a bit of a bitch.’
I’m slightly taken aback. ‘Well, she could be tough when she wanted to be.’
‘I don’t mean tough. I mean a bitch. She would throw her weight around because of Hurst. I’ve seen her reduce a teacher to tears at a parents’ evening. Once, she went around to another mother’s house because their kid had accused Hurst Junior of bullying. This woman worked part-time for the council. Next day – contract terminated.’
I frown. I suppose Marie could be a bit of a firecracker. And a mother can’t always see their offspring’s faults. Still, it doesn’t sound like the Marie I remember.
‘Well, people change, I suppose.’
‘Not that much.’
‘And I was young and foolish back then.’
‘What are you now?’
‘Old and cynical.’
‘Join the gang.’
No, I think. She puts on a good front. But I don’t believe that. I can see it in her eyes. The light hasn’t gone out. Not completely. Not yet.
‘That reminds me,’ I say. ‘You never told me which one you are?’
Her forehead creases. ‘Which one of what?’
‘Want to make a difference or can’t get a job anywhere else?’
‘Well, obviously, who wouldn’t want this?’ She spreads her arms.
‘So, you want to make a difference?’
‘Is this an interview now?’
‘No, I was just wondering.’
‘About me?’
‘About Emily Ryan.’
Her face changes. The softness is gone.
‘She was the pupil you were talking about, wasn’t she? The one who killed herself?’
‘You really know how to ruin a mood.’
‘You said she was a student of yours. But you weren’t teaching here when she died.’
‘Been doing your research?’
‘Just call me Columbo.’
‘I can think of other names. And I don’t have to tell you anything.’
‘True.’
‘I barely know you.’
‘True.’
‘You’re fucking irritating when you’re agreeable.’
‘Also –’
She holds up a hand. ‘Okay. You’re right. Emily wasn’t my student.’ A pause. ‘She was my niece.’
‘My sister was a few years older than me. No dad around and Mum wasn’t exactly Mum of the Year, so we were close. We grew up in Edgeford – you know it?’
‘I’ve heard of it – not the best area of Nottingham.’
‘Anyway, Carla – my sister – she got pregnant pretty young. Following the family tradition, the dad didn’t hang around, but she was a brilliant mum. She brought Emily up while training to be a nurse. Emily was a sweet kid; she grew up into a pretty okay teenager.’
‘That’s a feat.’
‘I was teaching at a school in Derby, so I couldn’t come and see them that much. But Emily and I would text or Facetime. She came to stay with me a few times. We’d go shopping, to the cinema and stuff. I was the cool auntie, I suppose.’
‘Well, that’s what cool aunties are for.’
A tiny smile. ‘Don’t get me wrong. She was thirteen, she could be moody sometimes but overall she was good to be around – bright, funny, inquisitive.’
I feel my heart give a little. I wonder what sort of teenager Annie would have been. Loud, outgoing, funny, sporty? Or would she have reverted into herself, like so many do?
‘Then, Carla got a job. A good job. They moved. Emily had
to change schools.’
‘Let me guess. They moved to Arnhill?’
She nods. ‘The job was at the hospital in Mansfield. Arnhill wasn’t far, houses were cheap and the school was within walking distance. It seemed to make sense.’
Most bad decisions do at the time.
‘Moving schools – to any school – is tough when you’re thirteen,’ I say.
‘To start with, it seemed okay –’
‘But?’
‘It was too hunky-dory. You know – when everything is so frigging fine, it just can’t be.’
‘What did your sister say?’
She sighs. ‘She didn’t get it. I mean, don’t get me wrong. She loved that girl’s bones, but it was like she just didn’t see the problem. Or she didn’t want to.’
I nod. We’re all too busy, too distracted by the sheer effort of getting through each day – working, paying the bills, the mortgage, shopping – that we don’t want to look deeper. We don’t dare. We want things to be fine. To be ‘hunky-dory’. Because we simply haven’t got the mental energy to deal with it if they’re not. It’s only when something bad happens, something irretrievable, that we see things properly. And then it’s too late.
‘Did you try and talk to Emily?’
‘I tried. I even drove over to see her. Took her for pizza, like we used to, except it wasn’t the same.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘You done with those?’
We both glance up. Lauren hovers over the table.
‘Err, yes, thanks,’ I say. ‘And could we get a couple more?’
She nods. ‘S’pose.’ She wanders back to the bar.
Beth glances at me. ‘She must really like you. She doesn’t do table service for just anyone.’
‘My natural charm. So, you were saying?’
Her face darkens again. ‘We went to her favourite pizza place, but she didn’t eat much. She was just moody, sarcastic. It wasn’t her.’
‘Kids can change in senior school,’ I say. ‘It’s like someone flicks a switch, their hormones crank up to eleven and all bets are off.’
‘No shit. I’m a teacher too, remember? I know what it’s like. Invasion of the Body Snatchers.’
She picks up a beer mat and begins to peel it apart. ‘But even when Emily was going through a “teenager” phase before, she still talked to me. I thought our relationship was different.’