by JT Lawrence
“You will have a lawsuit on your hands,” said Seko. “Did her parents know?”
“Mr Steyn was the one who requested the key.”
Angela Simpson walked into her new classroom, which sounded live a nest of wasps. When the teenage girls saw her, they hushed.
“Morning, ladies,” she said, leaning against her desk to appear less nervous than she was. “I’m Miss Simpson, and I’ll be your temporary homeroom teacher until Mrs Siceka feels well enough to return.” The girls stared at her. “Will you please all go to your desks?”
The students find their chairs and scrape them on the floor as they sit. "I realise how shocked and upset you must be. If you look at the board, you'll see that my phone number is there. I want you to feel free to call me at any time. If you need to talk, if you want to tell me something, if you ever need help." She looked at the sea of traumatised faces before her. "Now, usually I'd ask you all to stand up and introduce yourselves so I can learn your names, but given the situation—"
“It’s a good idea, Miss Simpson,” said a pretty blond girl wearing a highly decorated Head Girl blazer. “It may take our minds off it for a while. I’m sure we’ll all be allowed to go home soon, anyway.” The other girls murmured their assent.
Miss Simpson took a deep breath. “All right, then. I recognise you from the assembly this morning. You’re the Head Girl?
“Yes, ma’am. My name is Candice. Candice Compton.”
“Thank you, Candice. Next?”
"I'm Wandi," announced the next girl. "Wandi, as in, wonderful." There are snorts of laughter.
The next girl stood up. “Terry. Short for Theresa.”
“Like Mother Theresa,” said Miss Simpson.
“Hardly,” Wandi snarked under her breath.
“Next?”
Terry didn’t sit down. “What about you?”
Angela Simpson’s cheeks warmed a little. “Me?”
“Which school are you from? Why did you leave? Are you married?” There was some tittering, and then silence as they waited for her to answer.
She turned away to hide the colour in her cheeks. “I think we’ll leave that story for another day.” Simpson finally found the button, and the whiteboard reeled slowly down behind her. “I’ll get the hang of everything soon, I hope—”
The class gasped.
“What?” asked Miss Simpson. “What’s wrong?”
“Behind you,” said Candice, wide-eyed.
Miss Simpson turned to look at the whiteboard, and her hands flew up to her mouth. "Oh! Oh dear! Who wrote that? How do you get it back up?" She clicked the button over and over until it got stuck.
A girl burst out crying. Miss Simpson stopped hammering the remote and looked up. “Who’s crying?”
“That’s Monica Klatzow,” said Terry. “She shouldn’t be here today.”
“Monica?” said the teacher. “Monica, are you okay?”
“She’s not okay,” said one of the girls.
“Klatzow was Jessica’s dorm-mate,” said Wandi. “And her best friend.”
Monica cried harder. Miss Simpson passed her the box of tissues from her desk.
"Oh, dear. I need to report this — the message on the board. I need to go up to the office. Candice, please look after the class. I'll be back as soon as I can. Monica, come with me."
They walked up to the admin block together, Monica’s cheeks shining with tears, and entered the smart little boardroom where Detective Seko was talking to the headmistress.
“Miss Simpson,” said Grashawn, looking up. “You’re supposed to be with your class.”
“I know. I—”
"Oh, hello, Monica. You poor thing. You really should be at home. Detective? Detective, can we let Monica go home? I believe her parents are waiting for her at the hostel."
“Not until I’ve interviewed her.”
“Mrs Grashawn,” says Miss Simpson. “Detective. I need to tell you something. About my classroom.”
“What is it?”
"The digital whiteboard. The screen. I rolled it down, and someone had written a message on it. And there was something else, too."
“What did it say?”
“It said—
“It said that it wasn’t an accident,” said Monica.
Mrs Grashawn went off looking for someone to fix the vandalised screen in Miss Simpson's class while Seko and Simpson sat down with Monica. The detective poured a glass of water for the schoolgirl. "You don't have a very good school record."
Miss Simpson took exception to the comment. “What does that have to do with anything?”
"Smoking. Skipping class. Bunking out. I'm surprised they haven't expelled you."
“I stopped all that,” said Monica. “I haven’t been in trouble since I started sharing a room with Jess.”
“Jessica was the golden girl, huh? Good influence on you?”
“Maybe. She had problems of her own, though.”
“Like?”
“She wasn’t the golden girl everyone thought she was, okay? That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?”
“Tell me why you say that.”
“Because you want a reason to blame her for what happened.”
“That’s not true,” said Seko. “All I’m trying to do is get to the bottom of this.”
“You’re the kind of cop who wants to know what the rape victim was wearing. Because you want to blame the victim.”
“Look, Monica,” said Miss Simpson. “I know you’re overwrought. It’s understandable, but—”
“You clearly know something,” said Seko. “Why don’t you just tell us what it is?”
“It’s because of people like you.”
The detective didn’t break eye contact. “People like me?”
“Bullies!” Monica said, and her eyes filled with tears again.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Detective, please.”
Monica bunched her hands up into fists. “It’s because of people like you she committed suicide.”
They both stared at the girl, and the tension was broken only when the detective’s phone began to ring. He took it outside.
"Listen to me, Monica," said Miss Simpson in a low voice. When the schoolgirl doesn't look at her, she squeezes her arm. "You need to be careful about what you say in here. About speculating. This is a police investigation. You can't just go around spouting assumptions. There may be legal repercussions—"
“I’m not speculating,” said Monica. “She told me she was going to do it.”
The teacher let go of the girl’s arm.
“She told you? Did you tell your parents? Her parents? Mrs Grashawn?”
"She made me swear to keep quiet. She made me blood-promise. She cut my hand here and did the same to herself. And then we mixed blood and promised."
“What did you … what did she use? To cut?”
“What she always uses. Paul’s knife. Paul’s pocket knife.”
“Who’s Paul?”
“Paul’s the reason she’s dead.”
Detective Seko comes back into the room and leans against the wall.
“Tell the detective what you just told me,” said the teacher. “Monica. Tell him.”
“I need to go to the bathroom,” said the girl.
“After you tell him.”
“I feel sick. I need to go right now.”
Seko took a step forward. “If you would just co-operate, things would—”
Monica doubled over and vomited on the floor.
Miss Simpson shot up, causing her chair to crash backwards. “Oh! You poor thing. I’m sorry. I thought—I didn’t know you were really sick.”
Detective Seko and Miss Simpson stood in the garden outside the staff room. They watched the water feature in silence as Grashawn approached.
"Nurse Davies said she's fine," said the headmistress. "Nerves, she guesses, and shock. She's keeping her in the sickbay for half an hour till she gets some colour back
in her cheeks."
“The poor girl,” said Miss Simpson. “Can you imagine?”
“She’s hiding something,” said Seko.
Grashawn folded her arms. “She’s a teenage girl, Detective. Of course she’s hiding something.” Her phone buzzed with a message; she lowered her glasses to read the screen. “Aha. Paul Compton is here.”
Paul Compton was handsome and fresh-faced. Detective Seko smiled at the boy. “Headmistress Grashawn tells me you’re in your third year in Chemical Engineering?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Top of your class, bright future, all of that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have everything going for you.”
"Do you have a question?" asked the boy. He glanced at his watch. "I … I have an exam in a couple of hours. It's an important one. I spent so much time preparing, and if I miss it, I'll fail the whole semester and—"
"Yes, I do have a question," said Seko. "If you have all this going for you … good looks, big brain, wealthy family … then, tell me, why are you dating a schoolgirl? A girl four years younger than you?"
“Jess and I weren’t dating. Not really.”
The detective didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure about that?”
“I mean, we went out a couple of times.”
“And you don’t consider that dating?”
“I just mean … I mean it wasn’t official.”
“It was pretty official to her,” said the cop. “Your name is all over her locker.”
“Well,” said Paul. “I didn’t know that.”
“She had your varsity rugby jersey in her dorm.”
“Did she?” Paul asked. “I’ve been looking for that.”
Miss Simpson crossed her arms. “She had your pocket knife, too.”
Paul swallowed his reply and stared at the floor.
“What exactly was your relationship with Jessica, then?” asked Seko.
“We just … hung out a few times. Movies. Coffee. That’s all.”
“It wasn’t a sexual relationship?”
“No! No. I mean, I thought she was really pretty but—”
“But?”
“But she was a germ, you know?”
Miss Simpson blinked at him. “A what?”
“A germ. A little kid.”
“Jessica Steyn was a beautiful seventeen-year-old girl,” said the teacher. “She was not a kid.”
“I guess I didn’t see her that way. I mean, she’s the same age as my little sister.”
After dismissing Paul Compton, Detective Seko puts his jacket on. "I'm going to the sickbay. I need to finish the interview with Monica."
“She’s ill. Can’t you wait till Nurse Davies lets her go?”
“A girl is dead. And I’m going to figure out why. I’m going to see Monica Klatzow. Are you coming?”
They were quiet on the way to the east wing. Nurse Davies looked thrilled to see them and began gushing. "Oh, how exciting! I've never met a real-life detective before. But they're always my favourite shows on the telly. I'm always telling Mr Davies that I'd love to be on the show, you know?"
“Really.” Seko managed a polite smile.
“Imagine me as Angela Lansbury, dear, don’t you think I would suit the part?”
The nurse hummed the theme music to Murder She Wrote as she walked them to Monica's room. The schoolgirl was in the sickbed, skin the colour of the bleached sheets.
“How are you feeling?” asked Miss Simpson. “Better?”
"I've stopped throwing up if that's what you mean."
“We have more questions,” said Seko.
“I don’t feel up to being interrogated again.”
“Believe me,” said the cop. “You’d know if this was an interrogation.”
Monica looked at the detective and leaned back against the starched cotton pillowcase. “You want to know why someone as pretty and clever and talented as Jess would commit suicide.”
“Yes.”
“It’s not a clear-cut as ‘suicide’,” said Monica. “There were other … factors.”
“Like?”
“There was someone else.”
“What do you mean?” asked Seko. “Who?”
“I feel sick again. I need to go—”
“You’re not going anywhere,” said Seko. He picked up the steel bin from next to the bed and handed it to the schoolgirl.
“Monica,” said Miss Simpson. “When we were speaking earlier, you said the knife she always uses. What did you mean? What did Jessica use a pocket knife for?”
“She carried it for protection, but also—”
“For protection?” asked Detective Seko. “From who?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You have to tell us.”
Monica began to cry. It was a pitiful sound, like a kitten caught in a storm.
The detective lost his patience and stood up. "Pack up your stuff. I'm taking you in."
“Taking her where?” asked Simpson.
“To the station.”
"You can't do that! Look at her. She's as pale as—"
“Watch me,” said Seko.
“Monica,” urged Miss Simpson. “Tell the detective who Jessica needed protection from.”
“I can’t!” shouted the girl, tears and snot running together. “Don’t you understand anything?”
“How can we understand what you’re not telling us?!”
“If I tell you, mine will be the next dead body you find.”
“Forensics found something—” said Seko. He and Miss Simpson whispered to each other outside the school sick room.
“Yes?”
“It rather complicates the case.”
Miss Simpson's phone vibrated with a message, and she was so on edge, she almost dropped it. "I gave my number to the class. Told them to contact me if they wanted to." She squints at the screen. "Hang on. What's this?" She showed the detective the message.
“It’s a link to a private video sharing site.”
Miss Simpson tapped the icon to play the video. There was murmuring and giggling; skin on sheets.
“What—” said the teacher, wanting to pause it. Seko knocks her hovering hand away.
“Who’s it from?” he asked.
“Unknown number.” Her jaw dropped. “Is that—?”
They both saw the girl on the video’s face at the same time.
“Jessica Steyn,” said the detective. She was naked, on a bed. “What’s going on?”
A man’s voice murmured something indecipherable, and Jessica looked at the camera and laughed. The man joined her, and they kissed.
“So much for thinking of Jessica Steyn as his kid sister,” said Seko, speed-dialling the station.
“Who are you phoning?”
“I’m getting my sergeant to drop off Paul Compton at the station.”
“Monica,” said Miss Simpson. “Why didn’t you tell us about the video?”
“Which vid—?”
“Don’t play dumb,” barks Seko. “Do you want us to find who did this to Jessica or not?”
Miss Simpson blinked at the girl. "The video's on the internet, now, you know. Once something is on the internet, you can never take it off. Who posted it? Did Paul post it?"
“No!” insisted Monica. “He would never. He loved Jess.”
Seko spoke slowly and deliberately. “Who — posted — the — video?”
“I don’t know,” said Monica. “I promise you I don’t know. But—”
“Paul’s at the police station. He lied to us about his relationship with Jessica and now he’s being interviewed by someone a lot bigger and nastier than I am. Would you like to end up there, too? Spend the night in a cold prison cell? Sleep on the stained concrete floor?”
“Please, no. I just want to go home.”
“Tell us what you know, and we’ll let you go. It’s as simple as that.”
“You won’t believe me!” Her hands flew up to her hair, and S
impson noticed her nails were bitten right down. She took the schoolgirl by the shoulders. “Monica. Pull yourself together. Tell us what you know.”
There was a long pause, then Monica whispered. “The Hollow Man.”
“What?”
“The Hollow Man killed her.”
The hairs on the back of Miss Simpson’s neck stood up. “Who’s … the Hollow Man?”
"A figment of imagination," said Seko. "The school grounds are secure. No one from the outside can get in, and there was no sign of any security breach."
“The Hollow Man doesn’t need to break in.”
The detective frowned in irritation. “What?”
“He’s here all the time. He comes out at night. He catches us in our dreams.”
Detective Seko and Miss Simpson marched over to the headmistress's office and stuck their heads in, interrupting her on the phone. "Ah, hello, Detective. Miss Simpson. Are you getting anywhere? How much longer till I can release my pupils?
“We’re getting somewhere,” said the cop.
“Good, because my phone is ringing off the hook with anxious parents and press and goodness knows who else. Have you seen them? There’s a whole crowd gathered outside.”
“They can wait,” said Seko.
Mrs Grashawn’s mobile phone rang again, and she muted it. “Wait? Easy for you to say! How would you feel if your daughter was locked up in a school where a girl was found dead?”
“I’d be happy that the police were investigating her murder,” replied Seko.
“What?” said the headmistress, clutching her desk. “What did you just say?”
"According to Monica Klatzow, there's been a man coming into the dormitories at night."
“Impossible!” said Grashawn, wilting with shock.
"There's no evidence whatsoever of any outside element," said Seko, adjusting his tie. "I need to speak to her classmates."
“Angela,” said Seko. “I think it would be best if we split forces.”
Miss Simpson stopped. “You don’t want me in the interview with the three girls?”
“It’s not that,” said the cop. “I just think that you’re the one who needs to speak to Monica again.”
“But she’s not saying a word. She’s practically catatonic. I don’t even know if Nurse Davies will let me back in there. What makes you think—”