Tell Tale (15 page)

‘How about the zoo?’ I asked, wide-eyed. Then Patricia was in the hall, her heels clicking on the tiled floor and her slim body curving towards my dad. She eyed him up and glanced out of the window at his shiny red Granada. He saw her admiring it. He stuck out his chest.

‘Not the zoo,’ he said quietly. He walked up to Patricia. ‘Any ideas where I can take a little girl for a spot of fun?’ Dad pulled open his sheepskin coat. His stomach curved above his belt and pushed out against his shirt. His arms winged from his pockets.

‘You could go anywhere you like in that car.’ Her face stretched to a smile. She tucked a loose coil of hair behind her ear.

‘She’s a beauty, ain’t she?’ My dad fingered his moustache. Sometimes there was food in it. ‘So what’s a bloke to do around here?’

The woman laughed and bent herself even closer to my dad. I didn’t like it. ‘I finish work soon. I could show you some sights.’ Her black top clung to her concave waist. Hips like ledges shifted from side to side. My dad looked at it all.

‘What’s wrong with the zoo?’ I said. Dad wafted a hand at me. It did the trick. I shut up, knowing what would happen if I went on.

In the end, we just walked around the grounds of the children’s home. He pulled a can of Pepsi from his huge
pocket. I sucked on it while I showed him a couple of dens that the other kids had let me make with them. Dad kept looking at his watch. He brushed leaves off his coat. ‘She’ll be getting off work soon,’ he said.

He scrunched me in his arms as we headed back to the building. It stood looming through the trees like a big old prison. ‘Worked out all right then, didn’t it?’ he growled into my ear. I stiffened until he put me down again. ‘You being here worked out right dandy. Are you happy, princess?’ Dad wove his big rough fingers into mine. I didn’t reply.

Back inside, I unfurled my arms from his waist and watched as Patricia appeared in my place. He hooked one hand under her elbow and cranked the big front door open with the other. He said goodbye to me over his shoulder. I heard him ask her name.

‘Patricia,’ she said. ‘Patricia Eldridge.’ Her voice was a whisper in the distance.

I climbed back on to the stone window seat and watched the Granada sail off down the drive. Dad’s arm snaked across the back of the passenger seat. I sat and stared at the exhaust trail until day was lost to night. Now I would have to wait all over again.

Mr Palmer walks into the room with a stack of papers clutched to his chest. He ignores us even though we’ve been waiting ten minutes already. His secretary sent for us, said we were wanted by the headmaster, said we should be in his study in half an hour. Adam and I stand side by side like a pair of naughty children. I have no idea what it’s all about. Before anyone speaks, I cast a glance around the room. A sick feeling rises in my throat as I take in my surroundings.

The headmaster sits down, rearranges things on his desk, sips from a cup before pulling a face at the cold dregs. His stern demeanour commands the respect needed to captain the school. It’s the controlled silence, in spite of the bursting redness on his nose, and the veins on the back of his hands, the way they hang like a roadmap to nowhere. He still doesn’t acknowledge us.

I take a breath. ‘Mr Palmer,’ I say. ‘You wanted to see us?’ I will not be afraid of him, even though for some reason I am.

He looks up. A grave expression sweeps his face. ‘Yes. I was hoping you could help me, Miss Gerrard. It’s a delicate matter.’ He stares hard at Adam. There’s sudden tension
between the pair. ‘Mr Kingsley, perhaps you’d like to enlighten your colleague.’ As the seconds pass, the sick feeling grows. I have a good idea what this is about.

The smile lines around Adam’s eyes and the crescents that frame his mouth, the tightness of his jaw and the stiff posture of his shoulders dissolve as he forces out his breath. ‘There’s been a complaint,’ he says flatly. His face is emotionless. He stares straight ahead. ‘The complaint’s against me. A pupil is claiming that I’ve had . . . relations with her.’ A swallow too big for his throat works down his neck before he continues. ‘It’s not true, of course. Because of your role with the girls, because they talk to you, we were wondering if you have any reason to believe that—’

‘That she’s lying,’ Mr Palmer interrupts, getting to the point. ‘It’s a serious business. The parents have already got their lawyers on the case.’ He glares at Adam, clearly not believing that his employee is entirely free from guilt.

Adam continues, staring from me to the headmaster and back. ‘The girl – Katy Fenwick – states that I’ve been . . . that over a long period of time we’ve . . .’

I hold up my hand to prevent him having to give details. ‘Really, you don’t need to say any more.’ I’m back there, hiding in the thicket, hardly daring to breathe, watching them, watching her naked. ‘I understand the situation.’ My breathing quickens. Pinpricks of sweat break out on my top lip. I have to get out. I remember the wet earth, the smell of it on pale flesh. The mist as it crept through the woods, dulling the sound of fleeing footsteps.

‘I’m speaking to a number of staff in the hope that we
can sort out this mess,’ Mr Palmer continues. ‘The school’s legal team has requested this process as part of the investigation we’re duty bound to undertake. Then I’ll have to compile a report for the board of governors.’ He sighs heavily. ‘Even though you’ve only been at the school a few weeks, Miss Gerrard, I’d appreciate it if you could give some thought to what you know about the girl. If anything relevant comes to mind, any comments she may have made about Mr Kingsley, then please let me know. It may just help.’ Mr Palmer’s neck flushes and his fingers flick around a silver pen.

‘Of course.’ I nod solemnly. I don’t look at Adam, even though I know he’s staring at me, willing me to say something that will save him. I remain silent, biting my lip. Then I turn to go.

‘Anything at all,’ I hear Adam say as I click the door closed.

The car engine turns over then cuts out. I try four more times and on the fifth attempt, the engine sends out a death wheeze. I’m no good at fixing things, but I pull the bonnet release and get out to take a look anyway. I prop open the rusty lid and stare at the twisted assortment of oily metal that I paid five hundred pounds in cash for. I’m amazed it survived – no, amazed
I
survived – the journey here. The battery terminals are loose and caked in scum. Black gritty seepage drips from every joint and anything rubber is perished and cracked. There is half a dead bird clogging the air vent intake.

‘Oh hell,’ I say. ‘Now what do I do?’ I kick the front tyre.

‘Going anywhere nice?’

I peer over the top of my sunglasses. A male teacher is walking a dog. I’ve seen him in the staffroom but we haven’t spoken yet.

‘No.’ I laugh. He might help if I’m friendly, however painful it is to smile, to pretend to be jolly. ‘I think the dealer warranty’s probably expired.’ I’m giving him my nicest grin, under the circumstances. I remove my glasses and fork them on to my head.

‘This is Alfie,’ he says, marching up and thrusting out his dog’s lead for me to hold. ‘And I’m Doug.’ He pushes up the sleeves of his old sweater and bites his lip. ‘Head of physics. Let me take a look.’

‘Thank you. That’s kind.’ The dog runs round and round me, wrapping my legs in the lead. Finally, he slumps on my feet, unable to move any more, and chews the toe of my shoe.

‘Not good news.’ Doug emerges from beneath the bonnet and scratches his nose, leaving a black streak. ‘There’s a serious oil leak. Head gasket, I think. Plus that battery’s seen better years. All the hoses are shot, and see down there? That’s the manifold. Doesn’t look good to me. I could go on.’

‘Please don’t.’

‘Where were you off to?’ Doug bends down and takes hold of Alfie’s collar. The dog yaps. They walk anticlockwise round me, unwinding, making me giddy.

I’m unsure what to say. With two days off work, I was
going to take a trip, one mile at a time, to see how close I could get. It seems stupid now, reckless and dangerous. I lay a hand on the rusty wing of the car, silently thanking it for preventing me setting out. I doubt if I would have even made it further than the end of the drive in this old heap. I’m not thinking straight. ‘Just into town,’ I lie.

Doug glances at his watch. ‘There are only two buses a day from Roecliffe. If you walk briskly to the village, you’ll make the second one.’ The dog stands up against my legs, reaching my knees. Doug pulls gently on the lead and walks off. ‘Hurry now,’ he says without glancing back.

I head down the long drive, each footfall tentative. I stop and turn, looking back at the building’s façade, seeing a pale face at the window, just to the right of the huge front door – a pupil perhaps, watching me leave. I break into a run until I reach the iron gates. The hairs on my neck stand on end as the metal gates creak open and I step out.

The church spire rises above the deciduous woodland flanking the south side of the gates. A flicker of pale gold whips through the leaves as a breeze heralds my walk. The start of autumn already. It feels odd to be outside school grounds. I am conscious of the risk, aware that I have to keep my head down even though I have changed considerably.

I walk down the single-track lane in the direction of the village church. I jump as a crow flaps out of an oak tree to my left. I watch it fly away towards a building sitting squat in a clearing through the trees. It’s the old chapel, part of the
Roecliffe Hall estate. It’s dark and derelict, crawling with ivy, the windows are boarded-up, and the graveyard is completely overgrown so that none of the headstones are visible. A wire fence surrounds the building. Clumps of sheep’s wool hang on the barbs like forgotten laundry.

I walk quickly on. The journey to the village seems interminable.

I arrive in Roecliffe just in time to see the bus leaving in the opposite direction. A blue-grey trail of diesel exhaust dissipates slowly. ‘Damn,’ I say, although somewhat relieved. Taking a trip to Skipton would have been pointless. It was only so I didn’t have to explain my intentions to Doug. Following my original plans would have ended in disaster one way or another.

There’s a car coming towards me, remarkable only because there aren’t any others visible in the quiet village. I turn my back to the road, not wanting to be seen, but it slows and draws up alongside me. The driver toots the horn and when I reluctantly turn round, I see Adam in the driver’s seat. He leans across and winds down the window.

‘Hello,’ he says awkwardly. He’s peering up at me, his brow crumpled. We haven’t spoken since we stood in Mr Palmer’s office.

I nod a greeting. Nervously, I cast a glance around the street. I suddenly feel very vulnerable. What was I thinking by leaving the school? A woman and two young children step out of the post office.

‘Out for a walk?’

‘Not exactly.’ I bend down to the window so I don’t have to speak too loudly. ‘I missed the bus into town.’

‘Skipton? I’ve just been there.’ He pats a pile of library books on the passenger seat. ‘I’d have given you a lift if I’d known.’

‘Spur of the moment thing,’ I lie, shrugging.

‘Do you want a lift back to school?’ Adam shifts the stack of books, tossing them one by one on to the already cluttered rear seat, avoiding his laptop. His car will be safer than being exposed like this. He holds a copy of a non-fiction book that has ‘murder’ in its title.

‘Thanks,’ I say, nodding. I don’t want to be rude. I open the stiff door and get in.

‘Hey, you got your car from the same dealer as me.’ I buckle the seat belt.

He laughs.The book he’s holding lands on my knee. ‘
The Ritual of Murder
,’ I say. It looks quite dated, perhaps from the eighties. ‘Bit of light reading?’ I comment. When he doesn’t reply, I shove one hand under my legs and cross my fingers, praying that he doesn’t bring up the business between him and Katy Fenwick.

Adam nods briefly and drives off. He quickly works through the gears. But before we make it back to the school entrance, he slows down to second gear again and turns his face to me several times in quick succession. He wants to say something but doesn’t know how to start. A rabbit darts from the hedge, stopping and starting, crazed with fear, making Adam halt completely while the creature makes up its mind. It gives him the chance he needed.

‘Did you think about the . . . incident?’ he asks.

‘Yes, yes,’ I say immediately. I don’t want to be drawn into this – police, lawyers, perhaps court – but how can I not tell anyone about what I saw?

‘And?’ Adam’s fingers drum on the wheel. I’m not sure if he’s impatient because the rabbit just sits in the road, its nose twitching at the stench of exhaust fumes, or because I’m hesitating. Adam doesn’t want to lose his job.

‘And . . .’ I trail off. The rabbit scampers off into the hedge. Adam moves the car forward again. We pass the school gates and I’m about to tell him we’ve missed the turn, but he pulls into a gateway a little further down the lane. He turns off the engine and suddenly all I can hear are crows. They sound as if they’re inside my head, not the fields around us.

‘I can wait,’ he says solemnly. He pulls a small tin from a crammed glove compartment. Sweet wrappers, scrunched papers, old tissues flutter out. Inside the tin are a pouch of tobacco and some Rizla papers. He rests his right elbow on the open window and begins to roll a cigarette. It takes him an age just to get the strands of tobacco in a line. Then a breeze blows them out of place, some falling on to his jeans. Patiently, he picks them up and lays them on the paper again, waiting for me to speak.

‘I don’t really know Katy very well,’ I say. ‘I think she’s a bit troubled.’ That’s an understatement, I think. ‘At the first PSHE session I did with that year group, she claimed she was being bullied.’

Adam snorts. A shower of tobacco rains on his jeans
again. Piece by piece, he collects it up. I watch as finally he rolls the cigarette, holding it deftly between slim fingers. He licks the paper and sticks it in place. Finally, he holds it close to his mouth, between bent knuckles. ‘Bullied,’ he says. He breathes in the scent of the tobacco. Then he shakes his head slowly, an incredulous gesture that needs no explaining.