Authors: James Dawson
‘Oh bother.’ Price stood and emerged from behind her desk to tidy the mess. ‘That’s what you get for piling things in willy-nilly.’
Bobbie crossed the office and crouched to help her. Wow, teachers really did have to do a lot of paperwork, Bobbie thought as she scooped up the records. God knew what they were – copies of school reports from the look of it.
‘That’s okay, Bobbie – leave it to me, please. These things will need to be refiled in the correct … ’ Her voice trailed off and it took Bobbie a second to understand why. Absentmindedly, she’d rolled up her sleeves to lend a hand, revealing the scars. Oh crap. ‘Bobbie, what have you done to your arms?’
‘Nothing!’ Bobbie squeaked, knowing exactly what it must look like.
‘Have you been hurting yourself?’
‘No! God no! I swear it’s not that. I promise.’
‘Then what exactly is it?’
Bobbie scrambled for a decent-sounding excuse. The wheel of lies landed on only terrible ones that she’d have to try to make sound convincing. ‘A kitten.’ In that instant she knew she couldn’t tell her the truth. She’d be made to see a doctor or something and they had precious little time to begin with – she wasn’t going to waste her potential last day on earth having a psychological assessment.
‘A kitten?’ Dr Price straightened herself up and closed the cupboard.
‘Yeah. There’s this boy. He’s called Caine. He lives in Oxsley. I’ve been seeing him at the weekends and he just got this new kitten. She’s really cute, but she scratches without mercy!’ Bobbie tried for a jocular smile.
Gosh, I’m so QUIRKY!
Dr Price looked at her as if she were
insane
. The ghost version might have elicited a better response. ‘Roberta. Self-harm is very serious. I take well-being –’
‘I know. I promise it’s not that. I wouldn’t.’
Not even remotely satisfied-looking, Price returned to her desk. ‘Bobbie, I’m going to be watching you like a hawk. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
Another shrewd, piercing glare. ‘And you’re quite sure there’s nothing you’d like to share?’
‘No, Miss.’
‘Good. You’d better get to supper while they’re still serving.’
‘Yes, Miss.’ As Bobbie scurried out of the office, she chanced a look back. Mary was nowhere to be seen in the mirror.
Pinning the cuffs of her jumper under her fingers, Bobbie made her way towards the dining hall, her stomach clenched to the size of a pea. There was no way she’d be able to eat, even though it was rhubarb crumble and custard night, her favourite. Having Price breathing down her neck was going to make the next two days even harder. If only she knew what tomorrow had in store.
Most girls were finishing up now and drifting back to the houses in clumps of two or three. Bobbie didn’t see Grace until it was too late. ‘Oh hi, Bobbie, can I have a word?’ The blonde was seemingly covered head to toe in men’s names – Jack Wills, Tommy Hilfiger and Abercrombie & Fitch.
Bobbie was instantly on edge. This was the first time in memory Grace had called her by name and not Blobbie. ‘Yeah, sure.’ Bobbie poked her glasses up her nose and subtly looked around to ensure they had witnesses. They didn’t. The corridor outside the dining hall was empty – with only clanging trays and plates echoing through the hall.
Grace fixed her in a flawless liquid-liner gaze and said in a low, solemn voice, ‘Look. I know you were off grounds today. Elodie Minchin said she saw you on the bus with Caine.’
‘Grace, I can explain –’
‘You really don’t have to,’ Grace replied, voice dripping with golden syrup. ‘I know it’s my responsibility as Head Girl to report these things to Dr Price, but my God, we’re friends. What kind of monster do you think I am?’
It took every ounce of self-control Bobbie had not to laugh, gape or give an honest answer. Since when had they ever,
ever
been friends? ‘It’s not what it looks like.’
Grace smiled, but perhaps her face was physically incapable of warmth. The edges of her lips turned up, but her eyes remained inert. ‘I wanted to talk to you because I was concerned, that’s all.’
‘Concerned?’
‘Yeah. You should know that Caine Truman is a total player.’ Ah.
Here we go
. This was fascinating. The fact that Grace wasn’t merely threatening physical or emotional damage meant that, for the first time, she wasn’t only acknowledging her existence, but also identifying her as competition. This was
enemies closer
territory, but wholly unnecessary given how much further up the food chain Grace was – like a tiger having a quiet word with a tabby.
‘Really?’ Bobbie decided to play along. ‘He seems okay?’
‘Oh, Bobbie, they all seem okay to begin with. That’s how they get what they want.’
‘Right.’
Grace nodded earnestly. Too earnestly. ‘I just don’t want to see you humiliate yourself.’
‘Humiliate myself?’
‘Boys like Caine … He was probably doing it as some sort of bet or something. They see us Piper’s Ladies as trophies to brag about at Radley. Just don’t give him the satisfaction, okay?’ It was hardly a question, more a command.
Bobbie was near speechless. It was the verbal equivalent of an acid attack. ‘Er … thanks, I guess.’
‘You’re welcome. Us girls have got to stick together, right?’ Grace flashed a shark’s grin. ‘Let’s hug it out.’ She seized her, although Bobbie pointedly left her arms hanging at her sides.
‘I have to get to dinner,’ Bobbie muttered, pulling away. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about.
Price, Grace and the dead girl.
Chapter 17
The whistle of air through Naya’s nostrils coming from the next bed was enough to eventually lure Bobbie into a thin sleep. This time, she was almost hoping for a dream, searching for another clue from Mary’s past. But tonight, there came only fragments, parts of a patchwork quilt come undone.
In the first, she was in a cold hall – the little theatre. She recognised it by its fusty odour and same folded velvet curtains hanging in front of the stage. It was empty and all the lights were out. Bobbie sat at a worn upright piano like the one they still used for choir practice – they only ever wheeled out the grand when there were parents in the audience. Her fingers hovered over the keys, unsure. She became aware that she wasn’t alone. His scent hit her before she saw him – clean and soapy with just a suggestion of oak cologne. It was both masculine and intoxicating – exactly as she remembered from their first meeting in the library. The handsome teacher. He leaned on the end of the piano, watching her play. ‘You play beautifully,’ he told her. ‘But let me show you.’
Bobbie started to rise from the piano stool. ‘No, stay where you are. Watch my hands.’ He nudged her along the stool so that they could share it. His thigh pressed against hers, his shoulder to her shoulder. He was so warm, she was sure she must feel like a block of ice next to him. He played the chords expertly, his fingers moving like water over the keys. ‘Now you try.’
She tried to copy him, but her fingers felt as knotted and hefty as a string of sausages. The notes she made sounded pained next to his. ‘Like this.’ He took hold of her hand and manipulated her fingers, positioning them in the correct formation. ‘See?’
She did see. This time, the keys worked together in harmony. As his hand left hers, it rested on her knee. She did nothing to shake it off. The contact was exquisite and she didn’t want to lose it for a second. She felt her cheeks burn and a matching prickly heat in her breast, like there was a volcano erupting at her core.
Some other things happened, although they were too ephemeral for Bobbie to capture – snippets of colours and sounds. The next thing she clearly saw was a frozen playground. Icicles hung from the shelter surrounding the courtyard and tracks had been shovelled through orange grit-stained snow. Pathetic talcum-powder flakes swirled, somehow defying gravity, as girls darted to and fro, throwing snowballs or rolling boulders. Bobbie barely noticed them.
On the other side of the playground, nursing a steaming mug of tea in his gloved fingers, was her teacher. As he blew on his drink, his eyes never left her. She sat alone, as always, on the bench, swaddled in her winter coat. In the eye of a storm, they saw only each other.
Their little secret.
She had never felt so special.
Bobbie felt the fragments of images blow away like smoke. She awoke with a start, aware of a body next to hers. Her mattress springs moved and creaked as Naya sidled into bed alongside her, apparently spooked from her own dreams. ‘Naya, are you okay?’ Bobbie croaked, clearing her throat.
There was a murmur from the bed opposite. Even in the grey murk of the room, Bobbie saw Naya roll to face away from her.
So who’s in my bed?
Bobbie shrank back, her knees jolting to her chest. She pinned her body into the corner where the wall met her bedstead. Her eyes wide open and wide awake, she dared to sit up and take a look. There was someone under the duvet – a slight, human form, its head making a tent of the quilt. ‘Naya!’ Bobbie cried, but the word caught at the back of her throat. She clutched her knees to her chest, not wanting the exposed skin of her legs to touch the intruder. ‘Naya!’ she repeated, but her friend only muttered, not stirring.
The figure was now still, squatting under the duvet halfway down the bed. Bobbie’s mouth hung open uselessly, her eyes sore. A tear rolled down her face but she couldn’t move; the fear gripped her like a vice. She was paralysed.
For some reason, God only knew why, she was reminded of a time when she’d been living near Sydney while her mum was in a soap opera out there. Late one night she’d heard a rustling noise in her bedroom. Initially, she’d been excited at the thought of a cute mouse or possum, but she’d opened her eyes to see a mammoth, hairy spider scurrying across her pillow. This was the same fear. Even when each synapse in her brain was telling her to run, every last muscle turned to stone.
The hunched figure, whom Bobbie could only assume was Mary, was equally still. They mirrored each other at opposite ends of the bed, heads at the same level. Even through the duvet, Bobbie was certain Mary was watching her. ‘Naya … ’ Bobbie tried one last time, but knew she wouldn’t wake her room-mate.
Mary still didn’t budge. From under the duvet, Bobbie heard a hoarse, sickly rasping. ‘M-Mary?’ Bobbie breathed. ‘Is that you?’ It was a dim question, but it was the best she could do. As she reached for the bedside lamp, the shape lurched forward – only an inch but enough for Bobbie to squeal and grind her spine even harder into the bed frame. ‘Why are you doing this?’ Another tear ran down her cheek. ‘I’m … I’m trying to help you … ’
The figure was statue-still, although the duvet rose and fell with the dead girl’s breaths. Just like with the spider, Bobbie tried to rationalise that this thing in her bed couldn’t hurt her, but one look at the scars on her arms said otherwise. Regardless, she had to face her, get a proper look at the girl who was haunting her. ‘Tell me, Mary. Tell me what I’m supposed to do … ’ Her head felt hollow and dizzy, and her hand trembled, but she reached for the quilt. It was time. Tears flowed to her lips and she tasted their saltiness.
It was some kind of reflex, but as she took the edge of the duvet, she emitted a scream, like all the adrenaline took physical form in her throat. In one swift matador flick, she whipped the cover off. Like a hoary stage magician’s act, the solid form under the sheet evaporated into thin air. There was nothing, and no one, under the blanket.
No, that wasn’t right. Even in the darkness, and even without her glasses, Bobbie saw a shape at the bottom of the tangled bed sheets. Naya
now
awoke, snuffling to life. Bobbie wondered if Mary had somehow kept her unconscious. Twisting in bed, Bobbie clicked the lamp on and reached for her glasses. ‘What’s up?’ Naya groaned.
‘She was here.’
‘What?’
‘In my bed.’
Naya sat bolt upright. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘Do I look like I’m kidding?’ Bobbie wiped the tears from her face and gingerly took the corner of the item at the foot of her bed. In the light, she could see it was a book of some sort, with a plain London-bus-red cover.
‘What’s that?’
‘I … I think she left it for me.’ Bobbie pulled it out of the sheets by its corner. It was an exercise book, totally different from the ones they used though. It looked old, antique almost; the pages had that tea-stained effect, only in this case no tea was required. Bobbie assumed it was Mary’s book and flicked it open. The handwriting was an immaculate cursive script, somehow girlier than Bobbie was expecting. It looked to be some sort of jotter or notebook – filled with doodles and ‘love calculator’ equations. Nearly all of them were testing boys’ compatibility with Mary Worthington. Bobbie turned the page to see a particularly cruel (not to mention
crude
, given the nature of the illustration) drawing of a girl who could only be Mary – why would she draw mean self-portraits? It was only then Bobbie thought to check the name on the front.
It belonged to one Judy Frier. Judy? That was familiar. It took Bobbie a second to think where she’d heard the name before – the dream in the girls’ toilet. Judy Frier was one of Mary’s tormentors.
Chapter 18
Bobbie set her alarm extra-early the next morning, not that she really slept after her night-time encounter. Her eyelids felt gluey when the alarm went off at six, but she forced herself up, ignoring the seasick feeling in her tummy.
The first thing she did was access the Piper’s Hall alumni pages on her phone, a painstaking task given the meagre phone reception so near the cliffs. By half hanging out of the window, she attracted sufficient signal to load the website and search for Judy Frier. This answered two questions. One: Judy had been a pupil from 1949 to 1955. That at least narrowed down Mary’s time at the school. Two: Judy had never left Oxsley. Her page proudly announced she was ‘born and bred’ and, until she retired, had been the Head of a local primary school.
For whatever reason, Mary was pointing the way to this woman. It wasn’t a lot, but it was something. With a day left, Bobbie wasn’t going to look any gift clue in the mouth.
The second thing she did was Google ‘phantom objects’. By this point, Naya was awake and doing sit-ups on the dorm floor, noisily puffing and panting. ‘You’re insane,’ Bobbie reminded her.
‘I have put on like three pounds!’ Naya complained. ‘I want my washboard abs back!’
Bobbie tutted. After scrolling past a load of paranormal forum trash, she clicked on a wiki labelled ‘Apport’. Turned out, this was a ‘thing’ – at least to parapsychologists. According to the page, an apport was the ‘paranormal transference of an object from one place to another or from an unknown source’. The phenomenon was related to poltergeist activity. No kidding. There were also a few YouTube videos of infrared cameras recording such ghostly activity: cups sliding across counters; drawers sliding open of their own accord; toys mysteriously stacking themselves into neat piles.
Shaking off a fresh wave of heebie-jeebies, she turned to Naya. ‘Nay, have you been having weird dreams?’
‘No, Ma’am.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure. I’m off for a jog. Coming?’
‘Are you kidding?’
‘If a terrifying mirror ghost comes for me, I wanna be able to outrun her!’ She grabbed a water bottle and swished out of the dorm.
The final thing Bobbie did was text Caine. Whether Dr Price was watching her like a hawk or not, she’d rather be expelled than dead. They’d have to use the same trick as yesterday and hope for the best. To Bobbie’s surprise (and also delight), Caine texted back almost right away, something Naya had led her to believe (a) almost never happened and (b) meant that a guy kind of liked you.
‘Sure. I got car today. More weird dreams?’ he replied.
‘Worse. Had a visit. Got a new clue.’ She debated putting an X but noted he hadn’t so she left it professional. The strict business of ghost hunting.
‘Cool. Same time n place,’ came his response. Still no kiss. Which was fine. JUST FINE. Bobbie threw her phone onto the bed and went to shower before the early-morning rush began.
With Exeat starting early, the school would be manic today: most girls leaving as soon as lessons finished and some getting collected even earlier. Not surprisingly, once news of Sadie’s disappearance had become common knowledge, a number of parents couldn’t get their kids out fast enough: a few girls had gone home last night. In all the chaos, Bobbie hoped sneaking out and in again might be easier today.
She locked herself in the shower room and peeled off her robe. Not even caring if Mary was in the mirror (although she
couldn’t
see her), Bobbie examined the phantom scratches. She grimaced. They had spread. The wounds now covered her collar bone, ribs and thighs. She was covered in sore little lines. It made no sense. All she could think was that Mary
had
cut herself – it wasn’t too uncommon amongst the current pupils, with some hardly bothering to hide the scars at all. Bobbie didn’t understand, but certainly didn’t judge. But in those cases, the girls seemed to cut their arms or legs and there was usually some order to it, even neatness. These marks seemed utterly random – all different sizes and locations. There was a madness to it, an insanity.
One thing seemed pretty clear to Bobbie. This was why Bloody Mary was bloody.
After she’d showered (and discovered that no amount of soap removes ghostly wounds), Bobbie changed into jeans and a flea-market woolly jumper, and slipped out of Piper’s Hall with ease, blending in with a small group of girls being collected early for Exeat. With other girls out of uniform it was about a million times easier than it had been yesterday.
The process was aided by the freezing-cold mist that invaded from the sea. It rolled across the front lawns and driveway as thick as dry ice, straight out of Jack the Ripperville. Bobbie could barely see a metre in front of her and had a sudden fear of the cliff edge creeping up on her unawares.
Caine was parked in the same spot as yesterday, next to the leaning signpost pointing to the school on one arrow, Oxsley in the opposite direction and the coastal path in the other. This time the car was a true Barbie-mobile – a pearl-colour soft-top VW Beetle. This
had
to be Caine’s mum’s car. Sure enough, as she stumbled into the passenger seat, she noticed a load of cuddly toys lined up in front of the rear windscreen and cushions on the back seat. ‘Nice ride,’ she smirked.
‘Do you like my Beanie Babies?’ Caine grinned back. Bobbie laughed and he immediately looked wounded. ‘I’m not kidding. They really are mine. I collect ’em.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry, I –’
‘I’m totally kidding, you muppet.’
Bobbie breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Just drive, foolish young man.’
They drove deep into grey, murky countryside, taking the bends with excruciating precision as the fog refused to lift. The headlights failed to cut through it, and the trees lining the twisting roads were becoming more and more bony as they gave up the last dead leaves they clung to.
Squirming in her seat as she did so, Bobbie relayed the events of last night to Caine, who, to his credit, accepted everything she said without question. ‘Man, that’s messed up. In your bed?’
‘Yep. I may never sleep again. The closer we get, the worse it’s becoming.’
Caine took his eyes off the road for a second to look at her and they were full of concern. ‘You’re getting it worse than the rest of us.’
That hadn’t really occurred to her until that moment. ‘Yeah, I guess so. Haven’t you seen anything else?’
Caine shifted uncomfortably. ‘There is one thing … ’
‘Go on.’
‘Take a look at my phone.’ It rested on the dashboard, so Bobbie picked it up and swiped the touchscreen open. ‘Look at the pics.’
Bobbie raised an eyebrow. ‘Do I want to be doing this?’ God only knew what sort of gallery a seventeen-year-old boy’s phone contained.
‘It’s safe. Kinda.’ Bobbie did as instructed. The photo gallery started, as ever, at the most recent images.
They were all of Caine. Of Caine sleeping peacefully, face down in his pillow.
‘Who took these?’
A pause. ‘Who do you think?’
‘Oh God.’ Bobbie gulped. ‘It’s like … it’s like she
wants
you or something.’ Bobbie recalled how much Mary had wanted the teacher, how all-consuming it had been, and couldn’t help but wonder what that meant for Caine. It was like the dead girl was fixated on them, never letting either of them out of her sights. Spirit stalker, much? With each passing day, Mary’s power seemed to increase – becoming more intrusive, more
impossible
, as they counted down to the fifth day. By tomorrow, who knew how powerful she’d be. What she’d do to them.
Caine went on. ‘And I’m still dreaming. It’s like they’re getting louder in my head, you know what I mean?’
Bobbie nodded. ‘Yeah. What happens in yours?’
More shifting. Definitely uncomfortable. ‘They’re pretty X-rated, man. I can’t tell you … ’
‘Because I’m a girl? I’m not a nun, Caine.’
He blushed. ‘It’s not that, they’re just pretty hot and heavy. It’s not … it’s not what I’m like. My mum taught me how to treat women right.’
Bobbie didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t believed a word of Grace’s mark-my-territory warning, but she sort of
had
assumed that Caine was a ‘lad’s lad’ – a polite word for ‘slut’ that girls don’t get the benefit of. It was an absolute given that he’d have more
experience
than her. ‘Caine. I need to know what you’ve seen. It might help. Somehow.’
‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘Well, I’m not me, that’s for sure – for one thing I’m white. I’m with a girl, although I can’t see her face. It’s like I’m in the dark and I get these flashes of images. I can see trees, and the moon sort of coming through them. Pale skin – like a girl’s back or her tummy or neck. It’s cold, but I’m hot and sweaty, like it’s running down my back. I’m … um … definitely naked and so is she and we’re … you know. The weirdest thing is, we’re on a stone thing. I think it’s the graveyard.’
‘Our graveyard?’ She wasn’t sure when it had become
theirs
, but the words left her mouth before she could halt them.
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘Graveyard sex. Dignified and not-at-all creepy.’
Caine grinned. ‘Ha! You just said sex!’
‘Child!’ She playfully punched his bicep. ‘My dreams are edging out of PG territory too.’
‘For real?’
‘No, er … sweatiness, but in the dream, I’m Mary. I’m … she’s in love with a member of staff. A teacher, I guess.’
‘Ew, skanky.’
Bobbie allowed herself a small smile. ‘I know. At first I thought it was pretty hot, but now I’m not so sure. I mean, he was so much older than her. It freaked me out a little – he was totally taking advantage of her.’
‘What a perv.’
She sighed. ‘It’s not like he’s a dirty old man. From Mary’s point of view, it didn’t feel
wrong
. Right or wrong aside, it was what Mary wanted. She was into it in a major way.’
‘Wow. Pretty kinky.’ He smiled back and said no more. Bobbie became aware of a now familiar heat inside. Suddenly there seemed to be less air in the car; in fact the whole vehicle felt smaller and Bobbie was very aware of their proximity. She really wanted to touch Caine, put a hand on his thigh the way the teacher had touched her in the dream. She resisted the urge. Caine finally spoke, changing the subject and clearing the hot haze from the air. ‘According to your directions, we should be there.’
Bobbie squinted through the fog. High hedgerows towered over them on both sides, closing in around them. The car shot past a narrow opening in the hedge through which Bobbie caught a glimpse of a cottage. ‘Stop!’ she urged. ‘I think we just went past it.’
‘Oh. Okay. I need to find somewhere to park.’ The nearest layby was about two minutes down the lane. Caine parked up and they walked the rest of the way back towards the cottage. Judy, it seemed, lived in the middle of nowhere – a remote thatched cottage on the periphery of a clump of trees. Somewhere close by a fast-flowing stream sounded like applause. It was so peaceful out here.
Bobbie pushed through a creaking wooden gate and followed the uneven flagstone path to the front door. The picturesque cottage, cute as it was, was somehow foreboding, reminding Bobbie of the gingerbread house. With a last wary look at Caine, she tapped the lion’s-head knocker. After a minute and no response, she tried again. ‘Oh God, she
has
to be in,’ Bobbie moaned, a new sense of hopelessness washing over her.
‘Can I help you?’ said a voice from behind them. Both she and Caine sprang back in cartoon surprise.
‘You scared me,’ Bobbie said, hand to her chest.
An elderly woman had come around the side of the cottage. Her white cotton-wool hair was swept up into a bird’s nest atop her head and she wore a wax jacket, with pink fleece-lined slippers on her feet. In her hand she held a bucket of chicken feed. ‘Is this a penny-for-the-guy thing? There’s a sign on the letter box that says I don’t want nuisance calls. Or menus for that matter – I don’t care for pizza
or
curry thank you very much.’
Bobbie pulled herself back together, remembering her finest Piper’s Hall manners. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but are you Judy Frier?’
Shrewd grey-blue eyes narrowed behind glasses even thicker than her own. ‘I haven’t been Frier for forty-five years. I’m Judy Ledger. Who’s asking?’
‘Hi. I’m Bobbie and this is Caine. I’m from Piper’s Hall.’
The old woman smiled. ‘Crikey, are they delivering the newsletter by hand now? I didn’t realise it was required reading.’
Bobbie smiled – Judy took the ‘Piper’s Legacy’ about as seriously as she did then. ‘I … we need to talk to you about something that happened a long time ago. It’s about Mary Worthington.’
At the mere mention of the name, the colour drained from Judy’s cheeks. She looked to the path underneath her feet. ‘Goodness me, it’s a long time since I heard that name. You’d better come inside.’
Through the patio doors, Bobbie could see the gaggle of chickens picking grain from the cracks in the paving. They sat at a simple wooden table in the centre of a slate floor, with low-beamed ceilings creating a dark yet cosy cottage feel. There was fresh bread in the oven as Judy carried over the teapot.
‘So are you related to Mary or something? Is she your grandmother?’
‘God no,’ Caine blurted out, helping himself to a third Hobnob.
‘I thought not.’ Judy joined them at the table. ‘I admit, I never thought I’d hear that name again – such a long time ago. So long ago it doesn’t quite feel real – like that entire period was a story someone once told me.’
Judy poured tea into Bobbie’s cup. Bobbie said, ‘I know this must sound really weird, but we need to know anything at all you can tell us about Mary.’
Pouring a cup for herself, Judy said: ‘It’s more than sixty years ago, my dear. Ooh, this tea’s a bit anaemic.’
‘I know … but anything might be helpful.’
The old woman regarded her over the top of the china cup. ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’
Bobbie’s stomach flipped, but she knew she couldn’t tell her the truth – they’d be out on their ears in seconds. ‘What makes you think that?’
Judy pursed her thin, lined mouth and took a sip of tea as if readying herself for confession. ‘When I was a teacher, there were always the good kids and the rogues. That’s just children for you, isn’t it? But every once in a blue moon, there was a little boy or girl who was that bit different. Something dark in their eyes – they’d look right through you and it’d chill you to the bone. They simply lacked
kindness
. Sometimes even their own mothers were wary of them. Mary was one such girl. There was something
not quite right
about her, you know? From the first time you saw her, it was quite apparent.’