by Zoe Lea
‘You all right, mate?’ Glen shouted. ‘You need help with something?’
It was every horror movie I’d ever watched: a lone dark lane, an unknown threatening presence. A car that a moment ago had just been another traveller and was now menacing. Glen was approaching them with his arms still raised.
‘You OK in there?’ I could hear him shout.
‘Glen!’ I opened my door and watched as he approached the stationary vehicle. The glare from its full beams blinding us. He took a few steps before the car suddenly jerked into action and roared forward. It came at us at great speed, and I screamed as Glen dived out of the way and it flew past.
‘Glen? Glen?’ I shouted. He stood up, looked after the car and then back at me.
We were both quiet, shocked into silence.
‘Idiot,’ he said after a moment.
‘Are you OK? Did they hit you?’
‘Fine, fine.’ He got back into the van and motioned for me to do the same. ‘Probably kids. Wish I’d got their number plate, I’d get straight on to the police.’ He looked at me. ‘And if I didn’t have you in the van, I’d be speeding after them right now.’
I stared at him.
‘Hey –’ he leaned over, put his hand on mine ‘– it was just kids. Just being daft, playing silly buggers. You OK?’
I nodded. I was shaking, my heart thrumming. He switched on the engine and we started to drive along the lane again. It was only when we’d been on the road for a while that I realised I recognised the car. As it had sped away I saw it was a red Fiat. The same red Fiat that had been on my street.
TWENTY-NINE
Parents’ evening, by most, is thought of as a waste of time. A few years ago, a toy company did a survey and the results hit the national news. The headlines surmised that most people they spoke to thought parents’ evening was confusing. They felt too little time was given and too little information. More than half said they were unable to make parents’ evening due to work commitments, and on the whole it was felt that an email update about their child’s progress would be better than having to come into school and talk to their child’s teacher. I couldn’t agree more. Ten minutes wasn’t anywhere near long enough. A weekly update would be much more effective, but the survey had no impact on our parents’ evening, or in the way it was undertaken.
The autumn term parents’ evening was going ahead as it always did, and as I compiled the letters needed for each class, I wondered how many of them would go straight in the bin. How many would be left in the child’s bag, reply slip unanswered. How many parents actually cared?
I’d been to every one of Sam’s parents’ evenings, I’d written down questions for the teacher before I met with them. Made sure I asked about his progress, his targets, made notes when they’d answered. I’d taken home extra homework, I’d ordered books that complemented the curriculum; in short, I’d done everything that every teacher recommended. And where was Will on all of these parents’ evenings? Where had he been when I’d asked for extra time, when the teacher told me I had to go, other parents were waiting? Would social services take that into consideration?
Last night, when I’d arrived home, I sent a message to Eve. It was the first time I’d contacted her since we met in the coffee shop, since she’d given me the newspaper article.
Hi, Eve. Do you know if Rob Walker has a red Fiat? R
She hadn’t replied. I couldn’t blame her, she was done with them. She’d got rid of Janine and Rob and now they were my problem. I think she expected me to use the newspaper clipping immediately, probably disappointed that I hadn’t done anything. Looking at it now, I can see that by giving that information to me, she was issuing a revenge of her own, but using me as a pawn. Someone to deliver the blow that she couldn’t. Everyone has their own agenda.
The residential began the following weekend and I had a stack of work to do for it. Two letters to compile with regards to a packing list and emergency contact, the accommodation and travel to confirm, the insurance policy to double check. There was also a coffee morning to arrange, recycling changes to organise with the council and the flu immunisation programme to finalise for the younger children. My day was busy, barely enough time to complete what I had to, but instead of doing any of that I used the computer to Google Rob Walker. Rob Walker and a red Fiat.
After fifteen minutes, it was clear that Rob Walker was a common name. That the Rob Walker I was looking for had no Facebook page, no LinkedIn, Instagram or Twitter account. It became clear that the only thing I did know about Janine’s husband, about the man who I had slept with, was the information I had on the school database. I knew his home, his mobile number. I knew he had a white Land Rover from what I saw that fateful morning, but perhaps he was driving Janine’s car. Perhaps Janine’s car was a red Fiat? Because, I thought as I sipped coffee and searched the internet, who else could it be? By mid-morning, I had got no further and sent another message to Eve.
Does Rob know about newspaper article?
When there was still no reply after an hour, I wondered what I expected Eve to say. It was like I was waiting for her permission, but the fact was she’d handed the newspaper cutting to me. It was up to me what I did with it. Taking it out of the hiding place in my bag, I looked at it once more. It was a simple report, a quarter page, just outlining the facts. I took a picture of it, and then, as my last message to him had been so effective, sent him another.
Stop following me. Stop sending texts. Stop sending parcels. Stop it all, or this goes to the police and everyone will know that Top Marks is employing paedophiles.
Paedophile was a strong word, the boy in question was nearly sixteen, but in the eyes of the law he was still a child, so paedophile it was.
Once I’d pressed send, I had a moment of regret before a giddy feeling came over me. The thought of him getting the message, of him showing it to Janine.
‘She sent that?’ I could imagine her asking, her face going pale. ‘She knows about that? We’re ruined.’
‘Not yet,’ I felt like answering her, ‘but watch what you do next.’ I had a loaded gun. And now both Janine and Rob knew I was pointing it straight at them.
‘What’s that then?’
I’d been sloppy, Becca was in the room before I had a chance to put my phone down.
‘We’re still waiting for the parents’ evening and flu immunisation forms. Did you get the dates sorted? I was going to send Tina down, but thought I’d leave the class with her and visit you myself, so what’s this?’
Becca had the paper in her hands. I’d fumbled for it, dropped my phone as she wandered in and came straight over to my desk. Chatting banally as she picked up my loaded gun and read it over with a confused expression.
‘This is three years old.’ She looked up. ‘What’s going on? Is this something to do with the school? Does John know something … ?’
I snatched the paper from her just as my phone alerted me to a text message. He’d answered.
Have no idea what you’re talking about. Please stay away from me. Any more texts and I will go to the police.
‘Liar.’
‘Who’s a liar?’
I looked up, I hadn’t realised I’d spoken out loud. She walked forward, was looking at my desk.
‘Ruth, what’s going on? Have you even done the letters?’
I shook my head. ‘I’ll do them at lunch, you’ll have them before the end of the day.’
‘We need them now, to put in the book bags before home time. Ruth?’
I felt a tingle of panic creep up my spine. She was right. It was almost lunchtime; the teaching assistants would need the paperwork at the start of the afternoon in order to get them all handed out. I’d let the entire morning slip away from me without doing any of my work.
‘I … ’
But I had no way to explain, I was useless at lying.
‘You haven’t done them?’
I shook my head, just as there was a rap at the door. It was Teresa, y
ear one teaching assistant.
‘Just came in for the forms,’ she said, and put her hand out. I stared at it. ‘Parents’ evening and the flu—’
‘Computer’s been playing up,’ Becca cut in quickly. ‘Ruth’s been trying to fix it all morning, there’s no letters. They won’t be going out today.’
Teresa’s brow crinkled. ‘But if we don’t send them home today, then we can’t … ’
‘It’s only a couple of bloody letters, Teresa,’ Becca said, ‘it won’t matter if they go next week. Do us a favour and go put a notice up on the board in the staffroom? So Ruth isn’t bombarded by a string of TAs this afternoon.’
Teresa took a moment then left.
‘Bit harsh,’ I said, and Becca raised her eyebrows.
‘What was the alternative? Tell her you’ve not been doing your job all morning because of –’ she looked to my phone ‘– what? What have you been doing?’
I gave a sigh, shook my head and then my phone vibrated in my hand. Another alert. Another message. It was from Eve.
Rob has left Janine.
‘Shit,’ I said and Becca took my phone from me.
She looked up. ‘Who’s this from?’ she asked. ‘And why are they telling you that Rob has left Janine? What’ve you been doing?’
After a moment’s hesitation, I told her. I told her it all. It didn’t take long; a few sentences. What I’d done, what I was about to do.
‘But it’s working,’ I said, as her face began to register disapproval. ‘Becca, it’s working. I wouldn’t have done any of it if I didn’t have to, but Will is trying to take Sam away from me. I can’t have this going on, not now. The graffiti on my car, the texts, the packages? I didn’t start any of it. And Sam is having a better time at school, Janine is losing her business—’
‘But the animal rights forum, Ruth? That’s messed up.’
‘But it’s working!’ I pleaded. ‘I’ve not had any more letters from Ashley; for all I know she might not be in the office any more. She might have had to take time off because of—’
‘Because of what you did?’
I took a second, then nodded.
‘She might have had to take time away from work, fearing what’ll happen to her, because you put up her home address on an animal rights group site labelling her as something she’s not? Janine might have lost her business because you called up HMRC—’
‘She was spreading rumours about my business!’ I interrupted.
‘The stuff going on in school,’ she began. ‘The person who’s been messing with the board, the rotten food left in the staffroom, the stuff being stolen, it’s not a kid, is it?’
I stayed silent, looked down at my phone.
‘Jesus, Ruth!’ She went to the door, made sure it was closed. ‘If John gets wind of this you’ll lose your job. If Will finds out—’
‘He’s not going to find out,’ I snapped back. ‘And once I’ve sent this –’ I pointed to the newspaper cutting ‘– then Rob will stop following me. Janine’s business will be over. They’ll have no money coming in and that will be the end of it.’
‘The end of what?’ She shook her head. ‘When will it stop, Ruth?’
‘When they stop,’ I snapped back. ‘We were followed last night, by Rob. He might not be with Janine any more, but once her business has closed down he won’t be able to freeload any more. He’ll have to pay child maintenance, especially if she’s not working, and he’ll have to get a job. He won’t be able to—’
‘Listen to yourself!’ Becca cut in. ‘You sound like one of the children from my class. Bloody hell, Ruth, stop, now. No one’s following you, it was probably some kids, just like Glen said. Rob’s just left his wife; do you really think he’s going to be concerned with spying on you?’
‘He blames me for it, blames me for everything, of course it’s him.’
‘But the more you respond … ’ Becca shook her head. ‘It all makes sense now. They know it’s you. Janine, Ashley, Rob. Why do you think you’re getting all these texts and people are slashing your tyres – they know it’s you!’
I thought a moment.
‘It’s obvious, Ruth,’ she said. ‘If I’ve just worked it out, then they have. C’mon, you can’t be that stupid?’
I looked up at her.
‘You have an argument with someone and the next minute there’s been a tip off to HMRC about your business? The angry ex-wife of a client visits your office and the next thing your address is on an animal rights forum?’
I looked away.
‘The HMRC call was anonymous, anyone could’ve done it.’
‘The animal rights post?’
‘I don’t even have a computer.’
‘And Lisa, you think she won’t have told Janine what you told her? That you’ve been in contact with HMRC?’
We were both silent for a moment.
‘You’re lucky the police haven’t been knocking on your door.’
‘They have,’ I told her. ‘Apparently, Ashley has told them I’m harassing her.’
She stared at me, her mouth gawping.
‘But they’re harassing me! That’s what I told the police,’ I explained, ‘and they’re doing it as another way to attack me, don’t you see? They push me so much, they force me to do this stuff then accuse me of it, and Will can say I’m losing it again.’
Becca was staring at me, the shock plain on her face.
‘It’s all a plan,’ I told her. ‘I know you don’t think it is, but it’s the truth.’ I picked up the photocopied newspaper article. ‘This,’ I told her, ‘was given to me by Eve, because they did the same to her. Victimised her. She’s having to move her daughter out of school. That’s what they did to her, and they’re trying to do the same to me, but I won’t. I’m stronger than that.’
‘As a friend,’ she said, ‘I’m telling you to stop. Stop it all now.’
I took a deep breath.
‘Ruth, whatever you’re planning to do, don’t. Stop it all—’
‘Becca,’ I cut in, ‘I understand what you’re saying, and I know you think you’re right, but to be honest, I think you should shut up.’
She blinked rapidly at me.
‘You haven’t got kids,’ I told her. ‘You live alone. Only yourself to look after, and you’ve no idea what it’s like. No idea what it is to love someone so much you’d do anything for them. Sam is my life,’ I said, ‘my life, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him safe and with me.’
The lunch bell rang sharply. Becca needed to be back in her classroom, seeing her children out, doing the numerous things she had to do. She gave a slow nod.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘You think because I’m not a mother, I can’t possibly understand? Is that it?’
I nodded. ‘I’m sorry, but you can’t … ’
She left while I was still talking, the copy of the newspaper cutting in my hand. Becca had left the room to be diplomatic. It wasn’t her son that was in jeopardy. She wasn’t in a fight with a sadistic ex-husband and some deranged women. She had no idea.
I went back to my phone, found the picture I’d taken of the newspaper cutting and attached it to an email from the bogus account I’d made up.
This woman currently works illegally for Top Marks. The private tutoring company presently under investigation with HMRC.
Becca didn’t understand what it was like. She didn’t understand that this was needed. Something huge was needed to stop them. And, so what if they knew it was me? I wanted them to know I was responsible, I wanted them to be afraid of what I’d do next.
‘Bang!’ I hit send.
There were no headlines in the local newspaper when I’d told them about Janine before, but I was pretty sure this would do the trick.
THIRTY
HMP ROSSETFUL PRISON, CHESHIRE
23 AUGUST
I’m surprised more people weren’t killed.
When I remember what you did, what we did, I’m surprised that only one person died.
The saying goes, revenge is sweet. Revenge is a dish best served cold, but those sayings are clichés. Overused phrases that lack original thought. Revenge isn’t sweet, it’s bitter. Revenge isn’t best served cold, it’s best not served at all. Like junk food, the idea of it feels good and the act itself can feel rewarding, but the long-term effects of revenge?
Look at me, locked in here. Look at you, demented out there.
Because I know you will be. Demented. You’ll be distraught, the guilt will be killing you. And I realised this just the other day, when I was having a particularly bad time, I thought about how you’ d be handling it and it was then that I realised. You aren’t handling it, are you? That’s why you stay away.
That’s why you can’t visit, you don’t reply. You’re in your own prison. Your own hell.
I’m sorry to admit that the thought brought me pleasure. Why is it I can only find release in your misery? So I made a decision. I know you won’t reply to this letter. I know you have no intention of replying to any of my letters, but the law says I can send them – if not to you, I can certainly send them to him, and I will.
Only I won’t be asking you to visit me any longer. My letters will not ask for forgiveness or beg you to come. They’ll only serve one purpose, to remind you of what you did.
I will send you one letter a week for the rest of your life.
Is that my revenge? When in ten years, I’m writing out a similar letter as this to you? Perhaps. These letters will be the one permanent. You can count on me for that. And every time you see my writing on the envelope, every time you see your name, you’ll remember.
I’ll be the reminder of your murder. I won’t let you forget, I’ll commit to being trapped in my own cycle of revenge. I’ll keep this wound open and fresh. I’ll do it for you, for us.
