The Killer Inside

by cass green

  I put my plate onto the coffee table a little too hard, so it rattled against the wood and my fork clanged.

  ‘That’s not what I was saying at all,’ I said, aware I was breathing heavily now. ‘I just had a bad day.’

  Look, I complained bitterly like most teachers, but actually, I loved my job and I loved kids. The untrammelled, shiny-eyed joy, the all-consuming misery when your best friend is being a little sod, or you’ve bumped your head, the infectious giggling, the constant miasma of farting.

  I probably didn’t seem all that ambitious to some people. When a couple of Anya’s friends found out that not only had I not gone to Oxbridge, Durham, or Bristol, but I’d done my degree through Open University while working in a Virgin Media call centre, they had looked genuinely baffled about what to say next. It was as though I’d just admitted to having herpes or enjoying taxidermy as a hobby.

  I’d half wanted to tell them that where I came from, not serving time or being dead from a range of unnatural causes was an achievement in itself. But I’d kept quiet, not wanting to frighten the horses too much; sensitive thoroughbreds that they were.

  Anya started out studying medicine at Cambridge, then, after not getting on with the course, moved to Bristol where she took Biology. She worked for a company that specialized in software packages for the NHS and health organizations around the world.

  She earned much more money than me. That was just the way it was.

  She looked at the telly now and I could feel some sort of unnamed worry begin to squirm inside me. It was like she was trying to pick a fight tonight. I thought about her being asked what her bloke did at work and the moment of surprise when she said, ‘Primary school teacher.’ I knew it happened. I’d seen it, right there.

  Turning back to me, she smiled, but there was a distance in her eyes. ‘I just wonder what it would be like sometimes,’ she said, ‘to up and go. Make a fresh start somewhere else, you know?’

  I made a non-committal sound.

  The wine tasted bitter in my mouth now as I finished the glass. It felt like the thing I’ve always dreaded – that she would get sick of me, that I wouldn’t be enough – was prowling outside our door.

  IRENE

  ‘Oh dear, Mrs Copeland, did you burn yourself? Let me get you a cloth!’

  Rowan’s voice seemed to come from far away. Irene blinked hard and stared down at the pale brown stain spreading across the beige material of her trousers. She wasn’t hurt; the tea was lukewarm now. If anything, the unpleasant wetness was helping to ground her. She focused on it until her breathing began to slow down. The act of spilling the tea felt lost to her. This was what scared her most about being old; that she would disappear into a warren of moments just like these and not be able to find her way out again.

  ‘I’m quite alright,’ she said but Rowan was bustling back into the room with a wet sponge and a bunched rosette of kitchen towel. She got closer to her legs than Irene would have liked before she managed to retrieve the items from her. With a stiff ‘Thanks,’ she dabbed at the stain.

  Rowan, sitting opposite, gazed at Irene with her big, damp eyes.

  ‘I’m so sorry if I’ve upset you,’ she said, then, ‘Did you not know?’

  Irene merely managed, ‘Well …’

  It wasn’t the first time she had heard this, no. But Michael himself told her that he had looked into Liam’s … connections and had to accept that there was nothing to find. Irene had been under no illusions that her youngest son had had his share of trouble and mixing with the wrong people. His caution for a minor shoplifting offence when he was still in his teens had caused the most terrible scene between Liam and his father.

  Irene became aware that Rowan was still staring at her. She looked down at the damp cloths in her hand and then placed them carefully on a magazine lying on the table in front of her. She could hear a car revving outside and a clock thunked loudly from the mantelpiece. The perfumed room and the heat were beginning to make her head ache.

  ‘Mrs Copeland,’ said Rowan. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.’

  Irene attempted a stiff smile. She longed to get up and leave. But she needed to know what Michael had got himself into.

  ‘It’s alright, really,’ she said. ‘I know he had theories about this. But he didn’t have anything to go on and the police weren’t really all that interested.’ She sighed and forced herself to meet Rowan’s concerned frown. ‘Do you know what, well, what set this off?’

  Rowan shook her head. One of the snaky masses held back by her scarf fell over her face and she pushed it back.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘He didn’t tell me anything other than he felt that he was finally about to uncover, well, what really happened to Liam.’

  Irene couldn’t help wincing at these words, so easily tossed into the room.

  Then something came to her.

  ‘Rowan,’ she said, ‘do you have a key to his flat?’

  Rowan looked down at her stubby hands, which were knobbly with silver rings, and shook her head again. ‘I’m afraid not,’ she said. ‘We spent a lot of time in here. More comfortable, you know.’ Rowan nodded towards what was presumably a bedroom.

  ‘Right,’ said Irene quickly, in case the other woman elaborated further. Her chest ached with the fruitlessness of her task. She shuffled forward to begin the process of leaving this sagging sofa. ‘I suppose in that case I’d better—’

  ‘Look, Mrs Copeland …’ Rowan was leaning forward again, her hands now clasped between her knees. ‘I hope this won’t seem out of order, but I’m worried too. I’m not sure we really have good reason to go to the police – not yet – but, well, what would you think about me helping you gain access to his room?’

  Irene stared back at the other woman. The oddly formal words – ‘gain access’ – immediately semaphored some kind of underhand means. She thought for a moment. If Michael came back and found them breaking into his room, he might take such grave offence that it could damage their relationship for good. Her heart rate speeded up uncomfortably. But what other option did she have?

  ‘Yes alright,’ she said. ‘What do you intend to do?’

  It took three-quarters of an hour for Rowan’s son to arrive. He was a ratty-faced youth in his twenties, wearing a red and yellow top with the DHL delivery company logo on it. He was unsmiling as he came into the room, dragging deeply on a cigarette, and regarded Irene without much curiosity.

  ‘This is Michael’s mum, Dex,’ said Rowan. ‘She’s worried about him, too, and we think it might be a good idea if we could have a little … peek in his room.’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied the boy. ‘You said.’

  He didn’t look impressed with this plan and Irene wished powerfully that she hadn’t agreed to it. What if he came back at a later date and robbed Michael? It would be all her fault. A panicky feeling was growing inside her, but it felt too late to do anything now. The boy – man, she should say – stubbed out his cigarette in a saucer on the table in the manner of someone used to this space, and said, ‘Come on, then. But there’d better not be no repercussions for me.’

  Rowan put her hand on his upper arm and gave a sugary smile. ‘There won’t be, darling, I promise,’ she said.

  They trooped out of Rowan’s flat and climbed to the next floor. Someone was cooking a curry in the building and it smelled quite appealing, but Irene’s heart was thumping too hard for her to focus. She had never done anything illegal before. Whatever the justifications she might have for being involved in this, there was no doubt it was a criminal offence.

  Rowan and Dex looked around and then Irene nodded assent. Irene expected him to produce some manner of complex device, spiky with lock-picking tools, but he merely produced a long, bent hair pin and got down on his knees, and then began to fiddle and poke about in the hole.

  It seemed like only moments later that he was shoving the door and saying, ‘There you go.’ Was it really that easy? Irene feared she would never be
safe again.

  Rowan pulled him towards her and kissed him on the cheek. He received it without any sign of either pleasure or displeasure and said, ‘Right, I’ve got a job over in Huntingdon and need to get going. You should be able to pull it locked after you’re done.’

  ‘Thank you, sweetie,’ said Rowan, ‘see you Friday?’ She seemed to glow a little around the edges now. What a funny thing to take pride in, Irene thought, that your son knew how to break into other people’s properties. Then the irony of this – her taking a superior stance on sons – curdled in her stomach.

  Dex grunted his goodbye and clattered down the stairs.

  Rowan’s cheeks were pink now. Irene had the uncomfortable feeling that she was enjoying this too much.

  ‘You want to go in first?’ said Rowan.

  Irene nodded and headed into the dimly lit room. A sweet-rotten smell hit the back of her throat and for a dizzying moment she was suffused with primal horror. She forced herself to slap at the wall by the door for a light switch and, as the room filled with a sickly white glow from a single overhead bulb, she saw with a flood of relief that there was no one here. Her son hadn’t been left like some old rubbish, alone. Dead.

  ‘Ugh, smells shitty in here,’ said Rowan, going over to a small kitchen area and lifting the lid on a bin. She pulled out a bin bag. Flies emerged from it in a small cloud. Swearing to herself, she tied a knot in it and then slung it out into the corridor.

  Irene looked around the room. There was an unmade bed with greying sheets swirled on the top, and a cheap, MDF bedside table holding a clock radio and a glass of water with dust on the top. The only other furniture was a small television set on a crate in the corner, and a white wooden wardrobe of the sort a child might have. One of those multi-plug, circular extension devices sat in an awkward place on the floor, and several cables trailed dangerously into it.

  Irene opened the wardrobe and looked at the clothes stuffed in there; polo shorts she recognized and several hanging pairs of the light-coloured chinos her son favoured.

  It looked like such a small life, contained in these grubby walls, and sadness clutched at Irene’s throat. For the first time she was glad that Michael had been liaising with this Rowan woman. It was too much to bear to think about him being alone in this dump, with no comforts at all.

  ‘I can’t see anything that helpful, can you?’ said Rowan now and Irene mumbled a response. ‘He’s obviously taken his laptop with him.’ She paused before continuing. ‘Why don’t you have a mooch about and I’ll tidy up a bit,’ she said, ‘make it nice for when he gets back, eh?’

  Irene, touched by the kindness of this, gave Rowan a small, grateful smile before beginning to look around the room. There were a couple of receipts on the bedside table, next to a scrunched-up tissue.

  Irene picked up the receipts. One was from a café in a place called Casterbourne. Billy Joe’s. Michael had had a tuna sandwich and a coffee in there. Another was from a newsagent with the address of The Old Wall, Casterbourne, for items that came to three pounds seventy-five. The final one was a cash point receipt, showing that he had withdrawn fifty pounds from an ATM.

  ‘What you got there?’ said Rowan, suddenly at her shoulder. Irene could hear her heavy breathing. She showed her the receipts and Rowan took them from her fingers.

  ‘I know where that is,’ she said. ‘It’s in Kent. My friend goes to the Lathebridge book festival sometimes, which isn’t all that far from there. She AirBnBs in Casterbourne because it’s cheaper.’

  ‘Did my son ever mention that place to you?’ said Irene.

  ‘Not that I can remember,’ said Rowan. The other woman had put down the receipts and was now spraying a bleachy cleaner over the kitchen counter with vigour. Irene thought guiltily about her earlier assumption about the woman’s cleanliness. She had been nothing but helpful, even if she had rather unconventional methods.

  ‘If I were you, Mrs Copeland,’ Rowan said, ‘I’d take a trip down to this Casterbourne place, just in case.’ She put her head to one side, eyes brightening. ‘I could come with you,’ she said.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Irene hastily. ‘I might just leave it for a day or two. Maybe Michael has taken a trip, you know, to … clear his head. I’ll hang on a bit.’

  Rowan made a doubtful face, clearly disappointed.

  She had been kind, but Irene had a resolve now, having broken into her son’s room. Whatever he had got himself into, she was going to find him. And something told her she needed to do this alone.

  ELLIOTT

  I slept badly again and had a dull headache the next morning. Anya looked pale. We didn’t say much as we carried out our dance around each other getting ready for work.

  As she was leaving, she came over and kissed me full on the mouth. I reached for her and she leaned into me, resting her head against my chest. Despite my gritty-eyed, throbbing-headed tiredness, I felt more at peace with the world than I had for days. This was what was important, right here. If she wanted to talk about going off travelling, I’d do it, I decided. Being together was what mattered, even if people were putting bricks through the window and frightening the shit out of us. I needed to deal with this situation, because it wasn’t going away.

  I got two strong cups of coffee down me and managed to get into school early enough that the gates were only just opening.

  I made conversation with Barry, our caretaker, who had been at the school about as long as I’d been alive. He was a grizzled old Kentish boy who Zoe and I had long agreed would be our first choice of companion come the zombie apocalypse, such were his impressive array of practical skills. ‘Conversation’ was largely limited to, ‘Getting a bit colder in the mornings,’ and ‘That it is,’ it must be said, but I pretended to take an interest in the work he was doing to a broken section of fence near the gates, so I could keep an eye out for the arrival of Tyler.

  Children were now streaming into the playground, mostly trailing mothers who waved them off or chased after them with forgotten lunchboxes and book bags.

  No sign of Tyler.

  It was an assembly morning, so the children got into their class lines for outside registration. My own class was gradually forming across the playground, a ragtag multi-limbed beast that jostled, wriggled, and yelled.

  I checked my watch. I needed to get over there to register them, but there was no avoiding this conversation. I hadn’t exactly planned what I was going to say. But it was going to basically involve trying not to put my stick any further into the wasps’ nest.

  It was a bright morning with the first autumnal chill. I squinted against the onslaught of the light. My head hurt, my injured hand hurt, and my back hurt. The thought of the day ahead made me want to groan as I darted glances between my class line, which was even less straight than it had been a few minutes ago, and then the gates.

  I gave up after a few more moments, and hurried over with a shout of, ‘Come on, you horrible lot, get in line,’ before the bell went. I registered all the names and, as the classes began to stream inside, I spied the figure of Tyler coming alone towards the gate, looking like he was in no particular rush to get here. Clare had already taken his class inside.

  His nose was running a snail trail down onto his lip and he snorted into the sleeve of his – non-regulation – hoodie as he eyed me with the air of a cat whose tail had just been trodden on.

  ‘Come on, Tyler,’ I said with faux cheerfulness. ‘If you’re quick you won’t be marked late for registration.’ He grunted in a way that boded excellently for his later communication methods as a teenager, and we walked awkwardly into the main entrance together.

  ‘No dad this morning?’ I said, before I could stop myself.

  Tyler shot me a glowering look and mumbled something indecipherable.

  ‘What’s that, buddy?’ I said as we reached the assembly hall together. I stopped and he did too. I had to lean down to hear what he said.

  ‘He was too tired,’ said Tyler. ‘Maggie dropped
me on the corner.’

  Was he, now …

  My heart kicked a little in my chest. I had no idea who Maggie was but that was not the important thing here.

  ‘Been having late nights, eh?’ I said as casually as I could muster. I had a strong desire – worryingly strong – to grab the boy by the shoulder and question him about what time his father had come home the night before last. But I’d lost him now; he ignored me and ran off into the hall. As I came in I saw that Jackie Dawson was watching me, her forehead creased into a frown.

  I finished my account of what had happened with Bennett at lunchtime and emailed it to Jackie, leaving out what had been going on outside school.

  I found Zoe in the staffroom, looking unreasonably fresh and awake in a bright orange printed dress. As I slumped into a seat next to her, I said, ‘Got any shades I can borrow?’

  She nudged me, a bit painfully. She had sharp elbows.

  ‘Are you being rude about my dress, you bloody Philistine?’ she said.

  ‘No, just got a headache,’ I said, then quickly, ‘and no, before you say it, I’m not hungover.’ That wasn’t really true. But I had good reason to drink a little too much, with everything going on right now.

  ‘You do look a bit crap,’ she said. I laughed, despite myself.

  ‘You really know how to make me feel like a million dollars, Zo.’

  ‘Come on,’ she said with a grin, ‘you know I’m not one to sugar-coat the shit. What’s going on?’

  I told her everything. I could almost feel my muscles unknotting with the relief of unburdening myself. Anya wasn’t a teacher and so she didn’t completely get what this had felt like. Zoe made horrified or sympathetic noises in all the right places, as I described the stupid non-row with Bennett; being forced off my bike. Then what happened the night before last.

  ‘God, do you think you should go to the police?’ she said once I’d exhausted myself. I took a swig of lukewarm instant coffee.