The Face of Clara Morgan: a gripping and chilling psychological suspense thriller

by J. A. Baker

  Ignoring the childish jibes of other lads in his class as they flick towels at one another and bare their arses to raise a laugh, he cleans himself up and gets dressed, glad to be out of the changing room and into the cool and relative quiet of the small yard.

  Next lesson is English where he will see Dane, where he will be sitting close enough to reach him. Maybe things will be okay between them. Maybe they won’t. It’s not unusual for them to go separate ways for hours at a time: their timetables differing. But now he is going to have to face him, to see what his mood is like and to try and determine whether or not he knows. Rubbing at his face wearily, Alex heads over to the English block, grit lodged behind his eyelids, perspiration still beading his hairline.

  He knows. Dane knows. It’s obvious by his stance, by the way he refuses to meet Alex’s gaze. The way he blatantly ignored Alex as he greeted him and slapped a friendly hand on his shoulder when they entered the classroom. He knows.

  So now they sit, only feet away from one another yet worlds apart, Dane’s head lowered, his body rigid and angular. Alex watches him, sussing out his body language, trying to work out whether he is likely to soften or whether this thing will continue indefinitely. He hopes not. He wants to find a way of approaching him, a way that will let Dane know that the actions of their parents shouldn’t affect their friendship. Easier said than done, he knows that, given Dane’s sullen behaviour and mood swings, but it’s worth a try. It’s better than doing nothing. Their friendship although still in its infancy is, he thinks, worth fighting for.

  At the front of the classroom, Mr Rose stands, his long arms reaching up to the board, the squeak of the whiteboard pen setting Alex’s teeth on edge.

  ‘An Inspector Calls,’ he says, his voice louder, more authoritative than it has been in the past. ‘I want you to think about how Priestly explores the theme of class divide in post-war Britain.’

  There is a slight groan from the back of the class. Probably from Ed Preston, the only person who hates this lesson more than Dane.

  ‘What do you think the Birlings’ opinion was of Eva and the fact she was working class?’

  Alex raises his hand, clears his throat before speaking. ‘That she was only interested in money and wasn’t as good as them because she didn’t have it?’

  It’s an indiscernible movement, a slight twitch of Dane’s head as Alex gives his answer, but Alex sees it all the same. He wants to move closer, to tell him that just because their parents have fallen out doesn’t mean they should, but knows it’s impossible. Not here. Not now. But maybe later. Maybe once this lesson is finished he can sidle up to him, tell him that stuff between them hasn’t altered in any way, that their parents can go to hell. What they do or don’t do shouldn’t affect their kids and their friendships. He tries to visualise Dane smiling and nodding, agreeing with him, giving him one of those infamous dark brooding looks, the ones that make others fearful of Dane Bowron. But not Alex. He’s not fearful. He knows Dane, has bonded with him in a weird asymmetrical fashion, two ill-fitting parts of a jigsaw that somehow sit alongside one another and complete the picture.

  ‘Yes. Good answer, Alexander. And what else? What message is Priestley trying to get across to his audience?’

  Alex swallows, wishing he wasn’t being singled out, wishing he hadn’t drawn attention to himself by answering in the first place. ‘He tried to highlight how inequality was rampant in Britain and felt that upper class people saw those with less money as being beneath them.’

  ‘Like you, Winston-D’Allandrio. Stupid fucker.’

  It’s a whisper, a low muttering, but he hears it all the same. A pulse thumps in his temple, a small gavel repeatedly bashing against his skull.

  ‘Sorry?’ Mr Rose says brightly, his gaze resting on Dane who has slumped even farther down into his chair. ‘Have you got anything to add to Alexander’s answer, Dane?’

  There is a collective inhalation of breath as Dane rearranges his body, sitting up carefully in his chair and pulling at his collar, his voice stilted, each syllable clipped.

  ‘Fuck right off. Dirty perverted bastard.’

  Alex squeezes his eyes shut, unable to believe what he has just heard. Or thinks he heard. It was quiet, barely a sound at all. And yet it was there. Other people heard it. He is sure of it. He wants to twist around in his seat, to stare at the sea of waiting faces behind him, to gauge their mood and try to work out whether it’s just him and his imagination running wild or whether it actually happened and isn’t some weird illusion borne out of stress and exhaustion.

  ‘Sorry, Dane? I didn’t quite catch that. Can you speak a little louder so everyone can hear your answer?’

  Everybody waits, the tension in the room a physical force. All eyes are focused on Dane, watching, waiting to see and hear what comes next. Alex wills him to do the right thing. To say the right thing. To let their differences remain just between them and not spill over into a public domain.

  ‘I said, fuck off, you dirty perverted bastard. You can fuck off and Alexander Winston frigging D’Allandrio and his desperate slut of a mother can all fuck right off!’

  There isn’t time to do anything, for the shock to set in. Dane turns and brings his fist into Alex’s face.

  And that’s when it all begins to fall apart.

  The End as it Happens

  31

  Dane is upon him before he has a chance to think or breathe or do anything at all. Alex feels himself being propelled backwards, his head hitting the hard floor with a crack. A pain whooshes up behind his eyes and everything spins. He tries to sit up but the pressure on him is too great, Dane’s weight pinning him to the ground, his face leering down at him – that furrowed brow, the dead-eyed stare, a drool of glistening saliva bouncing like the string of a yo-yo close to his flesh.

  Another hit to the face, a stinging sensation at first then a burst of pain exploding behind his nose, travelling up behind his eyes. He tries to turn away, his cheek resting on the cool surface of the floor, his vision gauzy and indistinct.

  ‘That was from my mum, and this one is from me.’

  Alex hears the crack, feels the crushing pain travel up and down his face, layer upon layer of agony and knows then that something is broken. Dizzy and sick, he tries to sit up but is pushed back down, strong hands pressing on his sternum. He is weakened by the blow, by the waves of pain that crash into him.

  He brings his hands up, sees the blood and hears the screams, the shouts for Dane to get off him, to leave him be. Relief blooms somewhere in his chest. Somebody will help. One of the bigger lads will prise Dane off, pulling them to opposite ends of the room. Alex lets out a shaky breath and tries to speak, to reason with him but before he can utter two words, he feels another explosion in his face as Dane’s fist connects with his cheekbone.

  More room spinning, more bile rushing up his throat. The weight on his chest loosens but he is too tired to roll away, the agony in his head too great. He can’t seem to move, is rocked by the intensity of it all.

  He hears the scuffle of Dane being dragged off him, his shouts of protest as he is restrained. Through bloodied eyes Alex sees a scrum above him, arms, legs, fists lashing out; foul language circling in the air above where he lay, girls crying and huddling together in a tight terrified mass.

  A thump as the scrum falls to the floor. The din of a dozen young men fighting and trying to pin Dane to the ground.

  And then the roar of Mr Rose. The sight of him towering above everybody as he stands on his chair and waves his arms about, his fingers clasped around something long. Something solid and metallic. Alex squints, tries to clear his marred vision, wiping away a viscous gooey mess of blood, snot and tears.

  And then he swallows hard and groans.

  A rifle.

  Jesus Christ. Mr Rose is holding a rifle.

  Alex hears himself shout, screaming for everybody to stop, to get down onto the floor and take cover. His throat aches, his voice is hoarse. He has no idea if he is
doing the right thing but it seems that his reflexes have taken over, a survival instinct kicking in. The words sound muffled as he says them, blood and saliva hindering his enunciation.

  A sudden silence.

  Then sobbing. And more screaming. Followed by a sinister stretch of nothingness where time seems to stand still, everyone suspended in the moment. An interlude from the fear.

  ‘Try it, son, and see what happens.’

  Alex turns to see one of the lads attempting to leave the room, his fingers curled around the door handle, his face stricken.

  Mr Rose lowers the rifle and waves it at him, indicating for him to step away and back into the class. ‘Move. Get over there in the corner. All of you! I said get over there in the corner!’

  The mass of bodies shifts backwards. Alex watches through swollen eyes as they stumble, terror ravaging their faces, dread that this is the end etched into their expressions, fear of their imminent demise all too obvious in the way they tremble and cower, their voices weak, subdued.

  It’s strange, he thinks, how in times of distress, people often focus on the inane. He hears the trickle of water and sees a damp patch appear on the floor, pooling at the feet of a petrified girl. He can’t seem to look away as she weeps, a soft unassuming cry that makes his blood run cold. Transfixed by the puddle of urine, he waits for the dizziness to ease, thanking God that his major organs received no blows and he can at least breathe properly. Small mercies, he thinks as he attempts to sit up, to take stock of this bizarre and chilling situation, only to be pushed back down again by the butt of a rifle.

  ‘Stay right there, lad. Nobody moves unless I say so, okay?’

  It’s Mr Rose and yet it isn’t. How can it be? How can this insane looking creature before him be the quietly spoken man who week after week, struggles to control the behaviour of a class when teaching? It doesn’t make any sense.

  Alex turns his head. The man he once taunted paces around the room, wild-eyed, a frightening level of volatility perceptible in his stance; the way his eyes narrow as he surveys everyone; the way he twists and turns his body in a rapid threatening motion to monitor and control the people in the room. His hair sticks out at divergent angles, wiry and uncontrollable, his lined skin is colourless, almost translucent, his voice loaded with menace. Perched on the end of his nose, his glasses sit awkwardly, skewed at an angle.

  Alex’s breathing becomes erratic again, shallow gasps sticking in his throat, fighting to be out. This isn’t his teacher, the mild-mannered man they all know. He has snapped. Something inside him has broken and now anything is possible.

  Alex knows that he has to do something – anything to stop this. He cannot just lie here and let something terrible happen. Something final.

  Over in the corner, Dane struggles, straining and thrashing against the sets of arms that hold him fast. He doesn’t speak but Alex can hear his grunts and shouts of protest as he bucks and bends his body, hatred driving him on, oozing out of him. An unstoppable torrent of anger.

  To stop the struggle, to halt Dane’s muted attempts to free himself, Mr Rose brings his hand down on the desk, the thump bringing forth a series of screams and shrieks.

  Head still spinning, Alex forces himself upright, ignoring Mr Rose’s orders to remain as he is. ‘Stop it, sir. You need to calm down.’ Alex closes his eyes and tries to breathe through his nose, choking on blood and phlegm while wishing this scenario away. He is barely able to believe his own words; having to reason with a teacher who has snapped and is currently hurtling into the deepest pit of madness.

  He waits, unsure what it is he is actually waiting for. For a beating perhaps, for the cold metal of the barrel to be poised at his temple. For something deadly to happen.

  Nothing.

  Just the arrhythmic battering of his heart, the surging of his blood, the thudding of the pain that is beating its way around his head, pummelling at his face. He swallows down vomit. Fire traces its way down his gullet. He swallows some more, rubs at his eyes.

  ‘Please, Mr Rose. Just put the gun down.’ He has no idea where this bravery is coming from. Something is driving him on, willing him to do the right thing, the decent thing. After his past behaviour, mocking and provoking this man, he has to speak up, to move things along and make sure nobody gets hurt. It’s the least he can do. It may be a futile attempt. It may be dangerous. He has no idea what is going through this guy’s head, no idea of his capabilities but doing nothing isn’t an option.

  ‘Mr Rose, please.’

  A grunt, then a step closer as he gets down off the chair and shuffles towards Alex, the squeak of his shoes echoing around the room.

  His face looms over Alex’s, his eyes wide and glassy, his skin drained of all colour, mouth twisted into a grimace that abates the boy’s movements and thoughts. Jagged stones dig into his bones as he stares up.

  Then Mr Rose’s voice – a deadened drone, a string of sounds that lack inflection or emotion. Saliva gathering at the corners of his lips, his yellowing teeth, as he grins and speaks.

  ‘Stop it, boy. Just shut the fuck up.’

  Alex shakes his head, tears streaming, blood bubbling out of his nose, coursing down his face, dripping on the floor. He tries to respond, but the words won’t come.

  Instead he tries to move, to get closer but is stopped in his tracks as the door bursts open, slamming into the wall with force. A figure comes hurtling in. Face stained with tears, Joss stops next to him, eyes bulging, mouth gaping. Then a shriek as she calls out her brother’s name, her body bent double with shock.

  As if in slow motion, Mr Rose reaches out, his long, gnarled hands pushing her into the corner with the others before dragging his old wooden desk over to the door with one hand, the other still holding the rifle, his finger curled around the trigger. Chair after chair is stacked next to the desk, behind it, on top of it, making entry into the room almost impossible.

  Alex’s sister. Here. With him. His younger sibling. He has to do something – anything – to stop this escalating, to protect her.

  That’s when he lunges forward.

  32

  Pat Miller, the deputy head of Ingleton Secondary School, sits at her desk, stomach churning. Her professional demeanour is crumbling away. She keeps her fingers splayed out on the desk to disguise the tremble there, remaining seated for fear of falling to the floor in a heap if she stands up. No teacher, no member of management, however skilled, should ever have to deal with anything of this nature.

  She has run through a scenario like this one before, simulated versions where members of staff roll down shutters and gather pupils in the classroom, annoyed at the disturbance to their lesson while the management team stand with clipboards, ticking off procedures, making certain staff have followed them correctly.

  But this is different. This is real, and it frightens her, decimating her thoughts, stripping away her illusion of proficiency and control.

  Ron Rawlings, the head teacher, stands near the door, speaking to the police officers, their sombre expressions, barked orders and pointed fingers telling her everything she needs to know. Another team of officers arrive. She hears the click of their boots on the laminate flooring, the buzz of their radios, the concerned murmurs of terrified office staff as they open the doors to allow them in.

  She wants to be elsewhere. Anywhere but here. Ron is being proactive, the consummate professional while she can barely think straight. She needs to do something, to start overcoming this panic, to free herself from its iron grip and so suddenly she stands, her head woozy, her stomach threatening to eject its contents. She clears her throat. She can do this. She has to. Doing nothing is not part of her plan. Lives are at stake here. Children could die while she sits mute, immobile, trapped by her own anxiety. This is what she is paid for, to take on this level of responsibility, to make sure this school is a safe environment for all.

  ‘We need to get in touch with parents,’ she finds herself saying. ‘I’ll ask the office staff to print out
a list of contact names and numbers.’

  The police officer standing next to Ron nods. ‘Pass them on to us. We’ll speak to all the relevant parents and carers.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She clears her throat, feeling useless and cumbersome, a bystander on the periphery of this calamitous event. That’s why the police are here. They will take over. She will do the small things, the administrative tasks that, whilst still important, require no high level of accountability.

  ‘Onto it now,’ she says quietly as she picks up the phone and makes the request.

  33

  Nina knew this was going to happen. Her gut instinct was correct. She knew when she received the phone call, when they gave her the barest of details, insisting they visit the house so they could speak with her face to face. The two police officers stride into the room and lower themselves onto one of the large white leather couches. Nina sits opposite, a vice clamped around the base of her skull. She wants to cry, to scream, to tell them that whatever it is they are about to say, she doesn’t want to hear it, but remains silent instead, her voice absent as dread takes over, its hold on her so great she can barely keep herself upright.

  Her life is about to turn to dust. If she thought things were bad before, they are a million times worse now. They don’t need to enlighten her, to speak of the events at the school. She already knows. She can sense it – the way her son was this morning as he left the house, his deteriorating mood, his mounting anger. And those pieces of paper up in his room. She was right all along.

  Nina freezes, her tongue suddenly too large for her mouth, her throat shrinking as she gasps for breath. A thought occurs to her. What if they ask to search his room? She should have disposed of the incriminating evidence while she had the chance, saved her son from further trouble. It’s too late now. Everything is just too damn late.