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

by J. A. Baker

  And then she contemplates the atmosphere in the house recently – that phone call from Nina Bowron and the resulting arguments. Kate’s face burns. Shame slithers through her. Her blood boils and cools in her veins. She shivers, wraps her arms around herself. This is on her. She did this. For once, she needs to stand up and take responsibility for her actions. Alexander has listened to the rows and the acrimony and been pushed too far. She has read about incidents like this – children who snap under the strain. It’s always the quiet ones, the receptive impressionable ones. Still waters run deep. But not this time, not her Alexander. Please God, not her boy.

  She feels a strong warm hand on her back as she lowers her head into her lap and weeps. Anthony leans down, whispering unexpected yet comforting platitudes into her ear, his breath soft and sweet against her skin and so wonderfully reassuring. The barriers between them slowly drop and she thanks God that he’s here. She wouldn’t be able to do this without him. He is the strong one. He is the one who almost ended his own life while she was too blind to see it, too selfish to help him climb out of the deep dark hole that almost swallowed him.

  They shuffle closer together, their bodies touching, their minds focused on one thing and one thing alone – their son and making sure he gets out of this unharmed.

  And then they mentioned Jocelyn. What is her involvement? Since arriving at the school premises, information has been scant, the chaos of the lockdown situation resulting in a heavy police presence around them with little communication being passed their way. Plenty of probing questions about their private life, about Alexander and Jocelyn and their reactions to moving here and whether or not they are coping. As if they would go on a shooting spree because they moved to a new school and felt marginalised and lonely. It’s ludicrous, insulting and degrading, and Kate will have none of it.

  A police officer nods into his radio, clears his throat and speaks. ‘We now have news that the teacher brought the firearm into the school and threatened pupils. Somehow Alex retrieved it from him and is now in possession of it. We’re processing any new information that we receive as quickly as we can. There has been an attack by Alexander but the details are still unclear.’

  Kate stems rising vomit, brings her hand to her mouth to stop it. She swallows, runs her fingers through her hair and rubs at her eyes. ‘I want to know what’s going on. Where are my children?’ She tries to stand up, to assert her authority both as a law-abiding citizen and as a mother but feels Anthony’s hand firm on hers, pressing down, stopping her from doing anything.

  All life drains out of her, a tide of fear and doubt washing away her zealousness, the protectiveness she feels as a mother. Her bones are made of lead. Even breathing feels onerous.

  And then she sees movement outside the school office, a sudden burst of energy, people rushing, clambering past one another, like the contents of a shaken bottle of fizz, all spewing out in one direction. She knows then that the worst has happened. She knows it and is utterly powerless, stuck here in this room with her husband and a team of officers who remain mute despite her many questions and protestations. She is rooted to the spot, her limbs refusing to respond to the signals that her brain is firing off. She watches it all happen from another plane, her body, her mind detached from reality. Her son, her daughter. Their children, trapped in a classroom while both she and Anthony sit here doing nothing. They should be with them, helping to get them out of that room safely.

  Through the window, she sees an ambulance screech to a halt and a team of medics spill out onto the pavement.

  ‘No!’ Wrenching herself free of Anthony’s arm, she hurtles towards the door, a scream stuck in her throat, releasing itself as she presses her hands against the glass, an ear-splitting stretch of noise that reaches every corner of the room. It echoes in her head, sapping away every bit of her strength until, for the second time in less than an hour, she falls to the floor, her body folding in on itself like a crumpled piece of linen.

  People all around her, pulling her up, smoothing down her hair, giving her sips of water. She chokes on it, spits it out, drinks some more, feels the cool liquid trail its way down her chin and heaves, her stomach convulsing violently as it rejects the icy spike of water.

  This is it, she thinks miserably. This is as bad as it gets. There is no way back from this point, no way to undo all the damage or take back all the hurt. She is falling into an abyss that has no end; a deep dark endless void that will strip her of everything she holds dear.

  And it is all of her own doing.

  37

  Dominic didn’t mean to do it. Except he did. Denying it is pointless. If he cannot be true to himself, to admit his many failings inside his own head, then what is the point of it all? He was angry. His authority had been questioned and he felt duty-bound to assert himself. But then of course, the girl stumbled into view. He hadn’t been expecting her. It all happened before he could stop it. And now he is stuck here in this moment, trying to contain the terror and chaos that rages inside him and coming up with no easy way out of this awful chilling mess. The bullet was meant for the boy. Not for her. Not for his Clara. He would never do such a thing. Not after last time.

  He wants to scramble over to her, to lie beside her, stroke her soft skin and whisper in her ear that everything is going to be all right, that he didn’t mean to hurt her. Not now and not back then when everything broke and fell apart.

  It takes just seconds for his thoughts to cause him to lose focus, for the gun to be snatched away from his hands, and for him to find himself staring down the barrel of his father’s rifle. He is transported back to that time, all those years ago, when his father did the exact same thing to him, calling him names, telling him to get a grip and be a man, not a mummy’s boy, that his quiet cowardly ways would get him nowhere in life and that he had better start helping out around the place instead of having his head stuck in a book.

  What the hell good is reading Dickens’ novels going to be in life, eh? Need to get yourself a decent job instead of moping about in your room. Get yourself moving, boy. Start helping out around this place. Start earning your keep. Now move it, lad. Do you hear me? Move it!

  He lets out a low moan, shoves the memory of his father’s face back into that dark place in his head, that shadowy corner that remains untouched for the most part. Except for now when it has chosen to creep its way back into the light. Seeing the rifle at that angle, the barrel so close to his face, feeling that fear again has brought all those memories hurtling back.

  Dominic closes his eyes, waiting, counting, senses attuned for that moment, for that sudden click of the trigger that will bring everything to an end.

  He waits, his breathing laboured, his limbs aching, every nerve in his body tensed and ready.

  Then a sudden pain as something connects with side of his face again and again and again. Something hard, cold, heavy, the crushing agony rocking his world, making him curl into a ball. Not a bullet, but a rifle instead, used against him over and over and over, pummelling his face, knocking everything out of shape, breaking bones and tearing flesh. And suddenly a final thrust as the gun is shoved once more into his broken and bleeding face, pushing him into the loneliest of places where everything is the darkest shade of grey.

  38

  Alex stares at Mr Rose, then over to his sister who is lying on the floor, bleeding. He can’t recall what happened. Instincts kicked in after she was caught in the middle of this fucking awful nightmare scenario and he did what he had to do, but now Mr Rose is dead and panic is clawing at him.

  Teenagers spill out of their huddle, gathering around Joss and dragging the table and chairs away from the door. Alex sits, his heart thumping, logic wrestling with anxiety inside his head. Christ almighty, he’s killed a man. Was it self-defence? He isn’t so sure. He kept on hitting and hitting, the butt of the rifle smashing into Mr Rose’s skull long after he was knocked unconscious, something taking over Alex’s senses, driving him on. Anger, fury, retribution,
making him do things he didn’t know he was capable of. What he does know is that he can’t go to prison for this. It would be the undoing of him. His life would be over. Coming back from this is going to be hard enough, but trying to start again as an ex-convict? No chance.

  He turns and stares at his sister, at her twisted body. And the blood. Oh God, so much blood oozing out of her. A sob catches in his throat. He did it for her. Mr Rose shot her and he had to do something. He was trying to end this, to rescue them all from the clutches of Mr Rose’s deranged mind and now he’s a murderer himself. He is as bad as the man who shot his sister.

  Terror rages inside him as all around, movement kicks in, people moving, scrambling over each other, screaming for help, sobbing uncontrollably. Girls calling out Joss’s name, boys shouting at him to hand over the rifle, to lay it down on the floor. But he can’t. His fingers are locked around it. There’s something he needs to do to bring this all to an end.

  He sits, legs outstretched head tipped back against the wall and places the barrel of the gun under his chin, his fingers carefully curled around the trigger. He’s not scared. Going to prison terrifies him more than dying. Dying is a brief moment. Prison, no matter how short the sentence, will stay with him forever, crushing his dreams. Ruining his life.

  Whilst turmoil rages all around him, he is overcome with a sudden calm. He thinks of his dad, feels his comforting hand on his shoulder, a reassuring heaviness that helps to steady his breathing, lowering his blood pressure, enabling him to do this. Alex hopes that his father knows that he did it for him, to save their family from the shame of having a son in the family who ended somebody else’s life. Nobody should have to live with that. They’re all better off without him.

  He closes his eyes and counts, waiting for the darkness to take him, for that brief second of eternal bliss where nothing and nobody matters.

  His voice is a whisper amidst the melee.

  3-2-1

  He takes a juddering breath.

  He pulls the trigger.

  39

  Nina cannot bring herself to look at him, the way he is just sitting there, looking contrite and unassuming, nodding as the officer speaks, giving the poor woman the occasional sideways smile. Even at times like this, her husband is a flirtatious conniving little shit, unable to control his urges, seeing an opportunity, a friendly attractive face and trying to find a way in to her affections. Nina is willing to bet that PC Gibbon has dealt with dozens of men like Rob. She has plenty of weapons in her armoury for keeping them at bay, tried and tested strategies that will cut Rob off before he can say piece of skirt.

  They are sitting with other parents in the caretakers’ old house set directly outside the school gates, some of them crying loudly, some stunned into silence, some murmuring inaudibly while others simply weep.

  Her eyes sweep around the place, scanning, looking for her; Kate Winston-D’Allandrio. The woman who helped end her marriage. The woman who inadvertently did Nina a favour, saving her from further humiliation and many years of torment. She wonders where they are – Alex’s parents. Why are they not here, holed up in this stuffy room with all the other anxious parents who are being forced to sit this thing out with no idea of what is happening at the other end of the school? Dane is in most of Alex’s classes. They are bound to be together inside that school. So where are his parents?

  The officer finishes her bland spiel that says plenty but tells them nothing, and moves on to the next set of people – an elderly pair whom Nina assumes are grandparents. They stare at PC Gibbon with rheumy eyes and pallid complexions, their skin appearing to melt from their faces like hot candle wax as she speaks, telling them that a situation has occurred in one of the classrooms and that the police and emergency services are doing all they can to gain access and get everybody out safely.

  How long? Nina wonders idly. How long are they supposed to wait here, crammed together in this room that stinks of cigarettes and fried food, before they know what is going on. Every minute is an hour, time stretching on and on with no end in sight. She thinks of Dane and how he might be responding to this. He’s still her boy, her baby. Is he frightened? Trying to put a brave face on it?

  She chews at the inside of her lip. What the hell is happening inside that school?

  Outside, sirens blare. All heads turn; a silence followed by shouts of panic as ambulances trundle past the window, pulling up outside the reception area. She feels herself being pushed aside as everyone in the room clamours to get a better view, pulling aside yellowed net curtains, pressing their faces to the glass, a collective cloud of breath misting up the window.

  PC Gibbon speaks into her radio, asks for backup, calling for everybody to remain calm and to get back to their seats. Another officer steps into the room, a man of towering proportions, at least six feet six, Nina thinks as she stares up at him, assessing his face, looking for his reactions to the sudden spurt of bodies that bang into each other, jockeying for position at the window as another ambulance passes, stopping outside where they are seated.

  He shouts for them to move away from the window, to sit back down, his voice a wave of noise that penetrates every corner of the room. Some respond, sliding back into the chairs, others stare outside, demanding access to the school, to find out what has happened to their offspring.

  ‘We’re doing all we can,’ he replies, his voice carrying an element of exasperation as he looks around the room at the sea of expectant faces, anger and fear evident in each one.

  ‘Well, do a bit fucking more, will you?’ A man stands up, fists clenched, a pulse ticking away in his jaw. ‘It’s our children that are stuck in there. We have a right to know what the fuck is going on!’

  Beside her, Nina hears the soft weeping of the elderly woman. Moving away from Rob, she shuffles closer, places her hand over the woman’s fingers, cold to the touch. The elderly lady lifts her head, sniffs and attempts a smile.

  ‘It’ll be fine, I’m sure. They know what they’re doing,’ Nina tries to whisper, to shrink away from the wall of noise and confusion.

  The woman nods and thanks her, dabbing at her face with her sleeves. Nina has no idea whether or not the police know what they’re doing. She has to have faith in them. That’s all they have going for them at the minute. Blind faith in the law enforcement team and the fervent hope that every pupil will leave that school unharmed.

  She thinks of Dane, where he is now and how he is handling this and then turns to look at Rob who is staring ahead, emotionless, unblinking. A part of her softens but only momentarily; a brief second of relenting before she reverts back to her unbending stance. Too much water under the bridge. Too much hurt to ever alter her current thinking. To others around them, they look like every other married couple, sitting here, waiting for news of their child. As if he is able to read her thoughts, Rob moves closer, their bodies almost touching, the musky scent of his aftershave lingering in the air between them. He places his hand over her shoulders, his fingers curling around the back of her neck, resting on her shoulder, gently caressing her collarbone with his thumb. She turns to look at him, noticing how handsome he still is, how the years have been kind to him, strengthening his features, making him even more striking. She twists her body, sagging slightly under the pressure, feels herself give ever so slightly, then straightens her spine, removes his arm and slides away.

  40

  Plaster rains down on him, scattering over the floor, sticking in his hair, gritting up his eyes. Beside him, Dane lies, his breath coming out in ragged gasps. He is crying. Tears are rolling down his face, long wet streaks clogged up with grime and dust, turning his skin pale and ghost-like. Alex is unmoving, his body stiff while his brain tries to catch up with events. The shotgun. His hand sweeps around but already somebody has snatched it out of reach. He spots it on top of a bookshelf, the muzzle turned to the wall.

  ‘Fuck’s sake!’ Dane screams, sitting up and facing Alex. ‘What the hell were you thinking, man?’ He places his arm
s around Alex’s neck, leans into his friend’s chest and cries, great gulping sobs that leave him breathless.

  Alex feels his throat constrict at the memory of his friend leaping across his legs and knocking the gun out of his hand, the bullet hitting the roof, splitting it apart. He remembers the sound, the power, the howls of terror and thinks about what he almost did to himself. What he almost did to his family. How he nearly lost it all. It felt so right at the time, so fitting for what he has done. But now, just seconds later, he is swamped with relief.

  He can’t stop the tears. They run down his face, dripping onto his lap, small dark orbs of misery and regret. He’s here. He has no idea what the future holds but he is here and breathing. Then he thinks of Joss. It hits him full speed. The gun, her blood. Her still, lifeless body…

  Everything seems to happen at once, police officers and medics pouring in, pupils being led out, his hands being held behind his back, the feel of cold metal against his skin as he is cuffed.

  ‘Joss!’ He screams her name, tries to twist his head to see her but feels himself being pushed down to the floor, his vision obscured by a large hand that presses down on his face. ‘Jocelyn!’

  Footsteps close to his face, the smell of mud and dust and sweat. He makes another attempt to get up but is held firm, his shoulders screaming with pain at being pinned down while he attempts to twist and writhe his way out of it. Then Dane’s voice, his protestations as he tries to explain what happened, that it wasn’t Alex’s fault. Nobody listens. His words fade into the ether as he is led away by an army of adults who refuse to listen, their minds already made up.