by James Dawson
Price rested her chin on her fingers. Her nails were painted the exact shade to match the rose-colour scarf around her neck. ‘Roberta, do you know what in loco parentis means?’
Bobbie sat on her hands. ‘Yeah, doesn’t it mean parental responsibility or something?’
‘That’s right. Literally in place of parents. I know we haven’t talked all that often, but I pride myself on getting to know all my young ladies. You know, I never had my own children. I never felt like I needed to when I had all you girls.’
Her head teacher speaking so personally was unsettling to say the least. Bobbie had always subscribed to the idea that teachers went to sleep in Tupperware boxes in their store cupboards. The notion they had sex lives was plain weird. ‘So I can tell when something is troubling one of you,’ she concluded.
Bobbie felt too hot all of a sudden, flustered. ‘I’m fine. Seriously. Just ill.’
Dr Price considered her, green eyes as clever as a fox. ‘Bobbie, if this is connected to Sadie, and I think it is, I absolutely have to know. You might think you’re protecting someone … maybe you think you’re protecting Sadie, but every minute that she’s missing, things become more serious. More serious for you too if you know something.’
Bobbie had to purse her lips to contain a bitter laugh/sob. As if she didn’t know all this. Time was gurgling down the drain and there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop it. Less than two days left. She was exhausted. Perhaps it was just time to come clean. ‘You won’t believe –’
‘What? What won’t I believe?’
Bobbie froze, the sentence unfinished. She was in the room. In the mirror, in the furthest corner where the row of cupboards ended but before the window began. Mary was pressed into the shadows, only the palest white of her cheekbones and chin catching the light from Price’s lamp.
‘Bobbie … what won’t I … ?’
Bobbie instinctively twisted in her chair to see if Mary was really in the corner. Predictably, she wasn’t, but as she turned, the cupboard nearest to where Mary had stood popped open. A ring binder and some files fell from the top shelf, apparently pushing the door open and sending leaves of paper spilling over the office floor.
‘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
Apport
The whistle of air through Naya’s nostrils coming from the next bed was enough to eventually lur
e 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.
DAY FOUR
Chapter 18
Judy
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 se
arch 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.
