by Shaun Hutson
‘Hello, John, it’s me.’
‘Sue? How are you?’
‘I’m OK I rang the school, they said you were off for a week.’
‘Yeah, I can’t seem to concentrate. It’s not fair on the kids if I’m not giving it a hundred per cent, besides I’ve got things to do around the house. I put it on the market, there’s been three or four prospective buyers round already.’
‘Any interest?’
‘One couple seemed fairly keen until they found out what had happened here.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘Some bloke came just because of what happened here, morbid bastard. I haven’t heard anything from the others yet.’ There was another awkward silence. ‘You say you’re all right, you sound tired.’
‘I am. I haven’t been sleeping too well.’
More silence.
Christ, it was excruciating, as if each was trying to think of something to say. They were like strangers.
‘How’s Julie and Mike?’ he asked.
‘They’re not so bad.’
‘And the boy?’
‘He’s all right too.’ She didn’t mention the incident in the car, having since tried to dismiss it from her mind.
‘Good,’ he said, wearily. ‘So everyone’s OK’
‘Listen John, I had to speak to you. It’s about you and me. I told you I couldn’t come back to that house and I can’t.’
‘I understand that but things might not be that cut and dried. I mean, it’s not just the house you’re avoiding is it? It’s me.’
She swallowed hard.
‘I might just have managed to forgive you for the affair, John,’ she said. ‘But I’ll never forgive you for what happened to Lisa. And, yes, I still blame you. I always will.’
‘You phoned to tell me something I already knew?’ he said, trying to control the irritation in his voice. ‘How do you think I feel? I can’t forgive myself, I don’t need you to remind me all the time. It’s me who’s living in the house now. I’m closer to the memories. You’re the one who ran away from them, Sue.’
‘I didn’t run away. If I hadn’t got out I’d have gone crazy.’
‘I know the feeling.’
There was another silence.
‘John, the real reason I rang was to tell you that one of the schools down here in Hinkston has a vacancy for an assistant headmaster. Apparently there’s a house included with the job.’
‘Why Hinkston?’
‘Because I don’t want to live in London anymore, I told you that,’ she snapped.
‘And the two of us? If I got this job would you be willing to start again? A new environment, a new life perhaps?’ He sounded hopeful.
‘Maybe. We couldn’t start from the beginning, John. Things would never be the same between us again.’
‘We can try for Christ’s sake,’ he insisted. ‘I still love you, Sue. I need you and I think you need me, whether you admit it or not.’
She sat in silence for a moment, knowing there was some truth to his words.
‘It’ll take time, John.’
‘I don’t care how long it takes.’
She gave him the address and number of the school.
‘Let me know how it goes,’ she told him.
‘Maybe you could meet me when I come down for the interview.’
There was a long silence. For a moment he thought she’d gone.
‘Yes, I will,’ she said, finally.
‘Sue, if you’re not sleeping, love, it might be an idea to take something. Go and see a doctor. You’ve got to take care of yourself.’
‘I was thinking of seeing Julie’s doctor actually.’
Another long silence.
‘I’d better go, John,’ she said ‘Call me when you’re coming down for the interview.’
‘Sue, thanks for calling.’
‘I’ll see you soon.’
‘Sue.’
‘Yes?’
‘I love you.’
She gripped the receiver tight for a second.
‘See you soon,’ she said, softly then put the phone down.
It was as if the conversation had drained her of strength. She sat back, looking down at the phone, feeling as if she’d just run a marathon. It was over five minutes before she got to her feet and wandered into the kitchen. He was right, perhaps she should see a doctor. A few sleeping pills wouldn’t hurt her. There was a small booklet lying on the kitchen table with a picture of a smiling cat and the legend ‘Important People’ embossed on it. Another of Julie’s organisational aids. The address book contained numbers for everyone from the Gas board to the local vet. All in alphabetical order. Sue flicked through until she came to the ‘D’s’.
She found the name she sought almost immediately.
DOCTOR’S SURGERY.
And beneath it:
Doctor Edward Curtis.
Thirty-five
It was a feeling Hacket thought he’d forgotten and he smiled as he drove, glancing out at the scenery which sped past him. The sun was high in the sky as if its emergence were purely to mirror his state of mind.
He hadn’t felt this way for many months, years even. It was something like anticipation only it was more heightened, more acute. There was anxiety there too, naturally but, he actually felt reasonably happy and that particular emotion was one which had been intolerably absent from his life of late.
As he drew nearer to the outskirts of Hinkston and houses began to appear in greater abundance, he thought what his prospects were. If he could secure the job at the school and the house, which Sue had told him went with it then he had a chance of rebuilding his marriage too. Hacket felt the surge of adrenalin once again and realised that it wasn’t anticipation it was, in all senses of the cliché, a ray of hope.
He’d rung the school immediately after he’d finished speaking to Sue and had been surprised to find that they were prepared to interview him the following day. He’d expected a wait of a week at least but apparently they were anxious to fill the post, and consequently wanted to begin seeing applicants as soon as possible.
Hacket was also glad to be out of the house for a day. He hadn’t felt like being surrounded by people, that was why he’d taken the week off work, but being imprisoned in the house, alone with just his thoughts, had proved almost as intolerable. The trip to Hinkston and the possibility of a new job had lifted his spirits a little. He’d even found it possible to face some music and had jammed a cassette into the machine as he drove. However, as he drove further into the town he switched the cassette off and contented himself with glancing around at the buildings which were beginning to form more regular patterns on either side of him.
As he paused at traffic lights, Hacket checked the location of the school on the piece of paper he’d written it down on. He wasn’t far away now, he realised.
He felt nervous, though not about the interview. He knew his own capabilities, knew he was as able, if not more so, than most to fill the post but his anxiety grew from knowing that if he didn’t get the job then his chance of rebuilding his marriage was also in jeopardy. He could stand to lose the job but not to lose Sue.
The lights changed and Hacket drove on. He guided the car through the town centre, looking around at what appeared to be a bustling community. There was an open market in the paved square, the awnings fluttering brightly in the light breeze. He could hear the shouts of traders as they vied for custom.
The school was on the other side of town, about five minutes’ drive from the centre, and he finally spotted the iron railings which rose from the concrete like rusted javelins. The playground was empty but past a large red brick building he could see beyond to a playing field where a number of children were kicking a ball about. Hacket swung the Renault into the car park and switched off the engine. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, running a hand through his hair, then he climbed out and strode through the main doors of the school in search of the headmaster’s office.
A young woman in her mid-twen
ties passed him and smiled and, for fleeting seconds, Hacket caught himself gazing at her shapely legs as she passed him.
A little like Nikki?
He sucked in an angry breath, mad with himself for even thinking about her, but her image would not fade from his mind as quickly as he would have liked. He walked on and finally came to a door marked: D. BROOKS. HEADMASTER
He knocked and walked in, finding himself in an outer office.
A tall woman smiled at him, trying to shovel the final piece of a Kit-Kat into her mouth, chewing quickly enough to ask him what he wanted. Hacket smiled and spared her the trouble.
‘My name’s John Hacket. I’ve got an appointment at ten about the deputy Head’s job.’
She continued chewing furiously, nodding vigorously as she swallowed the pieces of biscuit.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, wiping chocolate from her lips.
‘I’ll tell Mr Brooks you’re here.’ She smiled again and knocked on the door behind her, walking in when called. Hacket was left alone in the outer office.
He glanced around at the diagram of the school which covered one wall, the paintings which adorned another. Each one had a small plaque beneath it which Hacket read. The paintings had been done by pupils, each one a prizewinner in a different age group.
One of the paintings showed an owl perched in a tree holding something small and bloodied in its claws. Hacket leaned closer, unable to make out the shape.
‘If you’d like to come through, Mr Hacket,’ the tall woman called, interrupting his inspection of the painting.
‘Thank you,’ said Hacket, taking a final look at the painting.
As he moved away from it he finally realised what the small bloodied shape was in the painting. He frowned.
In its talons, the beautifully painted owl held a torn and bleeding human eye.
Thirty-six
The heat inside the office was stifling.
Hacket felt his skin prickling as he walked in, and he was aware of his cheeks colouring from the warmth.
The man who faced him across the wide desk, by contrast, was pale and, as he shook Hacket’s hand, the younger man noticed how cold the others’ touch was.
Donald Brooks was in his early fifties, his immaculate appearance spoilt only by a few flakes of dandruff on the collar of his grey suit. He was an imposing-looking individual despite his pallid appearance, and the eyes which looked out at Hacket from behind spectacles were an intense green. His handshake was firm, his smile friendly. He invited Hacket to sit down, noticing the scarlet tinges on the younger man’s cheeks.
‘Sorry about the heat in here,’ Brooks said. ‘I’m a little anaemic and I tend to feel the cold more than most.’
‘I’d noticed,’ Hacket said, smiling.
‘My wife’s always complaining about it at home,’ Brooks went on. ‘Even in the summer we have the central heating turned on.’ He shrugged almost apologetically. He asked Hacket if he wanted a coffee and the tall woman in the outer office entered with one a moment or two later. He thanked her and she left the two men alone once more, allowing Brooks to flick through the two-page CV which Hacket had passed to him. The younger man sipped his coffee while Brooks nodded approvingly, reading the qualifications and commendations that Hacket had acquired over the last ten years.
‘Very impressive, Mr Hacket,’ he said, finally. ‘Your qualifications are excellent and you have some very useful experience behind you. I see the school you teach at presently has over 900 pupils - that can’t give you much opportunity for personal contact.’
‘I’m afraid it doesn’t. It’s an occupational hazard I suppose, working in London schools. What’s your pupil to teacher ratio here?’
‘We average about twenty to a class, usually less. Most of the sixth-form classes have only three or four pupils.’
Hacket nodded approvingly and the two men talked for some time about the school, about Hacket’s background in teaching and his desire for the present position.
‘Are you married, Mr Hacket?’ Brooks asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Any children?’
He hesitated a second, as if the word itself brought pain. ‘No,’ he said, sharply, reaching for his coffee and taking a sip, wincing when he found it was cold.
Stone cold. As cold as the grave.
As cold as Lisa.
‘Have you had many applicants for the position?’ Hacket asked, anxious to steer the conversation onto other things.
‘You’re the fourth,’ Brooks told him. ‘And, I must admit I’m impressed. When could you start if you were given the job?’
Hacket shrugged.
‘Next week,’ he said. ‘There’s details to finalise about selling our house in London, but a week should be plenty of time.’
‘Excellent,’ said Brooks. ‘Then I think it’s time I showed you around the school. You ought to see where you’re going to be working.’
Hacket smiled broadly, got to his feet and shook the older man’s hand, again feeling the coldness of his skin but this time he ignored that small detail. He followed the Headmaster out of the office, pausing again to look at the painting of the owl which hung in the annexe beyond.
‘Quite a talented artist,’ Hacket said, nodding towards the painting, glancing at the name on the plaque beneath.
Phillip Craven.
Brooks glanced at the painting then walked out of the annexe without speaking.
Hacket followed.
The tour of the school took longer than Hacket had anticipated. The facilities were extensive and impressive and he thought that the school must be one of the few State-funded seats of learning not to have been decimated by Government cut-backs in the past few years.
He and Brooks walked past the red brick building Hacket had seen when first arriving at the school and the teacher was informed that it was a gymnasium. A class of girls were playing hockey on the nearby pitch, a shrieking horde supervised by a mistress who had thighs like a Russian shot-putter and shoulders slightly broader than Hacket’s. He grinned as he watched her hurtling up and down the pitch, whistle clamped in her mouth.
‘You may be asked to take on some of the duties of the Games masters,’ Brooks said. ‘I noticed in your CV that you’d done that at your last school. Are you a sporty man, Mr Hacket?’
‘I played rugby and football for my school when I was a kid. I wish I was as fit now as I was then. But I can manage. No heart attacks, I promise.’ He smiled.
Brooks looked at him as if he didn’t understand the joke, then he shivered and turned away from the hockey match and strode across the playground with Hacket beside him. The sun was still out but Brooks looked frozen. His skin had turned even more pale and he kept rubbing his hands together as if to restore the circulation.
‘As you’re aware, there is a house with the position,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you around that too.’
It was a white-walled building hidden from the school grounds by a high privet hedge which was somewhat sparsely covered for the time of year. But it was enough to offer protection from any inquisitive eyes within the school. There were a couple of willow trees in the front garden which had been allowed to get a little out of hand. The grass was about six inches long and there were weeds poking through cracks in the path, which led to the front door, but it was nothing which couldn’t be put right in a weekend, thought Hacket.
As for the house itself, it looked in good repair, all the slates were on the roof. At least the ones he could see. The paintwork was good for another six months at least. The only thing which did stand out was the newness of the front door. It hadn’t yet been painted the same dull fawn as the window frames and looked as if it had been affixed only days earlier.
Brooks fumbled in his pocket for the key and opened the door, ushering Hacket in.
The hall was narrow, leading to a flight of stairs carpeted with a rusty coloured shag-pile.
‘How long has the house been empty?’ Hacket wanted to know.
> ‘About two weeks.’ Brooks told him, pushing open the door to the sitting room.
There was no carpet on the floor in there and Hacket’s feet echoed on the bare boards. There were, however, still some framed prints on the wall and a couple of armchairs.
They were covered by dust sheets.
‘The teacher who lived here before,’ Hacket began, glancing around the room. ‘Why did he leave?’
Brooks rubbed his hands together again and shrugged, partly in answer to the question, mainly as a gesture to indicate how cold he was. He patted one of the radiators as he passed it as if hoping it would begin pouring forth some heat.
‘It was very sudden,’ he said, sharply and moved through into the dining room.
This room was also carpeted and Hacket wondered why just the sitting room should have been left bare.
There was more furniture, too, also covered by dust sheets.
‘What was he like?’ Hacket wanted to know.
‘He did his job,’ Brooks answered, as if that was enough.
‘He left a lot of furniture behind. He must have left in a rush.’
They wandered through into the kitchen then back through the dining room to the hall and up the stairs to look into the three bedrooms.
‘Did he have kids?’ Hacket asked.
‘He liked to keep his affairs private, Mr Hacket. I don’t pry into the private lives of my staff,’ said Brooks, stiffly.
‘I only asked if he had kids,’ Hacket said, somewhat bemused.
Brooks turned and headed for the stairs.
‘Have you seen enough? I have to get back to work.’
‘I understand,’ Hacket said, shaking his head.
As they reached the front door once more Brooks locked it, pressing on the wood to ensure it was properly fastened.
‘The teacher before you did what I believe is called a moonlight flit. I don’t know why, Mr Hacket. I just hope you’re more reliable.’ He stalked off up the path, leaving Hacket standing on the front step.
‘A moonlight flit, eh?’ Hacket muttered to himself.
