To Dare

by Jemma Wayne

  The problem was, in Terry’s stupid, reckless battering of her door, there was still a chance she might answer, or the dodgy latch might cave in, and then all at once it would be just him facing just her, and everything would be animalistic again, wit irrelevant. He was bigger, stronger, angrier, and a man with something to inflict, while she was a woman, forever a recipient of things forced.

  It had not been a conscious intention to protect her parents, but hallway-hung telephones never seemed like the place for confession. Besides, she could cope without them, and aged thirteen, she could never be sure anyway if a young, male teacher complimenting her on her legs was inappropriate, or just flattering. She’d liked that teacher – the smell of his cologne when he leant over to read her work, the jokes he threw about the classroom, the heat of his body pressed ever so slightly against hers. At first, she looked forward to his lessons, sat in the front and tried to catch his eye to smile at him. But then one day in the lunch queue, his hand found its way beneath her pleated skirt, grazing her bottom. Only briefly, only faintly. But something had felt different about that, and in the lessons that followed she’d sat in the last row at the very back. Somehow, however, everybody had already clocked the vibe between them, and whether or not she joined in and confirmed it, they made jokes, and passed notes about it, and watched for sparks. She could have flat out denied it, but there was a certain admiration attached to such attention, and besides it was only talk, which died down eventually. Until she turned sixteen, and then suddenly she was ‘legal’, and either the teacher or one of her classmates started the rumours up again with a new, rampant energy, so that by the time of the Christmas dance, when they were all dolled up in tiny dresses, and he was there as a chaperone, it seemed inevitable and expected that she should consent to his hands beneath her bra. And later, more than once, in the darkness of dorms, more.

  It was expected, a while after that, that since she was now dating a sixth-former, she laugh along with their banter, parry it, raise the stakes. And she did.

  It was expected that being the recipient of such attention was an honour, a coveted thing. And it was.

  It was expected that she knew exactly what she was doing with her body and her smiles and her provocations. And it was true, kind of.

  It was expected that popular, beautiful, clever, admired, she had the whole world in her hands. At her feet. And she did.

  By the time she was entertained by her father’s friend in Oman, so much was expected.

  It was expected too, she supposed, that she remain cowering on the sofa. And at first she had. Gradually, thuds had turned to slow, tired thumps, like a cat playing with a dead mouse, then eventually they had stopped altogether, and still Veronica had not moved from her spot behind the shutters. But perhaps it had been one thud too many, knocking the fear clean out of her. Or perhaps the confession of that fear, if only to herself, had restored an element of control. Or perhaps it was the action of the day, or the glimmer of reconnection with George, or Dr Shirazi’s bizarre suggestion of naming Rosie, or a final infuriation with doing nothing, but suddenly, Veronica stood up from the soft folds of her seat, and opened the shutters, and then the blinds, and then the window, and then her laptop.

  George arrived home three hours later. She revealed nothing to him until after their takeaway had arrived – the usual assortment of sushi from the place on the high street that didn’t do spring rolls but made up for it with a broth-based soup that was the cottage-pie-comfort-food of their generation. And between slurps, she told George everything.

  “We’re reporting it,” he said immediately.

  “I already have.”

  “Oh.” He paused, surprised. “Good. We may get him in trouble you know?”

  “He should be in trouble.”

  “Precisely.”

  George squinted at Veronica slightly.

  “We can’t just allow this idiot to harass us,” she explained plainly. “Or his family. He’s a psychopath. There’s just no knowing. I don’t feel comfortable being home alone. And that’s not okay.”

  “It’s not okay,” he agreed, smiling tentatively. “Are you okay?”

  Veronica put down her bowl of soup in order to answer, as though the weight of what she was about to impart needed both hands to carry it. “I was utterly terrified,” she confessed. “But I can’t let fear control me anymore. I just can’t. It’s too tiring.” And before George could answer, she pressed on. “We will manage to have a baby you know. I went to the doctor today and got tested. And I’ve just booked you an appointment to be tested too. If we need help, we’ll get help. If it turns out it’s impossible, we’ll consider other ways. If things are fine, we need to bloody well stop worrying about it, and stop hiding our worry from each other, and stop being so bloody afraid.”

  George opened his mouth to protest, but Veronica stopped him.

  “You are afraid, George. I know it, I see it. You’re afraid of letting me down, you’re afraid of failing, you’re afraid of what it’s all been doing to us, you’re afraid of even talking about it.”

  “But you’re not?” said George, part question, part statement, part awe.

  “I was. Not anymore.”

  Now, George part-laughed, a smile slowly finding its way across him. “I knew you’d be back,” he winked.

  “What?”

  “There’s the woman I married.” He stretched out his hand over the sushi. “Hi there, nice to see you.”

  Now it was Veronica who laughed, wholly. “And the man?” she asked, taking his palm in hers, feeling the warmth of it. “He’s been AWOL too, you know. I’ve missed him.”

  “Working on it,” George nodded. “Working on it.”

  Their hands hovered over the table top. Despite the muggy air, neither one wanted to let go, savouring the heat of forgotten skin. Eyes locked, they stayed this way. While a breeze slipped through the open window. While their soups grew cold. While the TV blared next door. Until eventually, sincere gazes turned amusing, the physical display of it striking them both at the same time as acutely comical, and in a way they hadn’t done in almost a year, together, they creased into hysterics.

  “Maybe this was the reason,” breathed George, when finally they managed to stop. “For the neighbours. Maybe it was the universe’s plan.”

  Veronica smiled at him tenderly. “Let’s go away,” she said. “Let’s just be us, somewhere else for a minute.”

  “France?” George concurred. “Saint Paul? Colombe d’Or?”

  “This weekend,” she nodded. She was unable to stop smiling now, unable to stop smiling at George, and it was only absentmindedly that she noticed it had been hours since Rosie had itched.

  Simone

  Just like that, he is magnificent again.

  It is as though the last of his anger has fallen from fist to wood, and when Terry returns home, it is to kiss Jasmine, and joke around with Dominic, help with dinner, compliment Simone on the cleanliness of the flat and her quick thinking, and then envelop her in a long, meaningful embrace. That night, he pushes the hair away from her shoulders and traces his fingers over the imprints that remain around her neck.

  “I’m so sorry, Simone,” he whispers into her cheek, tears daubing her skin. “I didn’t mean it. I love you. You know I love you. I just get so mad trying to protect you. I know I need to sort out my anger. I know it. I won’t do it again.”

  He has promised this many times, yet there is part of her that longs to believe him. Still.

  “I’m not my father,” he says.

  “I know.”

  “I’ll sort it out.”

  She kisses his head. Simone does not possess the confidence to affirm that yes, he must sort it out, or to suggest he lay off the substances that trigger the worst of it, stop spending his money on that, start investing his self in them. He’s not looking for this. He wants affirmation of his remorse, he needs to be forgiven, absolved.

  “I love you,” he says again, waiting for her repl
y, her assurance, his hands still on her neck.

  Maybe he means it. Maybe things will be better, this time.

  She has missed her chance anyway.

  “I love you too,” she says.

  Sarah

  It had been almost a week, and still there was no note from Veronica, no request for a meeting, no judgment about Amelia. It felt to Sarah as though she was trapped again, in that tiny room, with no knowing when she might finally escape. All week she had been probing Amelia for clues about Veronica’s behaviour towards her – had she been told off, singled out, given anything different or extra to do, had she ‘played’ with any different teachers? But highly perceptive Amelia seemed oblivious to any change, and David said that Veronica had communicated nothing to him at the classroom door.

  She knew it was all part of Veronica’s manipulation. This is exactly how she wanted Sarah to feel – controlled, powerless, just as she had always been. Too weak even to stand and reclaim Eliza. The thought of this ate away at her, and on Thursday, she took the afternoon off, collected Harry from David who was appreciative of the extra time to prep the museum’s new exhibition, and arrived at pick-up still without a plan exactly, but with a definite attitude. Veronica looked suitably unsettled to see her, but after a brief adjustment of her face, she smiled warmly.

  “Can we have a word?” Sarah asked, just as warmly, as she leaned into the classroom door and Amelia flung herself into her arms.

  “Of course. Just give me a moment.”

  While Amelia ran off to the playground, Sarah waited by the door. Veronica slowly saw the other children out of the classroom, then spent forever pretending to sort papers on her desk, before finally returning to her.

  “Come on in,” she smiled then, at last, and together, Saranveronica entered the classroom. “How strange, for us to be parent-teacher instead of classmates.”

  “Strange indeed,” agreed Sarah. “I never would have pegged you as a teacher actually.”

  “Nor would I,” Veronica laughed.

  Harry wriggled on Sarah’s hip. She placed him on the floor and wished Amelia was there to entertain him so she could concentrate on the woman in front of her, but she could multitask. She could, in fact, do anything. “Do you enjoy it?” she asked, stroking the fingers of Harry’s hand as he hung off her leg. “It’s a career for you I mean, is it, you treat it, professionally?”

  Veronica eyed Sarah carefully. “Of course.”

  Sarah stared just as pointedly back. Then, “I’ve been waiting to hear about this meeting,” she said abruptly. “I thought it was urgent, you said, to identify if there was anything you needed to report? About Amelia?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Veronica. “Yes it is.”

  Sarah waited. A long pause. Was Veronica scrabbling? Or enjoying the calm before the kill?

  “But actually,” said Veronica finally. “Over the past week I’ve been noticing more that…”

  “Yes?”

  Veronica paused again, with unnecessary length, stringing it out. And now Sarah understood – the bitch had decided already. She had unilaterally made her decree over Amelia’s future. She’d condemned her. She’d sent the report. It was done.

  “Over the past week,” Veronica continued. “Amelia has exhibited—”

  But before Sarah could hear exactly what her daughter had supposedly exhibited, Amelia burst screaming into the room. Her hand clutched at her elbow and a trickle of blood was streaming down her arm. Abandoning the conversation, Sarah leapt towards her.

  “Okay, okay, oh gosh,” said Sarah, forcing a peek underneath Amelia’s resistant hand.

  The cut was deep, a thick layer of skin flapping over a wound full of dirt and pebbles.

  “Oh Amelia, you poor thing,” cooed Veronica, leaning over Sarah’s shoulder to look. Then, to Sarah, helpfully, “The nurse will still be here.”

  Even in the drama of the moment, the false sincerity in Veronica’s voice made Sarah seethe. She wanted to slap her. To make her at least finish saying the words that proved her deception, her attack on Amelia and her future, to make her at least own her manipulation. But there was nothing else for it. She kissed Amelia’s head.

  “Come on Harry,” Sarah called. “We need to get Amelia to the nurse.”

  Amelia was still screaming, but in the intervening seconds, Harry had discovered a box of tissue paper inside a cupboard and was pulling out the colours one by one. Holding Amelia by the shoulders, Sarah went over to him and lifted him up. But now Harry started wailing, and kicking his legs, and meanwhile Amelia was demanding to be picked up herself.

  “I can stay with him,” offered Veronica, sweetly. “While you sort out Amelia. He’s fine here.”

  Sarah couldn’t think of anything she wanted less than to leave her baby with Veronica, but Amelia’s shouts were getting louder, and she was tugging at Sarah’s neck, the blood was coming thicker, and Veronica was a teacher, wasn’t she, despite her scheming, despite her other failings of character, she was confident enough with children. “Okay,” mumbled Sarah quickly, lifting Amelia into her arms. “Thanks.”

  It took only ten minutes for the nurse to first wash, then disinfect the cut, to pick out a stubborn piece of gravel, and then to bandage it with just the right amount of flippancy to reassure Amelia that she wasn’t dying, yet enough sympathy to bestow her with pride in her wound of war. But all the time Sarah found her mind flitting back to Veronica and her son. She itched to get back to them, hurrying Amelia out of the door as soon as she was able. Amelia skipped out proudly, a sticker on her summer dress. “Let’s show Harry!” she smiled. “And Mrs Reddington.”

  Sarah nodded, and together they hurried back down the hall. Now that Amelia was tended to, Sarah brushed away the anxiety she had been feeling, attempting instead to listen to her daughter, who chattered loudly as she cradled her elbow, and in great concession to it, didn’t cartwheel. When they reached the classroom, however, and Amelia stopped chatting to burst through the door, the quiet of the room was immediately striking. It was empty.

  No Harry.

  No Veronica.

  Instantly, Sarah’s stomach lurched.

  Where were they? Where were they?

  Where was her son?

  An image of Veronica smiling duplicitously shot through Sarah’s mind, but she breathed deeply and resisted the lure of it. They were grownups now; Veronica was a trusted teacher. Whatever hung between them, it would never reach so far as to put her son at risk. The playground. That was all. Surely they were at the playground. Harry had grown restless and Veronica had taken him out for some air. That must be it.

  “Playground?” Amelia queried.

  But they were not in the playground.

  And they were not in the staff room, or the toilets, or any of the other classes into which she and Amelia peered with increasing haste. Sarah tried not to reveal her growing panic to her daughter, but her voice grew higher and faster as she hurried Amelia this way and that, and then back to the classroom, where she noticed that not only was Veronica not there, but her bag was missing too. Now Sarah couldn’t contain her terror. Where the hell was the bitch? Where was Harry? What was she doing with him? She looked at her watch – it had been a good fifteen minutes since they’d finished with the nurse, almost half an hour altogether. Should she call the police? The school security? Or is that exactly what Veronica wanted? To make her look silly and paranoid. To paint her as a parent not in control. What was her plan? What game was she playing this time? Whatever it was, Sarah could no longer play it. Feeling tears welling, her courtroom poise by now far out of reach, Sarah took out her phone to call David, and she was just about to press the call button when suddenly, of course, she heard a giggle from the corridor. And they were there.

  The first thing she did, was to bundle Harry so tightly into her arms that he wriggled from lack of breath. The second thing, was to turn violently towards Veronica. Despite the learned courtroom art of patience and control, this time Sarah found it
impossible to hold back her fury. “Where were you?” she spat through gritted teeth, “Why did you take my son away?”

  Veronica smiled, seemingly oblivious to Sarah’s tone, and ruffled Harry’s hair. “He was hungry. So we went to the staff room for a snack. And then we’ve been walking about all over the place. He’s been leading the way. He’s so adorable.”

  “Did you not think I might be worried?”

  “I took my phone. I thought you’d call.”

  In her panic, Sarah hadn’t thought of that.

  “Sorry,” said Veronica. “Did we worry you?” Then, without waiting for an answer, she cast her eyes at Amelia. “Well, that’s a proper injury,” she declared. “You’re very brave.” Amelia puffed up with pride, and Veronica leaned in to inspect it closer, before whispering to Sarah. “We can finish our chat another time. It’s not urgent anymore.” Then she painted on a broad smile, and went back into the classroom, where she was a teacher and Sarah was a parent, and she still held all the power. And Sarah was left, staring, with her children, at the closed wooden door.

  Veronica

  Dominic knocked on Veronica’s door three times that week. On each occasion, shortly after she’d returned from school, she let him in and made him food, and allowed him to sit in silence. Delivering a sandwich to the table and sitting opposite him, she waited for him to speak, but he never did. It was difficult not to fill the air with mindless chatter, difficult to resist the compulsion to fix and patch; but she tried hard, sensitive to the boy’s need for quiet, for a place that didn’t dominate or demand. Only once, that Thursday, did she press him.