Guess Who

by Chris McGeorge

  Morgan stood next to Eren as they both looked at the diagrams and the numbers.

  “I still don’t bloody understand it,” Morgan said, and started laughing.

  Eren laughed too, as his eyes scanned the equations. His eyes fell to the bottom left corner of the board where, in Mr. Jefferies’s scrawl, there was a three-digit number.

  “Wait,” Eren said, “what’s that?” He pointed to the number.

  391.

  “That?” Morgan said, confused. “It’s just a number, Eren.”

  “But it’s not got anything to do with the other stuff. It’s not connected at all.”

  “It’s a number. He was a Maths teacher.”

  “Do you remember him writing this in the lesson?” Eren said, examining the number closer.

  Morgan chuckled and threw his arms up at the whole board. “I don’t remember him writing any of this. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “I don’t remember him writing this,” Eren said, taking a step back and looking behind him at where he was sitting in that lesson. “And it’s in the bottom corner. None of us could’ve seen it.”

  “So he didn’t write it in the lesson. So it was already there. Or so it wasn’t. Eren, you’re starting to sound a little crazy.”

  Eren rounded on him, suddenly angry. “What if this is Mr. Jefferies’s last message? What if it’s a clue to who murdered him?”

  “Seriously?” Morgan said, reverting to harsh whispers as the boys heard someone pass the room. The footsteps didn’t stop and then they were gone. “So Mr. Jefferies’s last words were 391. Three, nine, one. What does that even mean? It means nothing, Eren. And no one would ever think it did. You have to stop obsessing over this.”

  “No. No, I don’t,” Eren said, feeling the prick of tears in his eyes again. “Everyone else needs to start obsessing over it. Someone killed Mr. Jefferies and they’re going to get away with it.”

  Morgan was silent for a moment and stepped back from Eren shaking his head. “I thought maybe being in here would help you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He killed himself, Eren. Mr. Jefferies killed himself and he left the rest of us behind. He is not coming back. We just need to forget him.” Morgan was stone-faced, but Eren could read the sadness on his face.

  Eren saw red. “You don’t believe me. You’ve never believed me. You’re just like everyone else. You’re an idiot.” Before he could stop himself, Eren pushed Morgan hard. The boy fell back into a desk, and took a moment to regain his composure.

  He went to his backpack, unzipped it and pulled out something. He held it up to Eren.

  It was a photo. A photo of the man—the man Eren had seen that day cleaning the hall floor.

  “Is this him?” Morgan said.

  Eren couldn’t talk, he couldn’t manage a word.

  “I saw him the other day in the PE department. His name’s Martin. He’s the new caretaker.”

  He threw the photo at Eren. It bounced off his chest and fell on the floor. The man’s face stared up at Eren. He couldn’t take his eyes from it.

  Morgan picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. He went to leave and then turned back, looking at Eren with a seething anger in his eyes. “You know what, I am an idiot. And so are you. We’re kids. We’re allowed to be.”

  Morgan left.

  Eren fell to his knees, picking up the photo. He looked at it and he cried—he didn’t know for how long.

  43

  1992

  The investigation, as short-lived as it was, was officially over. Eren and Morgan kept their distance from each other. Morgan didn’t even look at him. Eren felt as though the only friend he had had betrayed him. No one believed him and maybe he didn’t even believe himself anymore. After all, he had no suspects—not now. He started to believe that maybe Mr. Jefferies was just a sad, sad man who couldn’t think of anything else to do but kill himself. Eren threw himself into his schoolwork, having a lot to catch up on, since he had spent all his free time on an investigation that went nowhere. He felt stupid, he felt embarrassed.

  He didn’t talk to anyone at school. From afar, he watched Morgan’s new scheme to get famous. The boy had started a band. All the other kids and teachers carried on as normal, like nothing had ever happened.

  The school and Eren’s father agreed that Eren should go to see a therapist, which he did without any argument. He talked more in the sessions than he did anywhere else, but he never brought up what he thought had happened to Mr. Jefferies. He actually liked his therapist a lot—a young man called Simon who the school had recommended. It was funny—the tricks he pulled to make Eren explore himself. Eren often looked back on the sessions fondly.

  Christmas went by without much consequence. Eren sat at a table with his father, his aunt’s family and his grandmother. He laughed and joked with his cousins, who were his age. There was still nothing from Morgan, and Eren began to be glad. Maybe this was just a fresh start. He had extra helpings of turkey and sprouts. He liked sprouts.

  1993 came around and Eren and his father ate chips on the beach, watching the New Year wake up. It was bitterly cold and the sea lapped against the sand like water on velvet. They walked five miles, tracing the coastline.

  At the end of January, Eren started working a paper route. It had been a freezing month, and he trod out in the snow every morning and delivered people’s papers. He had fifty-five papers on his route. He passed the time thinking to himself.

  He never thought of that anymore. Simon said that the mind was a magical thing and although it hurt now, there would be a time when he didn’t have to actively not think about it. He would just forget? Not really, it would always be there, but for all intents and purposes, day to day he would forget.

  And he was starting to feel like maybe he could carry on. The rest of the world was, so why couldn’t he? The morning sun in the January air was so strong, why couldn’t it wipe away the past? That was why, when he went into the newsagents on the first Saturday in February, he was shocked when Mr. Perkins told him he had a new house to deliver to. He knew the address well. It was Mr. Jefferies’s old house.

  Eren didn’t think much of it as he went on his round, but when he rounded the corner to Mr. Jefferies’s house, he found that his legs had grown heavier. Every step he took toward the house was slow and lumbering. He had to fight himself to get there, and after he had put the newspaper through the letter box, he just stood there and looked at the house sadly.

  There was a sharp sound at the door, as the newspaper got pulled through the letter box. A dog barked and an elderly lady shushed it. Before Eren could turn away, she had opened the door.

  “Hello, dear,” she said, not appearing the slightest bit confused as to why he was standing there in the snow.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Eren said, “I... I just used to know someone who lived in this house. My teacher.”

  The old woman smiled at him. “You mean George?”

  Eren was taken aback. “Um...yes, ma’am. Sorry, but how do you know him?”

  “Oh, poor child, I’m his sodding mother,” the old woman said, laughing as a cocker spaniel poked its head around the doorframe with the bundled-up newspaper in its chops. “Come on, you’d better come in for a nice cup of tea. You look like you’re much about to catch your death.”

  “I really can’t, ma’am. I’ve got more papers.” He nodded to his sack full of undelivered newspapers.

  The old woman shook her head. “Nonsense. No one ever missed a bit of bad news. They can wait for their papers.”

  And before Eren knew it, he was ushered into the small house. It smelled odd—not unpleasant but strange and the place looked like a traditional old person’s house. It was very compact and there was a putrid red carpet running throughout the place. Eren spotted a tiny kitchen branching off from the livi
ng room—the sideboards cluttered with things all stacked on top of each other. The living room was equally small, with two hideous brown fabric sofas and a chair. Eren perched on one of the sofas, putting his bag down. What am I doing here?

  “There you go,” the old woman said. “So a tea yes?”

  “I don’t drink tea, ma’am,” Eren said, apologetically.

  The woman laughed and went into the kitchen. “You will,” she said.

  Eren looked around the room. It was hard to believe that Mr. Jefferies used to live here. It all looked so—old. He stared at his reflection in the small television. He looked uncomfortable. Most likely because he was. He couldn’t meet his own eyes, so looked down to the glass coffee table. There were a few gossip magazines, along with a paper with an unfinished crossword.

  The clock was very loud.

  A few minutes later, the old woman came back. She carried one cup and saucer very shakily, handing it to Eren. The tan liquid slopped over the side as it changed hands and pooled in the saucer. Eren smiled at her as she went back into the kitchen to get her own.

  “What did you say your name was, my dear?” she said as she came back, and slowly lowered herself into the armchair.

  Eren’s mouth worked faster than his brain. “Morgan Sheppard,” he said. If this was Mr. Jefferies’s mother, it was possible that she knew Eren’s name. It wasn’t likely, but Eren was already uncomfortable enough—he didn’t want her knowing he was the one who found her son.

  “Morgan. Now that’s a nice name. And you were George’s student?” the old woman asked, raising the cup to her lips and slurping.

  “Yes. I was in his Maths class. I... I just want to say how sorry I am, about everything.”

  The woman put the cup down on the table and smiled at him. “We can’t change what happened, dear. It’s no one’s fault—let alone yours. I’m sure it’s harder for you than anyone else. I mean, all you children. To be faced with something like that at your age. How old are you, dear?”

  “Eleven,” Eren said, taking a sip from the cup, swallowing and then promptly putting the cup down reminding himself never to touch it again. He coughed. “Twelve in two months.”

  “You’re just a baby,” the old woman said, and her voice cracked with sadness. “Oh dear, what a mess. But we all must carry on. That’s all there is to do.”

  “Do you mind if I ask a question?” Eren said.

  “No, dear. You must have so many.”

  Eren spoke slowly, picking his words very carefully. “Do you... Do you know why Mr. Je—George—did what he did?”

  The woman pursed her lips and picked up her cup again. “None of us can really know, dear. That’s the curse—the curse of the ones left behind. I can tell you why I think he did it. I think he did it because he saw no other way out. There’re two types of people in this world and you don’t know what type you are until it’s too late.”

  “Two types of people?”

  “Yes. Say you’re running through the forest. It’s dark and you don’t know exactly where you are. All you know is you’re far from home, far from everyone you’ve ever loved. And you’re running. You’re running because things are chasing you. The most ferocious and hideous monsters you can think of are right behind you. So you run. You run and run because you won’t let them get you. The trees start to thin and suddenly, you find yourself at the edge of the forest. You come to a rise and beyond it, you find you are at the peak of a cliff. You turn back but the monsters are coming out of the tree line. You are cornered. There is no way past them. You look down and hundreds of feet below you are jagged rocks and the unkempt sea. The monsters are creeping up on you slowly but they are gaining ground. You have two clear choices placed in front of you—you submit, let the monsters get you and do whatever they want with you or you jump off the cliff, giving yourself to the rocks and the sea.”

  “And Mr. Jefferies jumped?”

  The woman looked at him, with her old eyes. He thought she was about to cry. But then she snapped out of it and slurped at her tea again. “Yes. George jumped. Figuratively, of course. That was a metaphor—you know about metaphors?”

  “Yes. Saying something is something else.”

  “Yes, you are a smart child. George taught you well.”

  Eren didn’t remind her that Mr. Jefferies taught Maths and it was in fact another teacher who had taught him about metaphors.

  “George had monsters?”

  The woman chuckled, an almost entirely humorless sound but still kindly. “We all have monsters, dear. Even me. Even you. There’s always something chasing us in the forest, even if we don’t want to admit it. But to answer your question, yes, George had monsters. They just caught up with him.”

  “What were they?” Eren saw the old woman physically recoil. “I’m sorry if that’s rude,” he said quickly, “but I think I need to know why. I just need to know why someone would do that.”

  The old woman settled back into her chair and looked at him. “I forget what it’s like to be eleven. I’ve lived your life eight times over. There’s a thought. I was once inquisitive. Life’ll beat it out of you though.

  “The truth was, George was always a very lonely man. He lived here with me his whole life. He kept saying that it was because he wanted to look after me, wanted to make sure I had a good life. Along the way, he forgot to have his own. He never had any partners. He used to say that he didn’t need anyone, but I could see the loneliness in his eyes—always there.

  “He loved his job. He had always wanted to be a teacher. He put everything into his work. When he came home, he did all his marking and then watched sports. That’s how it started, you see. He started to bet on all kinds of sport—football, rugby, cricket. He didn’t even know how cricket worked, but he still bet on it. And then there were the horses. He went down the betting shop of a Sunday. That was where he fell in with the wrong crowd. Before long, he was betting too much. Addiction, dear, is a cancer, but it’s a cancer that tricks you into thinking you want it. I tried to talk George around, but the addiction talked back.

  “He borrowed money—money from the wrong people—thinking he would make it back. But of course he didn’t. He lost it. He lost it all. People started coming round, to this house. Unsavory types, you know. People who looked like they were right out of the movies—shady people. They threatened George, they manhandled him and I couldn’t do a thing. There was one man who came around a lot—he used to be as nice as nice could be with me. I even thought he might be different from the rest of them. But one night when it was very late, I heard him come over and assault my George. George wouldn’t do anything of course, and I’m not stupid, I knew that something had to be done, but done in the right way.

  “The next time this man came round, I had George sitting at the table with me. I told this man to sit down and we would civilly talk things out. He sat down, but he didn’t seem happy about it. Neither of them did. And I said, ‘Now look, George, Martin, you have to sort this out—’”

  Eren froze. He suddenly had shivers down his spine. It took him a moment to realize why but when he focused, it came down on him like an anvil. The woman was still talking, but he couldn’t hear her anymore. What had she said—? She couldn’t have—?

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” He wrenched the words out of him through tingling lips. “What did you say this man’s name was?”

  “What? Oh, um, Martin. Yes. I thought he was a nice boy, different from the rest of them. Turns out he was the worst of the lot though.”

  Eren’s head swam. The man. The man cleaning the floor, with that stupid machine. The man in the caretaker uniform. The new caretaker. Martin.

  Before he knew it, he was standing. The old woman was still talking. “I have to go,” he interrupted.

  The old woman looked at him, confused. “Alright then, dear, it was nice to meet you.”

  Eren
was out of the room and down the short hall, before she could even get up.

  “Please come back anytime,” she called after him. “Morgan is such a nice name.”

  And he was out the door, slinging his coat on as the cold bit at him.

  He made it around the corner before he vomited into the snow.

  * * *

  Eren found Morgan in the main hall at lunch. He was onstage with his band, a mismatched group of kids who had no business being anywhere. There was a fat boy on guitar, and a nerdy-looking girl on drums. Morgan, of course, was the lead singer.

  They had just been making a terrible racket, but Morgan stopped them. He walked over to the fat kid with the guitar in his podgy hands.

  “Eric, you were totally off.”

  “Sorry, Morgan,” Eric said nasally.

  “You remember how it goes right?”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry, Eric, but I think you might actually have to learn how to play guitar.”

  “Do I have to?” Eric said.

  “I’m sorry, mate. You should have picked drums. You just hit them and it’s fine.” Morgan turned his attention to the girl on drums, and gave her a wink. “You’re doing fabulous, Clarice.”

  Eren cleared his throat. Morgan and the others looked around. Morgan grimaced when he saw it was Eren. Eren had expected as much.

  Morgan seemed to resign himself to it and clapped his hands. “Okay, take five. That’s five minutes, not five chocolate bars, Eric.”

  The other two mumbled and grumbled and made their way offstage into the wings. Morgan jumped down from the stage and walked up to Eren.

  “Well, it’s Eren,” he said, looking him up and down.

  “Yes,” Eren said.

  “You like my band? This is going to take me straight to the top. We’re going to be the next big thing. We’re called The Future in Italics.”