When You Know

by Archer, Kiki

“Whoever posted them knows it’s me.”

  “Exactly,” said Jenna.

  “What?” Susan shook her head. “Marcus? No, never. How? When? We deleted them.”

  “Shit,” gasped Jenna, suddenly clutching her mouth. “Your webcam. You took the pictures on your webcam. We deleted the Skype shots, but we didn’t delete your webcam roll. Why would we? No one ever really uses their webcam camera roll.”

  Susan clicked on her keypad, minimising Jenna to the screen in the corner, quickly scrolling to her camera app. “It won’t let me open it because I’m talking to you.” She gasped. “But you’re right though. I didn’t think. I haven’t used it since then. I’ve stuck with selfies. They’ll still be on there. Someone’s hacked in!”

  “Occam’s Razor.”

  “A hacking programme?”

  “No!” said Jenna. “Occam’s Razor. The simplest explanation is usually the right explanation. Who’s had your laptop?”

  “No one.”

  “You’ve never left it unattended, in easy reach of someone who knows what they’re looking for? Someone who’s threatened you before?”

  Susan gasped replaying the events of the afternoon. “No! The little fucker!”

  “The simplest explanation. Are there any notes? Anything else in the envelope?”

  “I don’t know. I dropped it. Let me look.” Susan bent down and retrieved the package, shaking in anger as she drew out a small St Wilf’s memory stick with a yellow post-it note attached. “Shit!” she shouted. “The fucking little shitter!”

  “Let it all out, gorgeous, it’ll help.”

  “The fucking little shit of a crappy pissing tosspot! He’s left a note. It says: Yours. All of it. No copies, I’m not that type of guy. Just be my witness on Thursday.”

  “Thursday?”

  “His tribunal. He must have got his date.” Susan jumped off the stool and shook her head, almost foaming at the mouth. “You’re right. It’s not me. He can stick this pile of shit right up his shitty little stinker!”

  “I think pissing tosspot was better.”

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Susan marched out of her living quarters and across the gravel path that linked her block to the next. She barged through the large double doors and headed towards the staff apartments, allowing her surge of anger to drive her forwards. She swerved around the corner and skidded to a stop as Marcus emerged from a door in front of her. “Take it,” she said, stretching out the envelope and keeping her voice firm.

  Marcus locked his door and started to walk.

  “I said take it!”

  “Quieten down, mon amie,” hushed Marcus.

  “Take it!” snapped Susan, keeping her voice loud.

  “Not right now, I’m meeting Angel.” He side stepped the onslaught and continued his journey. “We’re off to salsa.”

  Susan spun around and chased after him. “You’ll take these pictures and do whatever the hell you want with them. I’m talking to the tribunal and I’m telling them everything I know.”

  Marcus laughed. “No you’re not. I’ll show them. I’ll show them all of these sordid little pictures.” He stopped his walk and sneered. “I’ll show everyone.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Yes you do,” he said, turning around and marching away.

  “Take them,” shouted Susan, racing after him.

  “Mon amie, have the weekend, you’ll soon see sense.” He rounded the corner and started the long walk down the oak covered corridor towards the grand entrance hall. “Oh look,” he said, nodding at the new portrait of Ellen Cavanagh that was hanging from the wall, “there’s a space to the right. Shall I pin you up there?”

  “You are SO misguided. Thinking this, of all things, would make me vouch for your character.”

  Marcus stopped in front of Richard Jackson, 1993–2013. “You’ve left me no choice,” he said with a sigh. “Look at you all selfless and principled. Fine. You might be selfless, but you’re certainly not stupid.”

  “Pardon?”

  He straightened the corner of his moustache and continued his walk. “Looks like it’s my A-Game.”

  “What?” frowned Susan, matching his pace once more.

  “My A-Game. Your girlfriend. She’s next.”

  “Oh stop being so ridiculous, Marcus.”

  “Me! It’s the two of you who bring this school into disrepute! What are they going to do? Ship me out on Thursday, bring her in on Friday?”

  “Friday?”

  “I’ve seen the schedule. It’s a busy week. The final history and IT interviews on Thursday, not to mention the official appointment of the new vice principal. Then it’s the School Direct and Trainee Teacher interviews on Friday.”

  “Friday?”

  “You really think I’m going to let them approve her application if you’ve killed my character the night before?” He tapped his nose. “I’m a planner, my mon amie. I’m not worried.”

  Susan chased after him once more. “But you clearly are worried! Why on earth are you going to such lengths to try and secure me as a positive witness?”

  “Because I’m innocent!” Marcus ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ve given my heart and soul to this school. I’m not silly, Susan, I know I’m not Mr Popular, but I try. I try really hard. Wouldn’t you do anything you could to save your career from the warped mind of an aging despot?!”

  “Dorothy?”

  “Yes, Dorothy!”

  “You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

  “No, I’m not. This is me being called into question.” Marcus snatched the envelope from Susan’s hands. “Fine, don’t help me. But just so you know, you’re through as my friend.”

  “Oh, Marcus, please.”

  “No, I’ve got a life to live. What’s left of it anyway. I’m off to salsa.” Marcus stumbled over a loose lace and lost hold of the envelope, sending it skidding towards the tall trophy cabinet. He scooped down to pick it up and continued his walk.

  Susan stopped in front of a very serious looking Elizabeth Warwick, 1854–1861, and watched as Marcus disappeared out of the double doors.

  The voice was quiet. “Are you okay, Madam Quinn?”

  Susan jumped. Little Daisy Button was sitting, hidden between two marble busts. “You’re still here? Hasn’t your mum arrived yet?”

  Daisy shrugged. “She has to finish her shift. She clocks on and off. She won’t be too long now.” She grinned and tightened her grip on her tablet. “Plus I’ve got Snake.”

  “Can you see it okay?” asked Susan looking at the broken glasses.

  “Yes, I just hold it really close.”

  “Shall I contact your mum and drive you home?”

  Daisy shook her head. “Timmy’s been here. He says he’s coming back. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Susan smiled. “Timmy’s a good boy. You look after him.”

  Daisy giggled. “He’s the one who looks after me. Remember I told you about that skate park he goes to on a Sunday? He’s invited me. This weekend! I’ve got a boyfriend, Madam Quinn. I’ve actually got a boyfriend.”

  Susan crouched down next to the little girl. “Oh, Daisy, I’m so happy for you.”

  “You’re my favourite teacher; you know that don’t you?”

  “That’s kind.”

  “No, you are, and I’ll help you if I can.”

  “With what?”

  Daisy shrugged. “With whatever’s going on.”

  Susan smiled. “You’re a real little hero, Miss Daisy Button.”

  “I will be,” whispered Daisy as she watched her teacher walk away.

  ****

  Daisy waited for Madam Quinn to disappear back down the corridor before lifting herself onto her crutches. She’d seen it drop. She knew what it was. She hobbled over to the large trophy cabinet and bent down to retrieve the small St Wilfred’s memory stick. They were only ten pounds from the school shop, but ten pounds was too much. She’d just stick it in, she thought, and
see what it does. Her tablet might make a new noise when it was detected, or maybe even flash up with an exciting new message. She smiled to herself, thrilled at the thought, then nodded in decision. But she’d be the hero. She’d hand it back. She’d hand it back and save the day. It was obviously important to both Madam Quinn and Professor Ramsbottom as they were clinging onto the brown envelope for dear life. Maybe it was full of coursework marks, or early exam results, thought Daisy, hobbling back to her hiding place.

  Daisy brought the tablet close to her face and pushed the stick into the port. She watched with excitement as a multi-coloured circle started to spin. Suddenly there was a new box and some photos. She tapped on one of the jpegs and tilted her head, unable to make anything out in the picture apart from the big brown Moroccan pendant lamp hanging from the ceiling that Madam Quinn had done an assembly on once. She rubbed her glasses and stared even closer, gasping as the picture suddenly came into focus. She closed it down quickly but another flashed up of the lovely butterfly blouse that Madam Quinn always wore on a Wednesday, but it was open and there was a bra and—

  “Daisy Button! You little thief!” Marcus Ramsbottom was back in the entrance hall, flapping the envelope. “I’ve just seen you plug that stick in. Where did you find it?”

  Daisy pulled out the small blue device and held it tightly in her hand. “I didn’t steal it. I found it on the floor over there.” She pointed towards the trophy cabinet. “I was going to hand it in.”

  Marcus stepped closer and prised the stick from her palm. “You were stealing it.”

  “I wasn’t!”

  “It probably wouldn’t even work in that cheap tablet of yours.”

  Daisy tried to get eye contact as best she could through her broken spectacles. “It worked.”

  “What?”

  Daisy Button stood up and peered even closer at her teacher. “It worked.”

  “Stop it, Daisy. You look like that scary toon from the Who Framed Roger Rabbit film. What was he called? Judge Doom.”

  Daisy hadn’t got a clue what he was talking about but knew he felt threatened. “It worked,” she said again.

  Marcus shoved the memory stick into the breast pocket of his well-worn tweed jacket and tapped it securely. “Fine, you’ve had a sneak peek. You were bound to see them eventually.”

  “You’re going to show people? Those pictures of Madam Quinn?”

  Marcus sneered. “Your favourite teacher isn’t as perfect as everyone thinks.”

  “I’ll tell her,” gasped Daisy.

  “She knows. Didn’t you see her give me the envelope back?” Marcus tapped his breast pocket once more. “It’s only a matter of time,” he said, turning around and walking away. “Only a matter of time.”

  Daisy grabbed her crutches and tried to hobble after him, but gave up at the upholstered benches next to the main oak doors, realising he was too far away. She sat down and caught her breath, rubbing her glasses as a blurry figure stepped out of Principal Cavanagh’s office.

  “So you did snitch on us then,” said the voice. “I knew you would.”

  “What? No!”

  “Yes, you did. I’ve just been suspended for smoking, and so have Henrietta and Gloria. You know we’ll get you back for this.”

  Daisy squinted as the person came into focus. “Is that why you pushed me? Because you thought I would tell?”

  “You did tell. We got caught twenty minutes ago.”

  “I didn’t tell. I wouldn’t tell.”

  “Well someone did and you always walk past us.”

  “Is that why you pushed me? To warn me?”

  Willamena Edgington shrugged. “I’m glad I got caught. The man in my life hates it when I smoke.”

  Daisy quickly tapped her tablet, keen to get Willamena on side. “I’ve got a man in my life too. I was walking to meet him. I didn’t have time to go and tell. I’ve been in the medical room. Here,” she said, proudly holding up the picture of her and Timmy. “He’s my boyfriend now. He’s just asked me out.”

  “Ha!” laughed Willamena, “I’m sixteen, as if I’m going to be interested in Justin Bieber and his bag of flour.”

  Daisy tapped to another one. “He really likes me. I’m a cool girl now. I’ve got my man, I’ve got a tan, and I wouldn’t snitch.”

  Willamena sat down on the bench. “What are you both? Eleven?”

  Daisy nodded. “He’s taking me to the skate park on Sunday. There are loads of smokers there. I don’t mind them at all. I’ll even support my man around the smokers. I wouldn’t snitch.”

  Willamena laughed and swiped the screen on her own phone. “He’s not a man.”

  Daisy watched as Willamena scrolled to her Twitter app and clicked on the private message button.

  “This is a man.”

  Daisy looked at the jpeg of the pale torso, complete with orange hairs. “Gross.”

  “No it’s not. It’s a real man.” Willamena wiggled the phone. “You don’t get sent selfies from real men, do you?”

  Daisy glanced at the image once more as a vision of the ski trip and accidental door opening flashed into her mind. “Is that—”

  “I bet you don’t even have Twitter. Facebook’s so unfashionable nowadays.”

  Daisy studied the large biro-drawn tattoo that was a constant on the back of Willamena’s hand. It always said: H8SKUWL, and was decorated today with lightning bolts and what looked like a badly sketched skull. “I might get it.” She paused. “Do I have to pay?”

  Willamena snorted. “It’s just your email address, divvy.”

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Daisy sat down on her bed in her badly decorated bedroom. She had a plan. She’d be the hero. She’d use her super computer to save the day. She reached backwards to the moneybox that was gathering dust on the window ledge and pulled out the lonely ten pound note she had received from her Grandma at Christmas. She had been saving it for her mum’s birthday next month, but this was definitely more important. This was an emergency. She folded it into a small square and reached down to the floor for her schoolbag, tucking the note safely into the pocket at the back and closing the zip. She would go to the school shop first thing Monday morning. She would buy a blue one. She would make the swap. Thursday. Period 3. That was her chance.

  Daisy looked once more at the jpegs she had saved into her new special folder, named: MissionHero. How silly of Willamena, she thought, to use such an obvious password. A password right there, for everyone to see.

  Chapter Thirty

  Susan moved her hand under the table and stroked the leg that was resting against her own. “It’s so good to have you back,” she said, smiling widely, and absorbing the peaceful atmosphere in the Black Bear pub.

  “How many times are you going to say it?” laughed Jenna, finding the hand with her own and squeezing it right back.

  “At least a hundred.” Susan lifted her glass of sparkling white wine and held it out as a toast to her girlfriend. “And I’m going to cheers us at least a hundred times too.”

  Jenna chinked her drink against Susan’s. “Okay, but let me do it this time.” She smiled. “To us. To our future. To a taste of our life to come.”

  Susan chinked back and took another sip. “You’re right. This is what it’ll be like: Random Wednesday evening meals in the pub, impromptu shopping trips after school.”

  “It was you who said that my suit was too short. I was all set to go.”

  “It was, but now you’ll look sensational.”

  Jenna laughed. “I can’t believe you got me to try on that woollen skirt and jacket combo from Cotton Traders.”

  “It was top quality.”

  “I looked fifty five!”

  Susan smiled. “Hobbs to the rescue. Tomorrow you’ll be smart, sophisticated, and sexily hot, in a professional power-trip sort of way.”

  “Should I do my hair and make-up?”

  “Of course you should, and we’re getting rid of that three-in-one shampoo, conditioner
and body wash of yours. We’ll make sure our morning routines are never rushed.”

  “Trust me. I’m keeping you busy in bed. They’ll be rushed.” She grinned. “What are our chances of getting the apartment in the larger living quarters?”

  Susan shrugged. “I’ve asked provisionally, but I think it’s best to wait until we get your final confirmation tomorrow. I’ll wait for you outside Ellen’s office. We’ll go straight up and see Afia from accommodation.”

  Jenna smiled. “There’s no doubt in your mind is there?”

  “That they’ll offer you the programme? No, no doubt at all.” Susan paused. “Well, maybe there was a slight niggle of a doubt at the back end of last week, but Marcus would have played his hand by now. His tribunal’s at 6.00 p.m. tomorrow. You did check with Hugo though didn’t you?”

  Jenna nodded. “Hugo, Lisa, Amber. Crikey, I sent an email around the whole of Club Ski telling everyone to delete everything. Juvenile Jenna James is no more. But that prick of a pretend professor, Marcus Rat-Arse Ramsbottom—”

  “Did I just hear you mention my mister smoochy pants?” giggled Angel, tottering over with two large plates of food. “If we marry I’ll become a princess.”

  “Pardon?” said Susan, leaning back slightly as the steaming roast dinner was presented in front of her.

  “What’s the female equivalent of a professor? Is it a princess, or a lady? Or what’s that other one? A duchess. That’s it. Which one will I get?”

  Jenna moved her glass to make room for her plate. “When you marry Professor Ramsbottom?”

  Susan cut in, not wanting Jenna to make a smart remark. “I think the female version of a professor is just a professor.”

  Angel fanned her face. “Could you imagine? Professor Angel DeLorias.”

  “Going well, is it?” asked Jenna, trying not to smile.

  Angel took a breath and perched herself down on the seat next to them. “Strong but silent is my mister smoochy pants.” She paused. “Sometimes, if I’m honest though, I’m not quite sure where we stand.”