‘To be honest, I think whoever is doing this is a coward.’ I toss my shoulders and throw the comment away. ‘I mean we can all hide behind the safety of a laptop or a phone. I doubt this keyboard warrior would have the courage to say any of this stuff to my face.’ I smirk.
‘Agreed,’ Amber breezes. ‘You’re only a victim if you let yourself be, right? I mean all these crazy people who jump under trains because life has thrown something shitty their way. They’re the real victims, don’t you agree? That has to be the worst. At least, you and I have our sanity on our side. This internet troll is bonkers, crazy, nuts.’
I sigh, and I’m tempted to roll my eyes, but I won’t give Amber the satisfaction of seeing my frustration. She thinks she’s getting to me. Her smug contentment is sickly. But she doesn’t realise the deeper she digs, and the more she tries to tear me down, the more desperate she seems.
I slide my coat off the back of my chair and shove my arms into their rightful place. I stand up and flap my arms about, getting stuck in the left sleeve that has turned inside out halfway down. When my hand finally pops out the end, I sigh and look up at Amber.
‘Let’s just forget about all this troll stuff, yeah? Trust me; the real world is way more scary.’ I throw in a wink to really ruffle her feathers.
‘Wait,’ she says, raising her hand the way the kids at school do when they’re desperate to gain my attention over their peers.
‘Is there something else you need to talk about?’ I ask, turning toward the door.
‘Emma, I’m pregnant,’ Amber shouts.
I spin around, catching the barman’s eye in the process. Amber’s outburst has drawn his attention. I sit back down and close my eyes, hoping when I open them again the barman has looked away.
‘I’m sorry. So sorry. This wasn’t how I wanted to break it to you.’
‘It’s David’s,’ I ask, already knowing how she’ll answer.
Amber crosses her hands across her chest with an audible slap. ‘Emma, I feel awful. You have to believe me. I never meant for any of this to happen. I never meant to hurt you. To hurt anyone.’
‘A baby. Oh, my God.’ I look up, forcing myself to sit face to face with the woman trying so desperately to destroy my life.
‘Oh, Emma.’ Amber’s voice is gentle, almost sickly sweet, but the venom in her eyes is unmissable. An inferno of hate burns like hot coals in her hazel eyes.
‘What are you going to do?’ I ask.
I’m calm. Still. Equally as full of hate.
Amber snorts. ‘Are you asking me if I’m keeping it?’
I curl my bottom lip down and shrug. I hadn’t even thought about abortion, but it’s as good a question as any.
‘Of course, I’m keeping it. It’s my baby, Emma. Just a tiny little person.’
‘David’s tiny little person,’ I say.
‘I’m not asking for anything. I don’t need money or help.’
‘Then why are you telling me?’
‘Emma, look, this isn’t easy for me. I know you must hate me. But I’m not trying to steal David away from you. I’m not that girl. I just thought you should know. That’s all.’
‘When are you due?’
‘August.’
‘Have you had a scan yet or what?’
I push the saltshaker around the table. I can’t leave my hands idol for fear they might claw Amber’s skin off.
‘No. Not yet. It’s too soon.’ Amber sighs.
‘But you’re sure. I mean you’ve done a test. Been to the doctor. Had it confirmed.’
‘Yes. I’m sure. I’m having David’s baby in August. And I really am sorry.’
‘Okay.’ I cough and clear my throat.
I stand up and swipe my handbag off the back of the chair, causing the legs to shake and wobble noisily against the tiles. For a second, I think the chair will fall over and smash against the ground. I watch until it steadies.
‘Congratulations,’ I say as I throw my bag over my shoulder.
Amber’s eyes narrow, and I know my sarcasm wasn’t missed.
Chapter Twenty-Six
EMMA
I’ve walked less than a hundred meters away from the pub when my phone begins ringing. I ignore it, certain that it’s Amber. I have nothing more to say to that bitch. I keep walking, mortified that my phone is blasting the Backstreet Boys classic that is my ringtone loudly from the confines of my handbag. Finally, it rings out, but within seconds, it starts again. On the third cycle, I can’t take it anymore, and I drag my phone out of my bag—seething. I’m taken aback to discover Richard’s mobile number flashing on the screen, and I groan inwardly before I answer. Richard only ever calls when he wants a favour. Such as chaperoning the school trip or taking on a new extracurricular activity. I’d rather boil my head than sit on a bus with two classes of thirty-five shouting and singing five-year-olds, but saying no to the man who is single-handedly in charge of my career isn’t an option.
‘Hello,’ I answer, breezily.
‘Emma.’
‘Hi, Richard.’
‘Emma. We need to talk.’
‘Um, okay. Is something wrong?’ Richard sounds upset, and I get the feeling this isn’t about a school trip.
‘Yes. I’m afraid something is very wrong,’ Richard says. ‘Where are you? The line is bad. Are you driving?’
‘No. I’m walking. I’m in town.’
‘I thought you were sick?’ Richard snorts.
‘I am,’ I lie, uncomfortably. ‘I’m just on my way home from the doctor.’
‘Right. Okay,’ Richard says, and I know he doesn’t believe me. ‘Can you talk now?’
‘Yeah. Sure. Do you want me to come in to the school?’ I ask, feeling an overwhelming need to oblige. ‘I’m only about half an hour away.’
‘No. Don’t come near the school right now.’
‘What? Richard, has something happened. Is everything okay? You sound stressed out or something.’
‘Emma, where are you, really?’
My chest tightens, and heat creeps from my neck gradually, making its way to my face. ‘I told you. I was at the doctor.’
‘When will you be home?’
‘I don’t know, exactly. I’m not sure what time the next train is at. But I should be home in about half an hour. Why?’
‘Good. Call me when you get home. Don’t call the school number. Call my mobile. It’s very important, Emma. Do you understand?’
‘Eh. Okay. Richard, you’re freaking me out. Has something happened?’
I notice a dry cleaners meters ahead on my left. It’s closed for lunch, so I step into the doorway and lean against the wall. I feel more composed, hiding from the hustle and bustle of the street.
‘Richard, I’d prefer to talk now, please.’
I know Richard doesn’t believe that I’m ill. I prepare myself for a lecture and a slap on the wrist. I’ll have to explain about Danny’s will, and I curse myself for not being honest upfront.
‘Emma, I don’t know how to say this, but it’s a very serious allegation, so I’m going to just spit it right out.’ Richard stumbles over every second word. ‘Have you been drinking at school?’
‘Excuse me?’ I claw at collar of my coat and pop the top button.
‘Emma, this is serious.’
‘Yes, Richard, I agree,’ I manage. ‘Are you accusing me of being drunk at work?’
‘No. I’m asking you. Have you been drinking on school property? We had a tip off that you were.’
‘A tip off,’ I echo, furious with Richard’s choice of phrase. A tip off, as if I’m some fugitive on the loose, and some law-abiding citizen has helped the cops with their search.
I grip the top button of my coat until my fingers curl all the way around and my nails dig into my palm, drawing blood. I spit words though clenched teeth. ‘Richard, what exactly is happening here?’
‘Look, Emma. A parent got in touch to say they saw you drinking in your car outside the school.’ Richard pause
s, and for a moment, I think the line has gone dead. ‘During school hours. And more than once.’
‘Drinking in my car?’ I don’t know why I keep repeating everything Richard says. Maybe it’s because this is all so outlandish I need to hear it twice to believe it’s actually happening.
‘Yes.’ The wobble in Richard’s voice is missing now, and I can hear his growing frustration. ‘Were you?’
‘No. I wasn’t drinking in my car. Jesus Christ, Richard. Give me some credit.’
‘But you were drinking?’
‘What? No. Of course, I wasn’t.’
‘Emma, you’re not yourself lately. You’re late more often than you’re on time. And I’ve had parents complain that their kids have spent entire mornings watching DVDs instead of working.’
‘Yeah. I know.’ I cringe. ‘And I’m sorry. I have some personal stuff going on.’
Richard sighs. ‘Where are you really, Emma? Have you been to the pub? Have you called in sick so you could go drinking?’
I let go of my coat and allow my hand to cover my mouth. I’m afraid to say another word. Maybe the wine has slurred my speech. My head feels fuzzy again.
‘Okay, Emma. I can’t force you to admit anything here, but my hands are tied. Liz mentioned you stank of booze a few weeks ago. She was actually really worried about leaving the children alone with you. Good grief, Emma. I can’t have a teacher who’s a liability.’
I drop my head, and my chin bangs against my chest.
‘Oh God, Richard. I don’t know what to say.’ I snort. ‘I explained to Liz that I was hung over that morning. Not drunk.’
I hate that my explanation sounds almost as bad as the accusation. I’m suddenly so exhausted that pulling my head upright takes more energy than it ever should. My shoulders collide with the cold, concrete wall behind me forcing a bubble of spit and air to knot in my throat.
‘Liz was worried about you,’ Richard softens. ‘She’s a good friend.’
I growl.
‘I had to pry the information out of her, actually,’ he adds, wholesomely.
‘So who made the accusation? Was it a parent from my class?’
I thought I had a good relationship with the kids in my class, and I always try to be approachable and friendly with all the parents, so I can’t understand how anyone would dislike me so much they’d want to complain.
‘Does it matter?’ Richard says.
‘It matters to me.’
‘Actually, it was an anonymous tip off on Twitter.’
‘Twitter?’ I squeak. ‘I didn’t even know the school had a Twitter account.’
‘It’s new. We’re trying to raise our online profile. It was mentioned at the board meeting last month. You should have gotten the minutes.’ Richard hardens.
I blush, and I’m glad he can’t see me.
‘Look,’ I say, concentrating on every word, making sure my vowels are round and not slurred. ‘This will sound a little strange, but just bear with me …’
Richard doesn’t say anything, but his silence tells me he’s waiting for me to carry on. He’s prepared to listen so at least that’s something.
‘Someone is stalking me. They’re following me all over the place online. It’s only started recently. I was okay with it at first. I just thought it was weird. But they’ve starting following me in real life too. I can’t even go to the supermarket without them behind me.’
‘Okay. Okay,’ Richard says, and I can tell he’s rubbing his face in his hand or scratching his head or something because the sound distorts as if his phone is shifting around. ‘I think you should take some time off. A week or two. I know you’re still grieving for your friend, and Liz tells me you were closer to him than I realised. It’s okay that it’s all too much for you right now, but drinking isn’t the answer.’
‘Richard,’ I snap. ‘I wasn’t drinking before or at school.’
‘Emma, there are pictures.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘On Twitter. A parent sent photos of you drinking in your car. Emma, I don’t know if you realise how serious this is.’
‘Oh, c’mon,’ I snort. ‘They’re obviously Photoshopped or something. And Twitter. What parent gets in touch over the internet? Especially if it’s something serious. Can’t you see this is all a big setup? It’s the stalker I’m telling you about. The internet troll.’
‘And what about the photos of you leaving the pub just now. Are they Photoshopped too?’
Oh, God. ‘Richard, it’s not like that, I swear.’
‘Emma, stop. Getting worked up isn’t going to help anyone.’
‘But Richard,’ I cry.
‘Emma, listen. We have to take this seriously. The children’s safety is paramount. As I said, I’m asking you, not accusing you. But it will have to be investigated. And in the meantime, you can’t be at the school.’
‘So this is how it goes. Some wacko on the internet’s word is worth more than mine is.’
‘It’s not that simple, Emma. I think you know that.’
I close my mouth and sniffle. ‘This is wrong and unfair. You must at least agree, Richard. I’m a good teacher. I love those kids.’
‘Emma, come on now. Don’t cry. You are a great teacher. An asset to the school. Everyone here at St. Kevin’s thinks very highly of you, myself included. But at the end of the day, the school has a reputation to uphold. You know how quickly rumours can spread. If this got out, it could be detrimental for the school. And, well, I don’t think it would do your career any favours either. So will you please just take some time off? I have to protect the school, but I really am trying to protect you here too.’
‘But it’s not fair,’ I stutter.
‘Emma, I don’t want to ask again,’ Richard scolds. ‘To be honest, it sounds like you need the time off. Take the time to recharge. And maybe stay away from the drink.’
‘What will happen?’ I sniffle. ‘I mean what if you can’t prove it’s all a load of crap?’
‘Honestly, Emma. I don’t know.’ Richard sighs. ‘I’ve never experienced anything like this in my thirty years teaching. It’ll go to the board, and they’ll take it from there. Try not to worry. You’ll be kept informed, and hopefully, it’ll all be proved to be nonsense, just like you say.’
‘Okay.’ I resign.
‘Emma, take care of yourself, won’t you?’
‘Yeah.’ I swallow. ‘Sure.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
EMMA
I pound my fist on the button at the pedestrian lights. The barely audible beep-beep-beep of the red man in the box warning me not to cross yet mimics the humdrum beating of my heart. Abruptly, the lights change, and I cross with no real idea of where I’m going. Maybe I’ll go to the train station, I think. I could hop on board whatever train comes first and just ride it out for the rest of the day. Something is uniquely satisfying about that notion, and I decide it’s my best idea in a while. I just need to stop along the way to pick up a takeaway tea. For old times’ sake, Danny.
A blur later, I find myself heading in the opposite direction to home. The steady trundle of the train rattling down the track pacifies my soul, and I wonder why I didn’t think of doing this sooner. I close my eyes and drop my chin against my chest. I sit with my legs crossed, and the paper cup of tea that’s growing cold rests between my hands and against my thighs. I don’t drink any. I don’t actually enjoy the taste of tea. I never have. The paper cup in my hand has nothing to do with the liquid inside; it’s all about the person that liquid represents. A friend, a confidant. Sanity in a cup, I guess.
‘Last stop Greystones. Mind the gap.’
The generic voiceover announces the stop with such monotonic ease that I barely notice where I am. But something jolts me alive. A memory. I was about three years old, four at most. We built sandcastles. Mom, Dad, and I. We stayed all day, I think. We had a picnic. There were ham sandwiches. And apples. Something fizzy to drink too. I remember a long yellow straw that was bend
y at the top. It didn’t quite stretch all the way into the cup so some of the time I was just sucking in huge mouthfuls of fresh sea air. And I remember smiling. A lot. All the time, maybe. I had a mother. A father. A family. But not now.
I’m last off the train when it reaches the terminal. The handful of other passengers has gone their scattered ways, leaving me alone. The train springs to life behind me and slowly pulls away, back the way it came. I spin around and take some time to enjoy the silent platform. It’s much colder here than it was in the city, and I know to blame the sea breeze. The salty air licks at my skin like sandpaper, and it’s so icy I wonder if it’s going to snow. Maybe the weather is a sign; Danny’s only way of telling me I should go home. If there’s heavy snowfall, the trains won’t run. I glance at the train timetable overhead. Neon orange letters flash on the screen and tell me there’s a train back to the city in ten minutes. I know I should hop on. I know I should. But I won’t. Noisy seagulls fly inelegantly overhead, and the distinctive scent of salt and seaweed wafts towards me, calling me to visit the shore.
The dark blue-black waves yawn with arrogant confidence meters from the mucky sand. I wander with ease right up to the water’s edge and watch as the assertive water dilutes to a foamy hiss as it trickles against the tip of my boot.
A lady walks by. She hugs the shore but never gets close enough for the waves to splash her. Her small white dog darts in and out of the water as he runs circles around her ankles. I watch her walk away until she becomes a barely visible dot of colour in the distance. It’s just me, the sea, and a huge open space now. Perfect. The wind grows stronger and pinches every exposed inch of my skin. I pull the sleeves of my coat over my hands and shuffle on the spot, desperate to keep warm.
I stare at the horizon as I calmly run through my to-do list in my head.
Step into the water.
Take a moment to adjust to the bitter cold.
See Me Not: A gripping psychological thriller with a heartbreaking twist. Page 18
