by Alex Gray
‘Did you hear about Eric Chalmers?’ The woman smirked over her coffee mug as Maggie rummaged in her pigeonhole for any notes that might have been left in the staffroom during the day.
‘Oh, yes, he’s got a wee girl now. Ashleigh, they’ve decided to call her,’ Maggie replied. Why on earth was Myra Claythorn taking an interest in Eric? As a self-promoting disbeliever in anything other than her own importance, Myra regularly disparaged anything that smacked of religion, particularly Christianity, and was always ready to rubbish any of Eric’s innovations at school, like his Scripture Union Club.
‘Not that,’ the other teacher told her, a gleam of triumph in her eyes as she realised Maggie was oblivious to this latest piece of news. ‘Your precious friend’s been having it off with one of his own pupils at that summer camp of his! Been suspended!’ Myra’s smile gloated over Maggie as the full horror of the woman’s words hit home.
‘Julie Donaldson,’ Sandie told her as they walked together out across the car park. ‘The father’s called in and he’s going to make a formal complaint. Jack Armour’s told Eric to go home.’
‘He’s already been suspended?’
‘We think so. Manson’s wanting a full staff meeting tomorrow morning.’
‘Yes, I know. I got the note in my pigeonhole. What about Julie?’
‘She’s been told to come into school as usual tomorrow. Manson’s not going to miss her and hit the wall, believe you me. Bet it’ll all be over bar the shouting this time tomorrow.’
‘I hope so,’ Maggie replied doubtfully. But, try as she might, that knowing smirk on Myra Claythorn’s face was something she was finding hard to erase from her memory.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Ruth said, running her fingers through her husband’s blonde thatch of hair. ‘Why on earth would she say something to hurt you?’
Eric’s sigh seemed to reach his boots. ‘She came on to me at school yesterday. Said some pretty stupid things. I . . .’ He shook his head as if reliving the memory. ‘I pushed her away. Not violently,’ he added hastily, seeing Ruth’s look of alarm. ‘I hardly touched her. Well, only to stop her grabbing hold of me.’ He groaned aloud. ‘Why did she make these horrible things up? I mean, how could anyone think I’d behave like that with a pupil?’
Baby Ashleigh’s cry made them both look up. The tiny scrap in their nursery had begun her nightly bawling session. Ruth sighed and rose from her seat.
‘Don’t. Let me bring her down. You stay there,’ Eric told her gently.
Watching him leave the room, Ruth Chalmers told herself for the hundredth time how lucky she was, how blessed to have a husband like Eric. They’d been so blissfully happy since Ashleigh’s birth; it was as if a halo of golden light had surrounded them all. Now this silly little girl had gone and spoiled it all. And maybe put Eric’s career into jeopardy.
She was so tired, almost too tired to think. Too tired to pray? Ruth closed her eyes, bent her head and spoke a few words into the silence. And when the door opened and Eric came in cradling the baby in his arms, she was able to give him a smile that was full of trust and love.
Nobody ever came in without knocking. That was the rule she’d established ages ago, when Mary had first come to stay. The white painted door lay between Julie and the rest of the world, she thought; it was a barrier between now and tomorrow. The girl bit her lip. What would they all say? Would they call her a slag? Or would there be enough shock value to gain her some sympathy? Sam had believed her. Eventually.
Remembering her reaction to Sam’s initial scepticism, Julie swallowed hard, feeling the prick of tears under her hot eyelids. She couldn’t lose Sam. They’d always been there for one another, she told herself, the cliché echoing characters from her favourite TV soap opera.
Julie lay back on her bed, legs splayed, feeling the cold cotton of the duvet against her bare calves. What would it really be like with him? She held the image of Eric in her mind: his smile, the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners. Making him real, coming towards her, whispering things she wanted to hear, touching her . . . She shivered in anticipation as her imagination took her further and further into the story and her hand strayed towards the hem of her skirt. Would he lift it gently like this? Let his hand creep upwards to where she was wet and eager for him? Julie let out a whimper as the images came faster and thicker, her body hot and demanding.
Then that other image came back, the one where he looked at her, grim and unsmiling, telling her what a mistake she’d made, that he didn’t love her like that at all. Julie sat up suddenly, pushing her skirt back down.
Eric Chalmers would never humiliate her like that again. Never. She’d make sure of it.
CHAPTER 11
When he woke from the dream, he found that his body was slick with sweat. Breathing long deep breaths, he let his eyes focus on what was real in the room: the lampshade on the ceiling, the stippled plasterwork, the tops of the curtains where one hook was missing and the material sagged forwards like a drunken woman’s dress, open to show her tits.
He kept on breathing, deliberately, slowly, the way he’d been taught to calm himself after one of his episodes. It was all right now. It was just a dream, that was all. There were no arms pinning him back, no eyes staring up at him accusingly. Just a dream.
Closing his eyes he saw her again, the fear and shock as he leaned harder against her windpipe, heard the snap below his knee, felt at last her body yielding below his own. Then . . . but before he could remember the next bit, he opened his eyes and threw back the covers, pulling one corner of the sheet to wipe the sweat from his chest. He’d get up, wash, have some food and go about as if it was a normal day.
It would be fine. The daylight was just behind those curtains. It promised a new beginning where everything in the past was like the dream already fading from his sight.
‘D’ye hear the latest? That wee slag Donaldson’s got Mr Chalmers into trouble. Says he sexually assaulted her.’
Kyle Kerrigan slowed down to keep pace with the group of Fourth Year boys who were heading towards the milling area, listening intently to their conversation.
‘How d’ye know that?’
‘Archie’s faither’s a mate o Mr Donaldson. Telt him in the pub, didn’t he?’
‘That’s pure garbage. Julie Donaldson’s makin it all up. Bet you. Wis she no goin wi you last term, Kerrigan?’
Kyle shrugged as if to distance himself from Julie, from their gossip, but his heart was thumping nonetheless.
‘Well, we’ve got Chalmers second period,’ the lad persisted. ‘See if it’s true or no, eh?’
Kyle peeled off from the group and made towards the PE base where Finnegan would be hanging out. Finnegan (Mr Finnegan to his face) was one of the few bright spots in Kyle Kerrigan’s life at Muirpark Secondary these days. The PE teacher had recognised early on that the lad was well above average at sport and it was Finnegan who had made it his business to foster that talent. As he entered the covered walkway that led to the sports block, Kyle glanced up at the workout area, his personal haven where he spent as much time as he could get away with. It was a narrow rectangle boxed off from the upper floor of the PE department, filled with rowing machines, exercise bikes and various types of weight-training gear. Strictly speaking, anyone using the equipment had to be supervised by a member of staff but Finnegan let Kyle have free run of the place so long as he was somewhere on the premises.
The knock on the door of the PE base was answered by a rumbling cough as a tall thin man appeared. His pock-marked face creased in a grin as he saw Kyle.
‘C’mon in. Want a cuppa tea before the bell goes?’
‘Aye, why not.’ Kyle moved into the square room with its different bits of kit arranged along hooks on the wall, his nose twitching at the scent of new-cut grass coming through the open window. The PE staffroom looked out onto the vast playing fields that were the envy of every other secondary school in the district. Muirpark had been one of the lucky new builds of the seven
ties when spare land had been snapped up by councils eager to showcase their commitment to education. The site had been considered for private development but, in a rare moment of altruism, the City Fathers had given it over to their children. Now Muirpark, complete with an ex-boxing champion as its head teacher, was regarded as one of the schools most likely to produce tomorrow’s sporting heroes.
Finnegan busied himself with a teabag and hot water from the kettle jug as the boy gazed out over the flat land between the back of the school and a line of trees that helped to screen a row of red sandstone tenements beyond. His eyes traced the line of the running track that curved around the three pitches; one for rugby, and two for hockey and football. Before the holidays there had been cricket nets out there on the faraway field, the assistant janitor acting as part-time groundsman, rolling the turf into a green sward. Kyle had jogged around that park, winter and summer, more times than he could remember.
‘Here, take it before the first bell.’ Finnegan was handing him a white mug emblazoned with a green shamrock. Kyle nodded and sipped the tea. He wanted to ask Finnegan about Chalmers – that’s what he’d really come over for – but somehow the words were lost and he remained silent, looking at the green vista out there. How could you ask another teacher about something like that?
The bell broke into his reverie and he put down the half-finished tea, nodding his thanks.
‘Want a work-out after classes?’
‘Aye, thanks. I’ve got PE last two anyway,’ Kyle reminded him.
‘So you have. Right. See you later.’
Kyle picked up his rucksack, left the PE base and began to run across the playground back towards the main building. Heart scarcely thumping, he took the stairs two at a time until he came to his own form-room door. Mrs Lorimer was just closing it but smiled at Kyle in a friendly way as she caught sight of him.
Kyle slung his bag under a desk and slumped back against the wall, his eyes taking in the rest of his classmates. The boys who’d been talking about Julie were at the back, sniggering among themselves. Of Julie Donaldson herself there was no sign. And she’d been off yesterday as well. Samantha Wetherby was sitting near the front, pretending to be absorbed in one of her jotters, but even from this distance Kyle could see she was uneasy, shifting in her seat, glancing up at the classroom door as if she were expecting her best mate to appear. She knew. She knew. Kyle could tell.
Mrs Lorimer was calling the register now and when she came to Donaldson there was an outbreak of giggles from within the room and a snort from one of the boys at the back. Her swift, sharp look around the room showed Kyle that his registration teacher was annoyed. Had she heard, then? And was it true?
Kyle considered this carefully. He’d known Julie since primary school. She was a daft wee lassie, so she was, but not so daft as to let some teacher have his way with her. And it had been nice hanging out with her for these few weeks, even when she’d come out with some right bizarre stuff. Fanciful. That’s what Miss Galbraith had called her in Primary Four. Was she like that still? Even after their brief liaison, the boy realised he didn’t have an answer for that. Kyle raised his hand as his name was called out then sank back into his slouch. Och, it was just some unfounded rumour. Chalmers was a cool guy, everyone knew that. Surely?
Morning interval had never been like this before, Maggie thought, glancing around the crowded staffroom. Many of the staff simply headed for their own departmental bases for a swift cup of something caffeine-related that would keep them going till lunch. But today they were all there, waiting for Manson to appear. The note had appeared in their pigeonholes late yesterday afternoon so most of the staff had only picked it up at registration. A matter of importance, it had read. She’d had a free period just before morning break but the pile of jotters on her desk had kept her from slipping downstairs to the office to see if she could wheedle any information out of the secretaries.
‘D’you think he’ll tell us that Julie’s making it all up?’ Sandie wondered, one eyebrow raised in speculation. Maggie shrugged, sipping her coffee, glad she’d managed to reach the head of the queue where the auxiliaries were being kept busy dispensing drinks, a steamy mist escaping from the huge urn behind their counter.
Then Manson was there, his squat, almost malevolent presence hushing the buzz of talk.
Every eye was on his face as he spoke. Whatever it was, that grim expression betokened bad news of some description. Maggie shuddered, fearing the worst.
‘I have to tell you all that Eric Chalmers has been temporarily suspended as from yesterday,’ Manson began, raising his hand to quell the sudden sounds of disbelief that rose like a wave from the assembled staff.
‘An accusation from a pupil has meant that we have to carry out a serious investigation into Eric’s conduct.’ He paused and in that pause cries of protest and outrage emanated from various parts of the room. Clearing his throat, Manson continued, ‘It has been claimed by Julie Donaldson of S4 that Eric sexually assaulted her during the Scripture Union’s summer trip.’
Maggie stood, speechless, feeling the colour drain form her cheeks. She wasn’t hearing this. She couldn’t be. Okay, so Myra Claythorn had told her already in that malicious way of hers, but hearing it like this from Manson . . .
‘Of course there may be absolutely no substance to this accusation, in fact I personally have great hopes that this might be over as soon as it has begun,’ Manson rumbled, glaring around him as if to defy anyone who was of a different opinion. ‘Eric Chalmers has been told to stay away from school for his own benefit and I’m sure Ruth will find plenty for him to do,’ he added, eliciting the first murmur of laughter. ‘So, no gossiping about this outside school and, unless you have anything cogent to bring to the investigative process, no speculation either,’ Manson growled. ‘I’m sure we’ll see this young lady well chastised for bringing the good character of one of your colleagues into disrepute. Meantime, there’ll be ‘please takes’ to cover Eric’s classes. I’m sure you’ll all enjoy the spiritual benefits,’ he added with a hint of a grin. ‘That’s all.’
A storm of talk broke out and Maggie felt a hand on her sleeve.
‘Are you okay? You’ve gone chalk white,’ Sandie said, guiding her friend to the nearest free chair.
Maggie shook her head, afraid to speak.
‘What a hell of a shock!’ Sandie went on. ‘Poor Eric! Just not what he or Ruth need right now. Stupid bloody girl! What’s she on about?’ Sandie’s voice rose in indignation.
Maggie looked up as she felt someone brush past them. It was Herriot, one of her least favourite colleagues, a disaffected biology teacher whose career had stalled long since and who was simply marking time till retirement.
‘No smoke without fire, eh? Know what they say about these religious types,’ he sneered into their faces, his voice only loud enough for Sandie and Maggie to hear.
‘What?’ Sandie’s outrage came too late as Herriot had already slipped out of the staffroom and away from anyone who might verbally slap him down.
‘How can he say such a thing? Horrible little man!’ Sandie fumed.
But, looking around them, Maggie caught sight of a few other faces that were clouded in uncertainty. Maybe horrible Herriot wasn’t the only one to think Eric guilty of this accusation.
And what about herself? After seeing what she had seen, could she really say that there was nothing between Eric and this girl?
CHAPTER 12
He saw her from the opposite side of the road, just as he was coming out of the flat. Head down, she was walking slowly towards him, her blonde hair a stream of light against her face. He stood still, following her with his eyes as she drew nearer, trying to see the outline of her jaw, the bow shape of her lips. When she crossed the road and looked up, not seeing him standing there, it was as if something within him had been released and he let out his breath in one long exhalation. Then he turned away from the close mouth, letting his feet take him wherever it was that she was going to
lead.
Julie sat stirring her coffee, watching the froth swirl close to the lip of the cup. It wouldn’t do to let it spill over the edge. That would look so uncool. Besides, someone might be watching her, seeing her for the truant schoolgirl she really was, not the young woman she was pretending to be. Mary had told her to go into school as normal, face up to whatever was waiting for her there, but she’d bottled it at the last minute. Instead of joining the usual crowd of Muirpark kids at the bus stop, Julie had turned and headed towards town, stuffing her tie into the bottom of her bag. Now she was sitting outside Tinderbox, her favourite coffee bar, the sun making dimples of light on the silver-topped tables. She’d ordered her coffee, trying to make eye contact with that sexy barista, the dark-skinned guy with eyes like treacle toffee, but he’d hardly registered her presence. Fine, Julie had told herself, she wasn’t bothered anyway, but as she’d carried her brimming cup outside, she’d scowled, the barista’s lack of interest rankling.
There weren’t many people about yet; through the open doorway she could see a couple of youngish blokes with their laptops open in front of them – too well dressed to be students – and to one side there was a woman reading the Gazette. Closing her eyes, she thought about what would be going on at school right now. Registration would be well over and they’d have begun classes. Nobody would really be missing her, would they? Except Sam, a wee voice reminded her; Sam, who had cried against Julie’s shoulder after her dad had walked out on her mum.
