Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by Jane Holland

  Her teeth are bared, perfectly straight and white, like someone in a toothpaste commercial. I imagine her brushing them exactly one hundred times before bed and one hundred times when she gets up in the morning.

  My fists clench, adrenalin pumping round my body. I’m ready for a fight too. It would be so good to get her in a clinch and bang her head on the floor. And I could do it, I could take her. I’ve been studying martial arts for years: judo, karate, taekwondo. It’s tempting to show Chrissy what I can do.

  Control is what I need right now though. I’m a teacher now, albeit newly qualified. If I can’t control myself, how can I ever hope to control these kids?

  I hear the bell ring for the end of the lesson but don’t move, still staring at Chrissy. I breathe slowly through my nose, counting slowly down from ten. Dr Quick’s favourite strategy for regaining self-control at a moment of crisis.

  Another whistle blows, loud and shrill, and the gym falls silent.

  ‘Right, everyone, that’s it. Shake your partner’s hand and get changed. Did nobody hear the bell?’

  Jenny Crofter is in the doorway. She shouts over the noise of thirty or so kids still wrestling noisily with each other, ‘Mats at the back there. Neat piles, please. And make sure you take all your bags with you. I don’t want to see anything left behind in the gym.’

  Students start to move reluctantly, dragging their blue mats with them, leaving a streaky dust trail over the floor.

  Chrissy shrugs and turns away, leaving the mat for her partner to carry. Paul hurries after her, limping slightly as though he hurt himself when I threw him. Probably planning to make a complaint. ‘The teacher hurt me.’ I should never have partnered with him, it was a mistake to let these kids get under my skin.

  Jenny glances at me. Her voice is bland. ‘Ready for that coffee?’

  ‘I’ll be right with you.’

  I bend to straighten the floor mats as students toss theirs on the stack and shuffle out of the gym. The mats are a dusty blue, the stack dangerously lopsided. As the last mat is slapped down on top, I see mockery in the boy’s eyes.

  ‘Thanks, Miss.’

  Freak.

  The door slams shut behind him. Jenny puts her hands on her hips and looks at me, head on one side. ‘What the hell was that about?’

  ‘I had the situation under control.’

  ‘You were a long way from that, Eleanor.’ She glances at her watch. ‘We’re both free now. Why don’t you let me drive you home?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you worried how it might look to take more time off? Because if Patricia gets to hear about what just happened, you could end up in far more serious trouble.’

  ‘Come on, it wasn’t that bad.’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘Did I see you throw a student onto the mat?’

  ‘That was a mistake,’ I admit.

  ‘Let’s hope his parents don’t get on the bloody phone about it. Because that could be difficult,’ she says bluntly, ‘given the events of this week.’

  The events of this week.

  I follow her out of the gym. She’s over-exaggerating the importance of what happened with Paul and Chrissy. It was an awkward moment, I can’t deny that, and Paul could make trouble for the school if his parents decide to get involved. But it was not as serious an error of judgement as she seems to think. I can hardly argue with her though. Jenny may be my friend but she’s also my Head of Department.

  ‘Let me take you home early,’ she insists, and I see no point in refusing.

  On the way back to Eastlyn, Jenny stops at a moorside garage for fuel. I study the newspapers displayed behind wire on the forecourt.

  For fuck’s sake.

  I go in and buy a copy of the local paper. The front page headline screams, VICTIM’S DAUGHTER REPORTS MYSTERY BODY IN WOODS.

  When Jenny gets back in, she glances across. ‘Oh shit. I’d hoped you wouldn’t see that.’

  ‘I might as well read it. Everyone else will.’

  She nods. ‘There was a copy in the staff room at lunchtime. I threw it in the bin.’

  ‘Did you read it first?’

  When Jenny doesn’t answer, I glance across at her. She shrugs, her face guilty. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  Carefully, watching the busy moor road, she pulls out of the garage. I see the owner watching us through the window. He had said nothing but served me with a sly half-smile on his face that had not needed much interpreting. It seems that I am once more a local celebrity. With all that entails for my privacy and peace of mind.

  ‘Maybe a professional view would help,’ she suggests, and I cut her off.

  ‘I’m going back into therapy.’

  Her smile is relieved. ‘That’s a great idea, Eleanor, that’s exactly what you need. To talk things through with a person who can really help you.’ She checks her mirror, then signals, turning down the narrow track that leads to Eastlyn. ‘Is it someone you know?’

  ‘Same therapist as before.’

  ‘Excellent, I’m so glad.’ Jenny hesitates, and the smile falters a little. ‘I go running in the woods sometimes too. At weekends and during the school holidays.’

  She’s taking the back lanes to the village because the A30 is often nose-to-tail traffic this close to the weekend. Hedges flash past, damp and green. A brown tourist sign to the woods, our local attraction. Summer is not far away. Soon even these quiet lanes will be busy.

  Jenny grips the wheel, staring ahead. The track runs along the edge of the moor, thin and winding, the hedgerows tall and overgrown. Anything could be coming in the opposite direction, and at any speed.

  ‘I know your history with the place,’ she says at last, ‘and I didn’t want to upset you. The woods can be a wild place, especially off the main track. I know what it implies in the newspaper report. That you … ’

  ‘Made it all up to get attention?’

  Jenny nods, her expression thoughtful. ‘I don’t believe that though. I saw your face when you came to my house that morning, Eleanor. Whatever you thought you saw down there, it was real to you.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  To my surprise, Hannah is awake when I stroll into the kitchen. Still in her dressing gown, bleary-eyed and no make-up on yet, but awake. I suppose if she did not get up mid-afternoon, she would never have time to do anything but work and sleep. Night shifts are punishing, and I’m glad that I will probably never have to work one.

  ‘How was work?’ Hannah is lounging on her favourite chair in the corner, slippered feet up on the pine kitchen table.

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘That bad?’

  ‘I’m lucky I still have a job.’

  I sit down with a cup of tea and scan the report in the local newspaper, and my last hope of anonymity disappears. Someone talked, all right. For hours, it looks like. And the report is not just about what I saw in the woods last week. They’ve been digging. There’s an old colour photo of me as a child, probably from their archives, and an inset photo of my mother’s face in grainy black and white, with the sensational caption, ‘Angela Blackwood: murdered. Her killer is still at large.’

  Hannah is watching me. ‘I forgot to tell you, a reporter and photographer showed up yesterday while you were still asleep. It was early; I think I’d just got in from work. I told them you’d gone to the school and they took off again. But they took some photos of the cottage. I think they may have stopped at your dad’s too.’

  ‘He won’t have talked to them either. Dad hates reporters.’

  I study the headline again. VICTIM’S DAUGHTER REPORTS MYSTERY BODY IN WOODS.

  Victim’s daughter. Nice touch.

  I glance through the first few paragraphs, which focus on a garbled account of my statement to police. Some details are wrong, some have been embellished by a malicious fantasist masquerading as a journalist. But the rest of the story is ancient history. My ancient history, that is. They’ve pu
lled out everything in their archives. My mother’s murder, the ‘trauma’ I suffered, my years in therapy, even a brief mention of an incident which took place when I was ten and had somehow forgotten about. The police had been called that time too. And I got a new therapist a few months later, a specialist in childhood trauma.

  Dr Quick.

  I hand the newspaper to Hannah. ‘Bastards are making me out to be a complete nut job.’

  ‘You shouldn’t worry about it.’ Hannah crumples up the newspaper without reading it, then throws it to the floor with a dramatic gesture. I’m surprised she doesn’t jump up and trample on it too. ‘They want to sell copies. But it’s done now, and you can move on. These stories never last. By next week, no one will care.’

  ‘Meanwhile, I sound deranged.’

  She shakes her head. ‘No one believes any of that crap.’

  ‘The kids at school believe it. They think I’m certifiable. Most of the staff too.’ I pause, reconsidering that. ‘Except Jenny.’

  ‘Is that going to be a problem? I thought the head teacher was on your side.’

  ‘I’m not sacked, if that’s what you mean. But she wants me to take some more time off. And Jenny agrees with her.’

  ‘Working nights is the worst decision I ever made. I never seem to get enough sleep, and my eyeballs feel like I’ve been rubbing them with wire wool. I could do with a few days off myself.’

  ‘So take a holiday. You must be owed some leave. Spend it with me.’ I sip my tea, which is strong and dark, only a dash of milk. Exactly the way I like it. ‘We can go to the beach if the weather’s good, maybe hit some clubs afterwards. Pretend we’re students again.’

  There’s a quiet knock at the front door while Hannah’s still laughing at that suggestion.

  ‘Oh Christ, who the hell is that?’ She gets up and peers suspiciously down the hallway. ‘It had better not be another reporter. I’m not even dressed yet.’

  ‘Ignore it.’

  There’s a sudden silence. ‘Oh my God,’ she says blankly.

  ‘What? Who is it?’

  Hannah looks round at me from the doorway, clearly bemused. ‘It’s Mortimer Clemo,’ she whispers.

  ‘The vicar?’

  To my horror, I realise that I must have left the front door open. An open invitation to someone like him. I hear footsteps in the hall, then the Reverend Clemo’s deep voice. ‘I’m so sorry, am I intruding? Hannah, isn’t it? Should I come back at a better time? I just wanted a little chat with Eleanor.’

  Wearily, I nod at Hannah, who is still guarding the kitchen door. ‘It’s okay, let him in.’

  She shrugs, then steps aside for the vicar. Never very good at hiding her disdain for religious people, she tells us, ‘Look, I have to change for work, so if you’ll excuse me …’

  ‘Of course.’ Clemo watches her go, then turns and smiles at me. He’s using his church voice, deep and authoritative. ‘Eleanor, Eleanor.’ He opens his large hands wide, like he’s forgiving me for something. ‘What can I say? I heard your bad news on the village grapevine, I hope you don’t mind. How are you?’

  That seems to be the default question these days.

  ‘I’m good.’

  ‘You look a little pale though.’ He pulls out a kitchen chair from under the table. ‘Forgive me, do you mind if I sit? It’s quite a walk from the village.’

  I smell cigarette smoke on him, and wrinkle my nose. Denzil smokes occasionally too, but with him, it’s almost sexy.

  I try to be polite. ‘Of course, please.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He seats himself on the creaking chair, a tall man, folding his legs underneath him. His white dog-collar is pinching him about the throat; too many cream teas at the vicarage, I think, then tell myself off for being uncharitable. He is still smiling, but more solemnly now. ‘I had to come and see how you are, Eleanor. I feel guilty, you see.’

  I look at him, my eyebrows raised.

  ‘Because I was there that morning. Right by the woods. Perhaps I could have … ’ He pauses in his explanation, looking at me helplessly. ‘If I had known what was happening when we met in the village, if you had only confided in me, I could have gone down into the woods with you straightaway. To where you saw that unfortunate woman.’

  I study him.

  ‘You believe my story, then?’

  ‘Well … ’ Reverend Clemo makes a wordless rumbling noise in his throat, appearing to answer without really answering. It’s probably a method he has developed over the years to allow him to avoid awkward questions. I imagine vicars get a lot of those. ‘It’s not a question of belief, as such. My interest is strictly in your welfare.’

  ‘My spiritual welfare?’

  ‘If you want to put it like that, then yes.’

  There’s a sudden creaking above our heads.

  Clemo looks up at once, frowning sharply as though he thinks we have an intruder. Then his brow lightens with inspiration. ‘Ah, Hannah. Getting ready for work.’ He looks back at me, his smile a little too broad. ‘Your friend takes good care of you, I can see that.’

  ‘We try to be there for each other.’

  ‘I understand.’ He nods sympathetically, rocking back in his chair. ‘You two are very close.’

  It sounds like a statement, not a question. I puzzle over it for a moment, then say, ‘We’re not gay.’

  Reverend Clemo pretends to look confused, a slight flush in his cheeks. ‘I never suggested – ’

  ‘I’m not gay, at any rate. I don’t know about Hannah. I’ve never asked her. But I doubt it.’

  This is not quite true. I know for a fact that Hannah is a serial one-night-stander with men of a certain age, but I am not about to share that with the vicar. He’s a man of a certain age himself, one of my dad’s generation, and I don’t think I could handle a complication like that. Not that it is even remotely likely.

  A question suddenly occurs to me. ‘Do you remember when my mother died, Reverend?’

  The vicar looks taken aback by my directness, but answers without any obvious hesitation. ‘Indeed I do, yes. It was a terrible business. Truly appalling. I hadn’t been ordained then, of course. Hadn’t got “The Call,” as we say. But I remember seeing news of her murder on the television, and praying for you and your father.’

  ‘You were living in the village then?’

  ‘Oh no, I was … nearby. But not in the village itself. Though I had friends and family here. Such a shock for our little community.’

  ‘Were you still in touch with her?’

  ‘As a friend, yes. In fact, I danced at your parents’ wedding.’ Mortimer Clemo smiles at me sadly, his tone suddenly gentle, and I can see that he is deeply pleased to be of service to me now, having missed his opportunity eighteen years ago. ‘I can only imagine the impact her brutal death must have had on your own life. That it is still having, I suspect.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  Thoughtfully, the vicar steeples his long fingers together and leans his chin on them, looking at me.

  ‘You should feel free to unburden yourself to me. To unburden your heart, if it will help. And you don’t need to fear more exposure. Trust me, Eleanor, nothing you say will leave this room. The sanctity of the confessional, you know.’ His voice drops. ‘You are clearly going through something very difficult at the moment. Something that has destroyed your peace of mind. But it’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

  Nothing to be ashamed of.

  The vicar might as well call me a liar and a hysterical woman, and have done with it. In an earlier century, I would probably have been hanged as a witch for what I saw in the woods, by men just like him.

  Abruptly, I rise from my chair. ‘Well, thanks for stopping by, Reverend. It was very kind of you. But what I need right now is to be alone.’

  He hesitates, staring. ‘Oh, I see.’

  I open the kitchen door and stand waiting.

  With obvious reluctance, the Reverend Clemo gets to his feet, tucks the pine chair back und
er the table, and agrees to be shepherded from the cottage. His head brushes the low beams on the way out. ‘If you ever feel the need to talk – ’

  ‘I know where you are,’ I finish for him politely. ‘Thank you, vicar. Goodbye.’

  A few minutes later, I happen to glance out of my bedroom window as I’m changing out of my tracksuit, and I see Clemo again. He’s standing in the shadow of the trees a little further down the lane. I can only see his shoes and trousers from that angle, but it’s definitely him.

  I freeze, wondering what on earth the vicar is still doing there, hiding in the bushes. Is Clemo watching the cottage?

  There was such a strange look in his face when I showed him the door , as though my asking him to leave had made him angry. It unsettled me.

  Then I spot thin tendrils of smoke snaking up through leafy branches towards the sky.

  Get a grip.

  I reach for my jeans and wriggle into them, ludicrously relieved and a bit embarrassed by my own paranoia.

  The man is having a crafty smoke, that’s all. Enjoying a secret cigarette on his way home because his wife won’t let him smoke in the vicarage.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘When I finish counting back from ten, you will wake up feeling refreshed. There will be no more nightmares, no more daydreams, no more … unfortunate episodes.’

  The voice is familiar. A soft feminine tone, soothing and trustworthy, yet somehow sinister at the same time.

  ‘Ten, nine, eight, seven … ’

  I drift, hanging onto a last dim memory. My mother’s face, smiling as I show her the bird’s feather I’ve found. A strong black feather, slightly dusty from the ground. She takes it and holds it up to the light, then laughs, stroking it across my cheek.

  ‘Six, five, four … ’

  I look up into dappled sunlight and see her face change, the smile fading to a look of surprise. What has Mum seen behind me?

  Hearing footsteps at my back, I begin to turn my head, curious, taking a little alarm at her expression.

  ‘Three, two, one.’