LITMIR.BIZ

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be bothered to teach undergraduates. As a student you’re just revenue to the university and loan bait to the banks. He was talking about this commune his friend lives on down in Sussex—they make cheese and stuff and sell it. He was talking about going to live down there for a while; getting his head straight.’ Vicky paused. ‘He was talking about me maybe going with him.’

      ‘Vicky, you can’t—’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Girls!’

      It was Ms Hadley—popularly referred to as Bride of Quasimodo—a disabled teacher who’d been hired, impressively, well before the era of equal opportunities. She taught English, had goggle eyes and crutches, the rubber stoppers on the bottom of them sounding strange as she made her way through the fog towards them. In Year 7, Ruth had locked her in the book cupboard and hidden her crutches. She’d scared herself—it stood out as the singular large-scale act of cruelty in her life so far, and she still didn’t know what came over her that day.

      ‘Are you seriously thinking about not going to university?’ Ruth whispered.

      ‘I’m seriously thinking about not even finishing my A Levels.’

      ‘Vick—’

      ‘I just want to be with Matt.’

      ‘But what would you do on this commune?’

      ‘I don’t know—make cheese?’

      ‘How come he even knows about it?’

      ‘I told you—he’s got a friend there—Ingrid.’

      Ms Hadley was standing in front of them, legs splayed awkwardly beneath the long skirts she always wore. ‘Bell’s rung,’ she said, her voice sounding automated through lack of intimate conversation with anyone.

      Vicky stared at the silver and turquoise necklace she was wearing, and wondered how cripples could be bothered to adorn themselves—especially female ones. What was the point?

      Ruth flicked her eyes over Ms Hadley’s deformed chin, at the point where it sank into her neck, then looked away.

      Thousands of girls had passed through Ms Hadley’s withered hands over the years, but she never forgot a face and she’d certainly never forget Ruth’s because it was Ruth who locked her in the cupboard that day. She’d cried, as silently as she could, behind the locked door and that was something she hadn’t done on school premises either before or since, in all her long career. So, no, she’d never forget Ruth.

      Ruth smiled awkwardly.

      Ms Hadley didn’t return Ruth’s smile; she just carried on staring.

      She carried on staring as the girls shuffled past her, legs and sticks splayed over so much of the pavement they had to pick their way through the pruned rose bushes in the borders.

      ‘Freak,’ Vicky whispered, when they were still within earshot.

      ‘Vick—’ Ruth warned her.

      ‘So, what? You know what she keeps in the back of her car? A snow shovel—all year round.’ She paused. ‘Hadley’s probably on the FBI’s most wanted list.’

      ‘For what?’

      ‘Killing sexually attractive young girls.’

      They went into the main building by the entrance to the side of the Upper Hall and the first person they saw was Mr Sutton standing at the foot of the stairs.

      ‘Hey, you two,’ he said brightly, under the impression that this was their first meeting of the day.

      Vicky hated it when he said this, lumping her and Ruth together as though they were children.

      ‘Catch up later.’ He grabbed hold of the banister, setting off at a run up the flight of stairs to the top where the art department was.

      Vicky turned on Ruth. ‘Why did you do that?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘You waved.’

      ‘So?’

      Vicky did an impression. ‘It was idiotic.’

      ‘So? Where are you going?’

      ‘I need to find a water fountain—I can still taste vomit in my mouth. I’m sorry,’ she said, grabbing hold suddenly of Ruth’s hand and squeezing it.

      ‘It’s okay.’

      ‘Will you come with me—to get the test?’

      ‘Course. Have you told the others?’

      ‘Not yet. Listen—I’ll see you at break.’

      Ruth nodded. ‘It’ll be okay. You know that, don’t you? I mean—even if you are—it’s only a fucking baby. It’s not like the end of the world or anything.’

      Vicky smiled and gave Ruth’s hand a final squeeze then pushed forcefully through the set of double doors and disappeared down the corridor.

      Ruth hesitated at the foot of the stairs then got her phone out her bag. One missed call. She checked the number and smiled—a new sort of smile she’d been wearing for about two months now, one that Nathan had noted across the dining table, and that unsettled him.

       12

      Saskia Greaves swung her legs out of bed and made her way over to the window where she opened the curtains—still just about hanging from the few remaining plastic hooks attached to the rail. Her bedroom window usually commanded a view over the strip of wasteland that was their back garden, the neighbour’s garden to the right—containing a miniature Swiss chalet housing two blood-hounds—and beyond this the Unigate milk float depot.

      This morning the drone of the milk floats sounded distant and all she could see of them through the bank of fog was their headlights. There was another light hovering at eye level—one of the floodlights that went on at around 4:00 a.m. and was usually attached to an arching branch of steel—now suspended in fog.

      She stood motionless, her mind moving rapidly.

      Turning away from the window, she put the toadstool night light on that she’d had since childhood and picked up her mobile. She went back over to the window.

      We need 2 talk. Tonite. S

      Once the text had been sent, she remained by the window, tapping the mobile gently against her teeth.

      At last, sighing, she moved over to the pile of clothes heaped against the chest of drawers. There was no wardrobe in the room. The chest of drawers were here when they moved in, only the bottoms had since fallen out of the drawers so she’d just started leaving the clothes in a pile by the side instead. This meant it was sometimes difficult to separate the washed from the unwashed clothes and after a while they all got the same smell—damp wallpaper, rotting carpet and other things the survey had failed to shed light on and that Richard Greaves hadn’t really been in a fit state to take on board at the time of purchase.

      She found a couple of tops in monochrome shades and then put on the skirt she’d taken off the night before and thrown on the floor by the side of her bed, the legs of which had broken on one side so that it was propped up with National Geographics and manuals for computer software that no longer existed.

      Then she went downstairs where there were no curtains at any of the windows—apart from a blind in the kitchen—so the morning’s low calibre lighting had already made its way in.

      Picking up a slice of pizza from the box on the coffee table—last night’s? The night before that?—she wandered through to the kitchen, opened the fridge door, stared inside, shut it again then took a couple of bites from the slice of pizza and started to make coffee.

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