Chapter 13
The day of Kieran Andrews’ murder
We had early football practice. I played in midfield, supplying balls in to the attackers and defending the goal when needed.
I’m not being arrogant or anything but I am the best player on the team.
I never meant to be – I’m just naturally good at it.
Like singing. I’m good at that too. But when I think about it now, I think I only signed up for football because Mitch once made a comment I should join a team because I could bend the ball into the goal from a free kick.
And I think I only signed up for choir because my mum loved musical theatre.
If I’m honest, I didn’t really want to do either.
Anyway, I was last in the changing room cos there was badger shit on my studs and I’d been standing at the sink for ten minutes scraping it out with a nail brush. Practice had begun up on the pitch. Whistles were blowing. Girls calling for the ball. The doof of boot on leather.
And Chloe ran back in crying. She flew into my arms and I dropped my trainers in the sink, tap still running. ‘What the hell—’
‘I can’t … hold it … in any … more. I can’t. I hate him, I hate him!’
‘Chlo, what the fuck’s happened, tell me?’
‘He touched my arse again. I … went to take the … short corner,’ she sobbed. ‘He … always does it when he knows … he knows nobody’s watching!’
‘Randy Andrews?’
She nodded against my shoulder. ‘I didn’t … want to tell you. I … know how you g-get. Please don’t hurt him.’
‘I’m not gonna hurt him.’ My chest filled with poison. I couldn’t even blink. Then I turned off the taps and locked the door. ‘Tell me everything.’
She pulled out her phone and scrolled her messages, turning the phone round so I could see the trail. All from someone called KA.
Clearly Kieran Andrews. He had sent the first message, right at the top, around six weeks ago. His face was the avatar.
You looked pretty today. You should wear your hair down more often.
She had responded: Thanks Mr A.
There was one about hearing her sing. You’re a very talented girl. Clearly got a nice set of lungs on you. To which she responded again, Thanks.
All fairly innocent at first – apart from the fact that he was TWENTY-NINE and a TEACHER and TEXTING a STUDENT. Then he instigated another message about bumping into her in Primark the previous Saturday and buying her a jacket she couldn’t afford.
How’s the jacket?
Really great, thanks again. I’ll bring the money in tomorrow, she replied.
No need, he said. Have it as a gift for being such a great student this term. Plus you look great in it so I wanted you to have it.
Then came one from him asking her to delete his messages because:
They could become misconstrued.
My heart banged away and the edges of my eyes became misty with anger.
I didn’t want to read anymore but I couldn’t stop.
I scrolled down further and there were more messages, gradually more suggestive and gross.
Stolen moments in the corridor. Seeing her across the assembly hall when he saw her knickers when she crossed her legs over.
Asking her to come to his office.
Asking her if she’d ever kissed a man before.
Asking her if she got wet when she thought about him.
‘Ugh, the prick!’ I sighed, long and deep, but the poison wouldn’t shift. ‘Why did you give him your number?’
‘He said he needed it for school records. Loads of us did.’
‘He never asked me.’
‘Well, no, he wouldn’t, would he? He’s afraid of you.’
There was a little glow in my chest when she said that. It was true I had him fixed as a perv the second I clapped eyes on him. It was one of my gifts – that and penalty shoot-outs and a low alto.
‘Why didn’t you block him?’
‘I didn’t want a bad report. PE is the one subject we’re all pretty much guaranteed an A in.’
She wiped her eyes on a scrap of toilet paper as I continued scrolling.
Then came the first picture. Just of the outside of his grey jogging bottoms and his naked, toned torso as he lay on crisp white sheets. The lump that ‘she’ caused when he thought about her. Then one of a bigger lump. And then, surprise of all surprises, his erect penis.
This is what you do to me, Chloe, he said.
I threw the phone into the sink with my shitty trainers and paced the bathroom like a zoo-bound panther. I couldn’t catch a breath.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she sobbed. ‘I tried to stop it but … I don’t know, I was confused because I was enjoying it. I liked the attention. I like being told I’m beautiful and I know it’s wrong cos of us but—’
‘—cos of us? You didn’t think this was wrong cos of him? He’s a teacher, Chloe! A grown adult man. He shouldn’t be sending you shit like this.’
‘I know, I know, keep your voice down.’
‘No, I won’t. Has he done anything to you, apart from the arse fondling?’
‘No,’ she blushed, wringing her hands. ‘But he wants to. I’m supposed to meet him tonight. At his house.’
‘Where?’
‘Anning Court. Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘You haven’t blinked in ages. Please don’t go round there, Ivy.’
‘I’ve got no intention of going round there,’ I lied, turning towards the window allowing some of my hot air to fog up the frosting.
‘I’m sorry. It just felt nice. A man taking interest in me.’
‘Cos being with me feels so nasty, I get it.’
‘No, not at all.’ She stood behind me. I felt her chin on my shoulder; her arms around my waist as she cuddled in. But I was too spiky for cuddling so I ripped myself away and unlocked the door, striding into the changing room.
‘I’m sorry,’ she called out, again.
‘Stop saying that,’ I shouted, grabbing a pair of studs from the spares bin.
I sat on the bench to lace them up. ‘You do know he sends a few girls messages like that. And you do know him and Summer Langston were seen in the cinema car park in Exeter last week. He’s spreading himself around our school like an STD. And you’re falling for it.’
She walked over to me and sat on my lap. Her heaviness and warmth eased my fire immediately as she cuddled against me. She glanced towards the entrance of the changing rooms. ‘I love you, Ivy,’ she said, finding my mouth. My mouth was hard. I watched her kissing me – eyes open.
‘No, you fucking don’t,’ I said, pushing her off.
‘Where are you going?’
‘You know where I’m going,’ I said as I heaved open the door and stepped outside into the freezing cold morning air.
Don’t do it. You’ll regret it, came the voice in my head.
I strode up the football pitch keeping Randy Andrews in my vision.
He ran the line, blew his whistle, pointed to the penalty spot, tossed the ball back in where it had bounced out of play.
I thought of the messages on Chloe’s phone.
I saw myself in my mind’s eye – running the rest of the way, head down, legs a blur, him turning round, me smashing his face in.
And his face flying away as he lost balance, crashing down to the grass.
Scrambling to his feet, blood pouring, me swinging again – wide and around, and smash, wide and around, and smash, again and again, smash smash smash.
‘DOES THIS TURN YOU ON, KIERAN?’ I’d be screaming. ‘DOES THIS MAKE YOUR DICK HARD!?’
And then someone would try to pull me back but I wasn’t having it so I leapt on his back and pushed him down again, punching his blood-soaked face into the grass, slamming his head into the mud, yanking it up by the hair and slamming it down as he lay screaming.
This isn’t you. You’re better than this.
‘I FUCKING HATE YOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUU!’
You can’t fight a monster by becoming one, said the voice. And Andrews looked up and saw my face as I came within three feet of him on the touchline.
‘All right, Ivy? Did you get it all off?’
‘No. I borrowed some.’
‘Ah good girl,’ he said, grabbing the sleeve of my shirt to remove me from the field of play. I yanked my arm away, like he’d branded me.
‘Easy tiger.’
‘Don’t you fucking call me tiger, you nonce,’ I spat.
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘You’re grooming my girlfriend,’ I said, at some volume so the whole of the subs bench could hear me, if not a winger and a left-back. ‘And God knows how many others. Don’t think I don’t know.’ I stomped off towards the dugout and sat on the edge of the bench, almost pushing the others off it.
He didn’t even deny it, just ran onto the pitch to referee a squabble about a penalty over on the other side of the pitch. Everyone within a metre radius stared at me.
‘WHAT?’ I shouted, and everyone looked away.
And as I sat there, evilling him and silently hoping my death glare would do the trick, I knew beyond all doubt I was not going to hurt him.
Not in front of witnesses anyway.
I knew where Anning Court was. It overlooked the adventure playground where Chloe and I used to meet sometimes. We’d hide in the half pipe and kiss until the sky went dark.
Google told me that Andrews’ place was at the end of Anning Court: a two-bed starter home, partly screened by hedging at the front and backing onto the dog park.
It was nighttime by the time I got there, cutting through the dog park, where I knew there weren’t any doorbell cameras or CCTV.
I crossed it and slid down a steep, lager-can-strewn bank into the woods, then pushed through a hedge onto a narrow path running along the back of his house.
As I emerged from the bushes at the end of his garden, the lights were on inside.
Through the hallway window, I could see the back of his head as he sat in his armchair in the lounge, watching TV and swigging from a bottle of Huel. The window was slightly ajar.
‘Prick,’ I muttered as the mist gathered at the edges of my eyes. Go home, said the voice. Steer well clear of him. He’s bad news.
I fiddled with the screwdriver up my sleeve and the sharp end dropped down into my palm. ‘He’s got away with this for too fucking long.’ I recalled the touch of Chloe’s hands on my knees; the banana scent of her hair. The feel of her arms around my waist. Had he touched her like that? Had he?!
He got up from his chair and made for the door so I ducked down beneath the open window. I could smell his cooking – steamed fish and broccoli, just like he preached on the football field.
Nothing tastes as good as being fit feels, girls. So put that chocolate bar down and grab your broccoli.
‘Ugh.’
Nothing smells as bad as steamed fish either but he didn’t seem to notice that had permeated his many tracksuits in all the colours.
With the night dark enough and the man alone enough – barefoot and nonplussed, eating his fish off a lap tray while watching world athletics, I slid the end of the screwdriver into the gap in the window frame and tried to jemmy it open.
But as I did, a hand slid onto my shoulder, and another over my mouth.
‘Don’t scream,’ he whispered. ‘I’m not gonna hurt you.’
I couldn’t catch my breath. The hand stayed on my mouth as he pulled me backwards towards a thicket of trees at the back of the garden. As he removed his hand from my face, he took the screwdriver from me and it disappeared into his thigh pocket.
‘Go home, Ivy,’ he said.
I knew it wasn’t Andrews as a cheer went up in the lounge. This man had an American accent and there was a strong, earthy smell of weed and woodsmoke about him.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Doesn’t matter. But I knew you’d come here tonight. Go home.’
I caught my breath as we stood side by side watching Andrews watching TV. He was a clear foot taller than me but I couldn’t see much of his face as he had a hood up and a black mask covering the lower half. I didn’t know who he was but I knew I’d seen him before.
‘Y-you live in the woods b-behind the playing fields at school. I’ve seen you there, I saw you a couple of months ago when I went to feed the stray kittens.’ He nodded. ‘Our headmaster said you were homeless.’
He nodded again and looked back towards the house. With the remaining vestiges of light from the moon and the streetlights, his jet-black eyes seemed to sparkle.
‘You want him dead, don’t you?’ he said, still staring at the house.
I nodded. ‘So do I.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Not important. You need to go now. The longer you stay here, the less of an alibi you’ll have. Go to the arcades like you usually do.’
‘How do you know I go to the arcades?’
‘Cos I’ve seen you in there.’
‘You’ve been stalking me?’
‘No. A stalker wants something the stalkee doesn’t – we both want the same thing; to keep you safe. That’s all.’
‘I guess that’s okay then?’ I said, completely losing my mind at this interaction and the turn the evening had taken. ‘Why do you want him dead? What’s he done to you?’
‘It’s what he’s done to you.’
We ducked down as Andrews stood up from his seat and took his tray through to the kitchen. He came back with a bowl of something and a drink. Then he closed the curtains so we could no longer see.
‘Dammit,’ I said.
‘Go,’ the man in the mask repeated. ‘I’ll finish this.’
And for whatever reason, I believed him.
I didn’t get my screwdriver back though, not that it was mine to begin with – it was one Mitch had left behind in the garage.
And I forgot Mum’s ice lollies as well – the reason I’d told her I was going out.
I stayed at the arcades for the next hour until the last bus for Axminster and then ate a bag of chips all the way home.
And all the time, from when I left Anning Court, to the moment I stepped into bed that night and couldn’t sleep for staring at the ceiling, all I could think about was his black eyes and the way he had looked at that window. Dark and threatening and he didn’t blink, not once the whole time.