33. Wren
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
WREN
It has been a long day.
The lessons have blurred into one, so much so I accidentally set up for Macbeth with my Year Sevens instead of their nonfiction scheme.
It has been a welcome break from the awfulness of last night, something to keep me distracted and busy.
Any spare moment I am back there, down in the dirt, searching for a body that refuses to be found.
When I got home, I showered for thirty full minutes, scrubbing and scrubbing every inch of my skin until I felt like Lady Macbeth myself.
I have been checking myself in the mirror at every available opportunity, sure there will be some fleck of mud that will give everything away.
Goldie’s body has made everyone forget that Bishop’s House has changed. Deliberate shifts of the things we knew and loved. Callbacks to things we’d rather forget. That gnome, that damn gnome. Whoever we’re dealing with is taunting us. This isn’t a good thing, whatever Starling wants to pretend.
This is dangerous.
The after-school department meeting is in Maggie’s room, but she’s actually off too, down with the flu at the worst possible time, because Shelley went into labor last night.
A cover teacher for her has arrived early: Thomas, early thirties, career changer.
The girls are all obsessed with him already.
Perhaps there won’t even be a meeting, but we have to at least show up, make the effort, and then retreat to our classrooms to get on with the piles of marking we have to do on top of whatever tasks we’re designated.
I should have just phoned in sick too. It’s not like it’s a lie; I’m exhausted.
But Mum and Dad’s work ethic has certainly conditioned me to feel awful anytime I even contemplate it.
Lazy, lazy, lazy. I wonder what they’d think of Starling.
Malcolm, Deputy Head, rounds the corner at the opposite end of the corridor and begins walking toward me just as I’m about to get to Maggie’s classroom. I think nothing of it, assume he is on some other errand, when he asks if he can have a word.
Malcolm is a very serious man. His subject specialism is IT, but I don’t think he’s actually taught a proper lesson in years.
He always seems to be off timetable, even with the minuscule teaching hours he actually has, swanning around with his iPad, either looking pleased with himself or stressed, trailing after misbehaving children he’s been asked to remove from a classroom.
He ushers me now into one, gesturing for me to sit down at a table like one of the children while he stands in front of the whiteboard.
“How’s Shelley?” I ask, though I doubt Malcolm takes much of an interest in all things pregnancy.
He does apparently have children, both older than me, but the idea of him engaging in the activity that brings them into the world seems so at odds with the robotic man in front of me I can’t help hiding a smirk at the thought.
“Still in labor, last I heard,” he says. “But doing fine.”
That has to be almost twenty-four hours now. Yikes. You’ll never catch me having children.
“Thomas is settling in well,” I say, when he doesn’t immediately offer a reason for this meeting. “The department meeting will be in Maggie’s room now. He’s the maternity cover for Shelley then?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you about,” Malcolm says.
“Thomas is only temporary while Maggie has the flu, and he’s helping with Shelley’s absence.
A couple of weeks we weren’t anticipating.
There will be an interview process, naturally, but we’d like to reward someone internal.
And Maggie is always singing your praises . . .”
“She is?” I can’t imagine Maggie singing anyone’s praises. Then I realize what he’s suggesting. “Hang on, you want me to be Second of Department while Shelley’s off?”
Malcolm’s hand drifts to his tie, playing with the end of it. “That is the opinion of the senior leadership team. And Maggie, of course.”
“I’m only fully qualified since last year.”
“Three good years of teaching, and a lot of resilience. You’ve been an asset.”
I remember Shelley coming in and randomly telling me what a good job I was doing. Was she thinking of it even then? Did she suggest it to Maggie, who put the idea to Malcolm?
“What about the rest of the department?”
“To be frank,” he says, “they all already have extra roles. Aesha is a Head of Year, Rose is in charge of Gifted and Talented . . . You’re the obvious choice.”
My immediate instinct is to deny this. Run away from it.
I don’t want to be a teacher. This isn’t my plan.
This was only ever meant to be a quick fix while I figured my life out, the plan B my parents insisted on and then were disappointed I followed through with.
Becoming a qualified teacher was a means to an end, an added bonus when I left to teach English abroad to help me get positions faster.
That was how I rationalized the choice in my head.
But if I accept this, I’ll be taking on even more responsibility. Becoming an active member of the school. Making real decisions.
“The remuneration will be significant.”
“Remuneration?”
“Your TLR.” He explains how much I’ll receive for the year, and then he keeps talking, but I no longer hear him.
Thousands. It is thousands.
With this bonus, I could save loads.
Enough for a plane ticket to Japan.
Enough of a safety net to apply for teaching jobs there and be able to stay.
An excited shiver runs through me. This is it.
“I’ll do it,” I say.
“Brilliant,” Malcolm replies. “I’ll arrange the details, and there will be an interview for formality’s sake, but consider yourself acting Second of Department while Shelley is on maternity leave.”
I can’t stop smiling. Malcolm leaves happy too, but he no doubt thinks this means I’ll appreciate the school and stay here for the long run. No chance. I’ll be gone as soon as the next year is up, when my pay decreases again. I’ll be on the next plane to Japan, and I won’t look back.
The department meeting is over (if it ever even began) by the time I get there, and everyone has drifted back to their own classrooms now that Maggie isn’t here to run the show.
It’s crazy to think that in a week or two these will be meetings I help lead.
I’ll be the one snapping at everyone to pay attention.
Thomas is the only one still in Maggie’s classroom, and I realize it’s because this technically is his classroom until she returns.
“Sorry!” I say. “Malcolm pulled me in for something. Did I miss anything exciting?”
“Rose said Shelley has had her baby,” he says. “A girl, apparently. Seven pounds.”
His voice oozes like melted chocolate, dark and rich.
“That’s amazing,” I say. “I’ll have to message congratulations.”
“When four o’clock hits and our mandatory time in this building is over,” he says, “do you want to go for a drink?”
His forwardness startles me. “A drink? A friendly one?”
“Depends what you mean by friendly.”
Stop it. You don’t have time for this.
I shake my head. “Sorry. I’m meeting my parents for dinner. Another time?”
“Sure.”
An hour later, as I am heading down the corridor to leave, he gives me a wave through his open classroom door, and I wave back.
A promotion. More money. I can get out of here at last. That’s what I need to focus on. Running away, especially after everything returning to haunt me.
The car groans as I turn on the engine, makes a shuddering sound, and fails.
I try it again, turn the key, and it takes another couple of attempts before it finally bursts to life.
It’s a twenty-year-old car, and I can’t afford for it to break down, not when I might finally get somewhere with my Japan fund.
It’s always the way. I’ll have some savings building up, it’ll look remotely possible, and bam.
The car breaks down. There’s an unexpected bill to pay. Christmas or birthdays. It never ends.
The message is waiting for me when I finally check my phone. Time-stamped to two hours ago, it has been there, anticipating me. Knowing I wouldn’t have had the time to check before now.
Maybe you imagined it and I ran away to London after all.
Everyone else has received it, I can see clearly in the group chat.
They are arranging to meet at Crow’s tonight, and I have to delay them.
There’s no way I can cancel this dinner, not after canceling so many before, not after Mum rang yesterday to confirm and I said yes, thinking, of course, everything would be sorted by then.
God.
Someone knows.
They really, truly know.
All my progress with controlling my anxiety, every breath technique and thinking strategy, is out the window.
The only thing that helps is focusing on driving, trying to ignore my rapid breaths and thumping heart.
I have to calm down. Mum and Dad can’t know anything is wrong.
I have to get through this dinner and then figure out what happens next.
What does happen next?
Are we going to prison?
Concealing a body is a crime, isn’t it? Unlawful burial too? Goldie is a missing person, and we’ve been aware of what happened to her. And now we can’t even help locate her.
What on earth are we going to do?