Page 23

One of the many ways in which I admired Claudia was that she understood the power of information. At school, she kept immaculate written records – expenditure, correspondence, attendance. She reflected this same precision in her personal life, keeping detailed records on everyone she encountered in the browning pages of a leather notebook – her fabled black book. This book contained everyone’s secrets and had the power to disprove their lies. In the wrong hands, it would be a very dangerous weapon.

Which is why, on the night of her death, I ensured it fell into mine.

I’ll confess that my motivation wasn’t entirely altruistic – despite our uneasy friendship, I too had a detailed entry in the black book, information that will now never see the light of day if Andrews plays his part, thank the Lord. I should, of course, take it straight to the authorities. But the authorities don’t always recognise the power of information. I, however, do. Claudia’s black book is both my salvation from my past sins and my insurance against any future ones. Not to mention an insight into just how much sinning is going around. I leave the headmaster’s office a happy man. The Lord has found a way to ease my burden and in His grace go I.

And I might not win the quiz tonight. But I’m officially fifty thousand pounds to the good. Andrews will pay. He has no choice.

I return to my office with a lightness in my step. It’s been a most satisfying evening. My job is secure. My reduced circumstances greatly improved. I even got a glimpse of Kiera’s alabaster thighs . . . Oh, why not.

I pull out my bottom drawer, where I keep my celebratory whisky. I’ve earned it.

I’m just enjoying a small nip when there’s a knock at my door. I tense – has Andrews come to make good on his threat?

But, when the door opens, it’s an entirely different kind of danger.

‘Can I come in?’ she asks, atypically.

I sit back and inhale deeply.

‘I don’t know, Mrs Fisher,’ I reply. ‘Can you?’

I see her jaw twitch, but her usual impertinence is gone. I can’t decide whether I prefer this or not. But it certainly feels like some kind of victory.

‘ . . . about what you saw . . .’ she begins and I raise a hand to stop her.

‘Fear not,’ I say. ‘Lover boy has elected to spare your blushes. ‘Your sordid little secret is safe with me.’

She closes her eyes and looks relieved.

‘Thank you,’ she says, and her earnestness almost moves me.

Almost.

‘That said,’ I continue. ‘There are a couple of . . . other matters I should like to discuss with you. Will you take a seat?’

She moves cautiously into the room and sits down gingerly. Gone is the swagger of the impudent tart. She looks cowed. Vulnerable. Scared, even.

It is sinfully arousing.

‘I think it’s time you and I had a very honest conversation,’ I tell her. ‘And I confess I’ve not been entirely truthful with you. I’m hoping that tonight’s . . . revelations . . . might herald a new dawn for our relationship.’

‘Go on,’ she says uncertainly. She’s right to be suspicious.

‘The night we lost our dear Claudia,’ I begin, ‘do you recall me entering the kitchen as you and Hattie were cleaning up after the statue debacle?’

‘Vaguely,’ she says, still on her guard.

‘Well, I must confess, Mrs Fisher, one of my vices has always been nosiness. I’m a frightful snoop,’ I whisper. ‘I’d actually been at the door for some time. Which is when I saw you. I saw you put something in Claudia’s tea. A tablet of some kind I believe?’

I have to give it to her, she takes it like a champ. Only the faintest colouration to her cheeks denotes any response at all.

‘It was a sweetener,’ she blatantly lies.

‘Claudia didn’t take sugar,’ I remind her.

‘I realised that afterwards,’ she says. ‘Which is why I poured it away and made her a new one.’

‘I see,’ I tell her. ‘Now that I didn’t witness. What a shame.’

‘Hattie did,’ she says quickly. ‘I have an alibi.’

‘Oh, come now, my dear,’ I chortle. ‘There’s no need for high-sounding words like that – if I were going to report you to the authorities, I’d have done so long ago. I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocent explanation. None of my business.’

I smile. Because this time I am telling the truth. I remain unconvinced that anyone murdered Claudia Stitchwell. I know I didn’t. But the very spectre of its possibility is proving incredibly useful.

‘Good,’ she says. ‘What was the other matter? You said there were a couple?’

‘An excellent eye for detail,’ I begin. ‘Just like our dear departed Claudia. As you know, she never trusted technology – she relied on written correspondence only.’

Kiera nods. She has no idea where this is going. Excellent.

‘However, she was aware of the importance of detail – of keeping proper records,’ I say. ‘You’re too young to remember carbon paper – we relied on it back in the day. But the old ways can be the best. And, while tending to Claudia’s personal effects, I found copies of every letter Claudia ever wrote.’

I watch the colour drain from her face. I pull open my top drawer.

‘Including her final one.’

I hand it over to her. But a single glance at the intended recipient, Margaret Porter, Head of Shottsford House, and she knows precisely what it says.

‘You can keep that if you like. I have a copy at home,’ I tell her as I see her fingers twitch to destroy it.

Her jaw locks.

‘It was you,’ she says plainly. ‘The “cheat” note. You put it on my car.’

‘And, judging by tonight’s little performance, wasn’t I prescient?’ I rejoice.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asks.

‘Well, that very much depends on you, dear,’ I say, the bouquet of possibilities blossoming in front of me. ‘I know you destroyed the original the night of Claudia’s tragic demise. But this is a certified copy in her handwriting. The message could still be conveyed.’

She replaces the piece of paper carefully on the desk. She raises her eyes and bolts them to mine. They’re red and slightly puffy. She’s been crying. I have an overwhelming urge to taste her tears.

‘What do you want?’ she says plainly. I have to admire her for not even attempting to defy or justify her actions. It would be a shameful waste of both our time.

I try to push the sin from my mind. But it’s been there a long time and has grown weighty. I think of her stocking-sheathed thighs, wrapped wantonly around Andrews, the little slut.

‘Payment,’ I tell her simply. ‘I want you to pay for what you’ve done.’

‘I don’t have any money,’ she says. ‘You know that.’

‘Well then, my dear,’ I say quietly. ‘I suppose the question must be . . . what are you prepared to give me?’

Most of my moves thus far have been purely for self-preservation. Hattie was to keep my job. Andrews to repair my finances. Claudia would have appreciated this and I’ve only done what anyone would do given my position. It’s just business.

But Kiera Fisher?

This is purely for pleasure.

It would have been base to articulate my meaning and, given my audience, it isn’t required. She exhales through her nose and stares at me again. The granite is back. Thank the Lord. This would feel so wrong if it weren’t. She stands slowly and pushes the chair back with her thighs – those thighs . . . She walks to the door and turns the key in the lock, checking the handle for confirmation we won’t be interrupted. She’s learned one lesson tonight already.

And I’ll be delighted to teach her another.

She pauses at the door – she knows she can still walk out of it; I’m not a violent man. And there’s no victory in snatching something. It’s so much the sweeter if it’s presented to you.

Kiera returns to the desk and stands awkwardly. She’s awaiting instruction. I can barely breathe for the anticipation. I’ve thought of this moment many times. But in the sinful flesh it is so much more than I could ever have hoped for. This is wrong. Wicked. Bad.

And I am powerless to stop it.

‘What do you want . . . me to do?’ she finally asks. She truly is the Whore of Babylon, quite prepared to prostitute herself for her own gain. I’m disgusted.

Exhilaratingly so.

I stand up and move slowly round the desk and perch next to her. I cannot touch her. That would be a sin. She’s another man’s wife, not that she seems to have been aware of that tonight. The seventh commandment: You Shall Not Commit Adultery. Mrs Fisher has broken a sacred law. And for that she should be punished.

I lean forward and feel her shudder.

‘Put your hands on the desk,’ I tell her.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asks, not unreasonably, I suppose. I smirk – I’ll confess, it is a smirk – and walk round her to the other side of my desk where my stationery sits neatly in an oak pot. I remove my wooden ruler – I do so like things to be precise – and I run my fingers along the length of it.

‘I’m going to give you something you should have had a long time ago,’ I tell her.

‘And what’s that?’ she asks.

Her lips are puckering in shameful rage. I will cherish that until my dying day.

‘Some discipline,’ I tell her. ‘Put. Your hands. On the desk.’

I watch her struggle. I think the little slattern would rather have surrendered her body. But I want something far more precious.

I want her obedience.

I gesture towards the door to remind her that it remains an option open to her. She flicks her eyes towards it, but appears to eliminate the possibility. I can almost feel her teeth grinding. She looks at me like Satan himself is staring at her . . . and bends forward, slamming her palms on the desk.

‘Further,’ I whisper. ‘Reach further.’

She slides her hands robotically across the desk, until she’s almost inclined ninety degrees. I can make out the trim of those stockings through her skirt, the slut. I swallow down my excessive saliva.

‘You’ve been wicked,’ I tell her, as I was told so many times at school. ‘And now you must pay.’

She doesn’t move. There’s no crying, no begging, no whimpering. She is resolute and strong. It’s infuriatingly erotic.

I stare down at her, bent over my desk. I yearn to touch her, to run my finger along her spine, to feel her skin pucker at my touch. But that would be a sin. And I’m here to make her atone.

I grip the ruler in my hand and stand alongside her.

‘You ready?’ I ask, although it matters not either way. She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t have to. I was never consulted.

I lower the ruler with a trembling hand. I’ve been on the receiving end of this treatment many times, at school and since. But I’ve never administered it. And I like to do everything proficiently.

I pull the ruler back . . . and bring it down smartly on her behind. She jars – but I think more through shock than pain. My aim is not to hurt her. It’s to teach her. I bring the ruler down again.

‘You are wicked,’ I repeat through clenched teeth. ‘You are a wicked, wicked girl.’

I spank her again. And again. I’m building a steady rhythm of justice, a blow every two seconds in line with the ticking of my grandfather clock. She is motionless, taking the punishment as a sinner should. I know she’s not penitent. I know she’ll never be clean. But I’m doing the work of the Lord.

‘Wicked,’ I pant, speech deserting me as the sweat begins to bead on my forehead. ‘Wicked, wicked girl . . .’

The blows are coming faster now, every second at least and my neat rhythm has gone all to hell. I imagine the skin beneath the ruler blooming beneath the rod, those wanton stockings wrapped round my hips, the taste of those pert lips on mine as we sin over this desk and . . .

It is done.

I pause breathlessly for a moment before returning the ruler to its rightful place. I walk back round the desk, mop my brown and sit hastily down.

‘You may leave,’ I tell her by way of dismissal. I can’t look at her. Everything is a transaction. And the price of sin is shame.

I hear her move wordlessly to the door and I hear it closing behind her.

I clasp my hands.

I drop to my knees.

And I pray for the Lord’s forgiveness.

‘And I’m telling ya, I’d never nick off the kids . . .’

I hear the furore before I see it – it is rare for Andy to raise his voice, so it rather stands out. As I turn the corner, there he is, standing with Andrews, his personal effects littered on the floor around them. The Quiz Night is coming to an end in the hall.

‘WINNER WINNER, CHICKEN DINNER!’ I hear Matt Fisher bellow down the mic.

What little he knows.

‘You have to understand, Andy,’ Andrews says in that patronising tone of his, ‘this doesn’t look good.’

‘Course it doesn’t!’ Andy replies. ‘Because that’s what you’re supposed to think, you pratt!’

‘You’re saying that someone planted these things in your bag?’

‘Look, mate – not to brag,’ Andy says, an exasperated hand on his hip, ‘but if I were gonna nick off you, you’d never see it coming. And I’d not be bloody stupid enough to keep it on me.’

‘What’s going on?’ I ask, striding briskly up to them.

‘We have a . . . situation,’ Andrews says. ‘There have been reports of certain items going missing – I’ve just found them in Andy’s bag.’

I look at Andy, who just shakes his head. I urge him to fight. But this is a man who has fought enough. He knows the war is lost. And it is deeply, profoundly unfair.

So I will fight the good fight for him.

‘This is palpably absurd,’ I tell Andrews. ‘This is clearly a set-up . . .’

‘All I know is that some personal items have been stolen and they’ve been found in Andy’s possession,’ says Andrews, the ineffectual idiot. ‘I’m sorry – but I’m going to have to refer this to the police. And, Andy – I’m afraid I’m going to have to suspend your employment here until further notice.’

‘Mr Andrews,’ I say, with no small menace in my voice, ‘I cannot allow this farce to continue . . .’

‘Course you are, pal,’ says Andy, stuffing his belongings into his rucksack. ‘And I’m sure the feds’ll be ever so considerate to the homeless guy with the kiddie phone in his bag. I’m outta here.’

‘That’s probably for the best,’ Andrews simpers.

‘Whose best?’ Andy asks him.

‘No – Andy – wait,’ I tell him, an unfamiliar panic rising in my chest. ‘There has clearly been a misunderstanding. The headmaster just needs a moment to consider his response. Don’t you, Mr Andrews?’

I look at Andrews in a way that can leave absolutely no doubt as to my meaning. He returns my gaze with steel in his eyes. He’s angry. Very, very angry.

‘And I’m sure the school business manager knows that we are obliged at all times to act in accordance with the law,’ he shoots back, his fingers twitching. ‘I’m sorry, Andy. I wish you well. Truly I do.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ says Andy, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. ‘Time to move on anyhow . . .’

‘No . . . Andy . . . wait!’ I tell him. ‘Let’s . . . let’s just go home. I can find you another job . . . You don’t need another job – you can stay with me. It’ll all be well . . .’

Andy turns and stares at me.

‘You’re a decent bloke, ,’ he says. ‘But you need to go and find your own life. Mine’s already spoken for.’

And with a single-fingered gesture of farewell, he storms out of the door.

I spin on my heel. I am ablaze with fury.

‘You spineless, vengeful bastard,’ I hiss at Andrews. ‘You did that on purpose. And you’re going to pay . . .’

‘Now look here, pal,’ he says, squaring his considerable frame up. ‘I’ve taken about as much I’m gonna take from you tonight. You’ve said your piece. Now get out of my face. Before I make you.’

There is so much more I want to say. But discretion is the better part of valour. I’m never going to win a fist fight with this brute. And, besides, I have other weapons at my disposal. I back away. Andrews stands down – Priya Mistry is first out the hall, laughing drunkenly with Tanya Jones.

‘Oi, oi!’ she slurs in our direction, pointing an unsteady finger. ‘I hope you lot weren’t conferring out here! Mauvais points for the lot of you!’

‘Glad you had fun,’ says Ben as she starts to wheel away, before turning sotto voce to me. ‘Go home. I’ve had enough for today. We all have. Let’s just take the weekend to cool down and—’

‘CLIVE BAXENDALE, I’M GONNA BLOODY brAIN YOU!’

I barely have time to register the threat before I’m enveloped by large amounts of Hattie. She’s pummelling at me with her sizeable fists, raining wrathful blows down on me. I feel hair removed and my nose bloodied before she’s yanked off me like a wild animal.

‘Hattie!’ Tanya says, holding her back. ‘What on earth are you—’

‘You ask him!’ she shrieks. ‘You ask him what he did to Kiera! I always knew you was a creep, Baxendale. But I didn’t have you down as one of them sex attackers!’

‘ What? ’ I cry. ‘I did no such—’

But my protestation is quickly silenced.

By a large Scottish fist to my face.

It is a while before I am back home. Tending to my bleeding nose took some time, especially as I was offered no assistance from Ben, nor Hattie, nor the two parents who witnessed the assault. Them having an inkling of the events in my office is inconvenient, but this is tomorrow’s problem – after I go to the police. Andrews isn’t getting away with violence and with no actual evidence of my financial situation it would just look like tit for tat.

For tonight I have more pressing concerns. I have been driving the streets of Flatford for over an hour trying to spot Andy. People think that the homeless are everywhere. But when they don’t want to be found they are truly invisible. I leave a few messages with a few people and hope that he heeded what I said and made his way home. Because in these short weeks it has become his home. Our home. And it won’t feel like a home without him.

But, as I pull up on my driveway, I’m struck by an overwhelming relief. Praise be! The prodigal son has returned!

Even if he still can’t shut a wretched door . . .

I veritably leap out of the car and run into the house. It’s dark, but I don’t even pause to put on the light. I just want to find him.

To find Andy.

To find my friend.

‘Andy! Andy!’ I call into the darkness. ‘Andy – I’m so relieved you . . .’

Argh – this is ridiculous. It’s dark and I can’t see a damn thing. I fumble around at the base of a lamp and turn it on, the luminous eruption particularly invasive after the pitch black.

But as my eyes adjust I wish they hadn’t.

My house has been ransacked. Furniture overturned, vases smashed, papers strewn across the floor . . .

And my own gun is pointing straight at me.

I’d always hoped that the last words I’d hear would be from Psalm 23.

The Lord is my Shepherd.

I shall not be in want.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.

I will fear no evil.

But it isn’t to be.

Instead, I am to be commended to the Lord’s care with a parting shot every bit as violent as the one that shortly follows it.

‘Fuck you, Baxendale. Rot in hell.’