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Okay.

To try to keep perspective, the Ofsted inspection could be going worse. The school could be on fire. I could have forgotten to get dressed this morning. I could have puked on the lead inspector’s shoes.

But aside from that.

It’s fucking awful.

Everything that could be going wrong is. We are in the grip of a full-on plague – kids who clearly shouldn’t have been brought into school are dropping like flies, often in a pool of their own vomit. The agency cleaners are refusing to come in because we have norovirus in the school and, having not yet replaced Andy, we’re having to sort it as we go.

‘Mind out the way, you great lug,’ says Hattie, barging past, sleeves rolled up and carrying a mop and bucket. ‘Little Lily Smith in Bumblebees has just exploded like a landmine.’

Hattie Hughes. There’s an enigma wrapped in a riddle. Last night, when she came out of her talk with Bob, she walked past me and grabbed my wrist. Hard.

‘Now you listen to me,’ she whispered. ‘You didn’t lamp Clive, you hear? You keep your mouth shut about that or we’re both in the cack.’

I didn’t really know what to say. But she didn’t look like she was up for a conversation.

‘Okay,’ I told her. ‘Anything else?’

‘If you’re asked, Clive left his wallet at school and I took it to his house,’ she whispered hurriedly. ‘You stick to that, we’re both in the clear, you hear me?’

Why would Hattie lie? And why does she need me to? And other people saw . . . Bob told me that it was my fingerprints they’d found on the groundnut oil bottle, but I pointed out that was hardly surprising given I bought it. He wanted to know why it was inside Creepy Jesus and I told him I could only guess it was a prank – the things we’ve found in CJ over the years . . . When I have five seconds to rub together, there’s a lot to unpack.

But right now I don’t.

It’s like a war zone here. And, added to that, terrible weather last night has caused all kinds of storm damage – the leaky roof finally gave up the ghost, so I came in at 6am to discover the Early Years corridor looking like Noah’s Ark. Thank Christ Marcia was here too – she got straight on the clean-up op – her time as a firefighter prepared her well for today – but the school, which was looking like a new pin last night, now looks like a humanitarian crisis.

And this guy . . .

‘So,’ says Mr Nutt, the Ofsted inspector, who is the bastard love child of Senator McCarthy and Satan. ‘You have been in budget deficit for how long?’

We’re in my office and it’s been unrelenting. While the other inspectors have sat in classes, we’ve gone through everything – early years, phonics, maths, safeguarding, my last bowel movement – you name it. I understand him being thorough. Less clear on why he has to be a complete prick about it.

‘As you know, I’ve not long been in post,’ I explain for the fiftieth time. ‘And, sadly, we are still untangling some of the financial misconduct of our late bursar. But I’m confident that with some gentle prudence and cutting of our cloth, we can be back in the black . . .’

‘Confidence is not what I am seeking, Mr Andrews,’ he says laconically. ‘Action is what is required here.’

‘And – as I hope I’ve laid out in my plans – should I be appointed to the role permanently, it will be my first priority,’ I say as pleasantly as my clenched incisors will allow.

‘Your first priority?’ he leaps. ‘So not, say, your dire reading attainment levels at Key Stage 1? Or the polarity in your maths SATs? Or your staff retainment issues?’

‘I said “first priority”,’ I reply while digging my nails into my palms. ‘Not “only”, Mr Nutt. All of these things will need to be addressed. And I sincerely believe I am the man to address them.’

‘Hmmm,’ he replies. The prick.

I’m extremely grateful for the knock on the door. So should he be.

‘Mr Andrews – I’m so sorry to interrupt – but I have an urgent call for you,’ says Marcia. This is our code to interrupt a meeting and I’m glad for it.

‘I’m so sorry – would you excuse me?’ I say to Nutt. ‘Perhaps Marcia could show you our lovely poetry displays in the hall . . . ?’

Before he can object, Marcia has ushered him out of the office. Always employ a former bodyguard as a school admin – that’s my advice.

‘With you in one moment,’ she says to Nutt, closing the door behind him.

‘Oh Jeez, thanks for that,’ I say. ‘I swear it would be less stressful juggling flaming machetes than dealing with this clown . . .’

‘Sorry, – not The Code this time,’ she says. ‘I’ve got Margaret Porter on the phone.’

‘From Shottsford House?’ I ask. ‘What does she want?’

‘Grace Fisher had her scholarship interview there today,’ Marcia continues slowly.

‘She did,’ I say, warming at even this adjacency to Kiera. ‘She’s probably just calling me to formally confirm Gracie’s place – can you put her off to later in the week?’

‘I don’t think that’s it,’ she says grimly. ‘She sounds . . . It doesn’t sound good.’

My guts churn. I don’t know if it’s the thought of something going wrong for Kiera or the stirrings of norovirus. But I try to quell it.

‘Put her through,’ I say as she returns to her office. This day, man . . . I sit down and try to breathe through the growing nausea. Don’t panic, Andrews. You’ve seen off worse than this.

I pick up the phone and hear Marcia redirect the call.

‘?’

‘Hi there, Margaret – sorry I’ve not been in touch. My feet have barely touched the ground since I took over.’

‘I quite understand – it’s a whirlwind and I’m happy to catch up with you properly soon,’ she begins. ‘But I’m afraid a . . . situation has arisen today that we need to discuss.’

My guts rumble. I hope Margaret didn’t hear it.

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Is this to do with Grace Fisher?’

‘I’m afraid it is,’ she replies. ‘As you are probably aware, I interviewed Grace this morning to confirm her award of the Shottsford House Foundation Scholarship.’

‘She’s a lovely girl, isn’t she?’ I say quickly, trying to damp down whatever is coming next. ‘A really bright star here at St Nonn’s.’

‘Absolutely,’ she says, with words rather than feelings. ‘But something came up during our time together that has left me deeply troubled.’

Oh Christ. Grace said something about me and Kiera. Shit, shit, shit . . .

‘I have some serious concerns over the provenance of Grace’s scholarship submission,’ she says.

‘I’m sorry?’ I say, like I don’t understand posh speak. I understand perfectly what she’s saying. I just don’t know what the bloody hell to say back.

‘To put it plainly, . . . I don’t think Grace created the artwork for which she was awarded the funds. I think she cheated . . . or, more to the point, I think someone cheated on her behalf. I didn’t get the impression Grace knew anything about the deception.’

I want to rush to defend Grace, to say that’s impossible. But then I think of Kiera and the way she’s spoken about that school . . . Kiera the devoted parent. Kiera the ambitious mother. Kiera the talented artist . . . Shit.

‘I . . . I don’t know what to say,’ I finally splutter out incoherently. ‘I know Grace to be very gifted and someone who would thrive at Shottsford House . . .’

‘I’m sure both of those things are true,’ she says gently. ‘But you understand, – my hands are tied here. Your school must have a record of what was supposed to be submitted . . . I don’t want to conjecture what has happened, but if it doesn’t match with what we based our decision on, I will have no choice but to revoke the scholarship.’

‘Of course,’ I say quickly, a chink of light opening up. ‘I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding and we can clear it up – but can you bear with us? We’ve got Ofsted and norovirus in today and I’m not sure which one’s worse . . .’

‘Oh, you should have said – you must be up to your eyes in it,’ she says.

‘I’m up to my eyes in something, I tell you,’ I try to laugh. ‘But, I promise, the second we’re over the worst of both, I’ll be giving this my urgent attention.’

‘I appreciate it,’ she says. ‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, replacing the phone.

Kiera, what have you done . . . ?

There is a knock at the door – it’s Marcia again.

‘Sorry, – I’ve parked Nutt at the poetry. But we’ve had another two projectile vomits in Ladybirds and we’ve just had a call from the electricity board. They’re doing some urgent storm repairs in the area, so we’re going to be without power at some point between . . .’

The lights flicking off and the screams of children being plunged into darkness fill in the timeline.

‘Well, that’s just brilliant,’ I mutter as the emergency lights power up. ‘Okay, let’s find torches, lamps, headlights, Victorian streetlights, anything that brightens the place up.’

‘Already on it,’ says Marcia, going back to her office as I head the other way back up the murky Early Years corridor towards the hall and Mr Nutt.

‘You couldn’t make it up!’ I say brightly as I return to him. ‘I know some schools try to keep you in the dark, but this is ridiculous!’

I laugh. He doesn’t.

‘Now – where were we?’ I say, my voice far, far too high.

‘You were telling me about attainment levels,’ he says. ‘We’ve noticed that they’ve dropped considerably since our last inspection.’

‘Ah yes – the Covid ripple,’ I say. ‘Home learning was very inconsistent during the pandemic and we’re still struggling to level up the kids who perhaps didn’t have that support for whatever reason at home.’

‘And what measures are you putting in place?’ he says as we feel our way along the corridor towards Badger Class.

‘Our main strategy relies on early identification and intervention,’ I explain in the darkness. ‘We’re blessed at St Nonnatus with an enthusiastic team of parent volunteers who happily give of their time to—’

‘Whoaahahahhahhhhhh!’ I hear Nutt shriek, followed by a hefty thud.

‘Mr Nutt? Mr Nutt? Are you okay?’ I cry, feeling around for him. I get no response. I kneel down and the source of his accident immediately becomes clear when my trousers are soaked with vomit. And the upshot becomes even clearer as the inert form of Mr Nutt collides with my hand. He isn’t moving. Oh shit – have we just killed the bloody Ofsted inspector?

Although . . .

I push the thought from my mind.

‘Mr Nutt? Are you okay?’ I shout at either his head, feet or arse – I cannot see a bloody thing.

A faint moan replies.

Thank Christ for that. I remember that my phone is still in my pocket – screw you, Stitchwell and your No Phone Zone policy – and go to switch on the torch. But, before I can, I see a message from twenty minutes ago.

Kiera

Don’t send anything to Shottsford.

I’m coming in.

I can explain.

Desperate as I am to see her . . . one thing at a time.

I find Mr Nutt’s arms and I pull him up to sitting. Just as I’m trying to reposition him, the phone rings. It’s Elena. Fuck . . . I can’t ignore it. I’ve been trying to get hold of her all night. I need to know what’s happening with my son . . .

‘Elena,’ I say, dropping Mr Nutt to the floor with a thud. ‘What the hell is going on up there?’

‘Hello, ,’ says a softly spoken voice. ‘It’s Don.’

I look up at the crucifix through the hall window.

You have got to be having a laugh.

‘Don,’ I say. ‘I need to talk to you – if you are doing anything to my son . . .’

‘That’s why I’m phoning,’ he says calmly. ‘There’s clearly been a misunderstanding.’

‘Of course there has,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Because my son doesn’t understand a grown man picking on him. Whatever you did to him yesterday . . .’

‘That’s why I’m calling you, ,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t with Finn yesterday. Neither of us were. We went away overnight to celebrate Elena’s birthday on Wednesday. Finn was with his grandparents.’

I want to shout at him, to tell him he’s lying.

But then I think about my call with Arthur and Caitlin.

So that’s why they weren’t concerned.

Because Finn was with them.

He lied. He lied to me.

‘It’s clear that Finn is having some . . . difficulty . . . adjusting to my relationship with his mother,’ says Don. ‘I understand it entirely – I remember meeting my stepfather as a lad. I wanted to push him off a bridge . . .’

I quickly think of all the bridges in Inverness that would be fit for the task.

‘I hope he will come to see me differently in time,’ he continues, ‘but I just want to reassure you that I want nothing more than Finn and Elena’s happiness. So I thought this would be an opportunity for us to talk and sort this out. Calmly.’

I look at the vomit, the semi-conscious inspector and the massive hole in the ceiling.

‘Now’s not really the best time for me, Don,’ I say.

‘Oh, that’s just typical,’ says Elena, butting in. ‘We try to be calm and reasonable and you are too bloody childish to even engage—’

‘Elena, it’s not that,’ I say, as Mr Nutt starts to groan. ‘I’m having a day – we’ve got Ofsted here and—’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I get it – I understand your precious career. It’s why I let you keep it,’ she spits. ‘But you wonder why our son is making up stories? It’s to get your bloody attention.’

The phone call cuts off. I hate her. I hate her so much.

Not least, because she’s absolutely fucking right.

It will change. It will all change.

From tomorrow.

I call the school number.

‘Hello, St Nonnatus Primary, Marcia speaking . . .’

‘Marcia! It’s me! I need the first aid kit in the EY corridor stat! And mind your step! It’s like Pat Sharp’s sodding Fun House around here.’

‘On my way,’ she says without question, which is one of the many reasons I love working with her. We were so lucky to wrestle her away from the Houses of Parliament.

Mr Nutt is coming to.

‘What happened?’ he says blearily.

‘No drama,’ I say calmly. ‘You just took a wee tumble. Our first aider is on the way – we always have at least two on site at any given time. Our commitment to Health and Safety is unparalleled . . .’

He gives me a look. Pick your moment, .

‘Right,’ I say to him before he can fully regain his wits. ‘It’s not long till home time – why don’t we just pick this up tomorrow when you’re feeling better, okay?’

Marcia comes running – carefully – down the hall, armed with a first-aid kit and a torch.

‘You got this?’ I ask her.

‘I got,’ she says. ‘By the way – Kiera just got in. She’s looking for you everywhere.’

Marcia’s too smart not to know that it’s connected to my call with Margaret, but she’s too professional to comment.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

With the pathetic light from my torch as my only guide, I start weaving my way around the school, looking for Kiera. After a fruitless five minutes, I return to my office, figuring that she’ll find me there eventually. Turns out, she’s there already.

‘,’ she says, looking awful, ‘I have to talk to you.’ She’s pale and shaking – she’s clearly been crying her heart out. I just want to gather her up into my arms and make it all go away. But the place is still crawling with inspectors. And I’m awash with vomit.

‘Come in,’ I say, guiding her through the door. The second it closes, I go to give her a proper hug, but she pushes me away. She’s manic. I’ve never seen her like this.

‘Look – you have to understand,’ she says, her eyes wild. ‘All those other kids, the ones who already go there? They’ve got an advantage! They were born into money! They don’t have to prove themselves! There’s no test! No portfolio! No interview! Mummy and Daddy just write a big, fat cheque and they’re in! Their parents get to do the work for them ! It’s not fair, , it’s not fair . . .’

‘Shhhh,’ I cajole, both trying to calm and quieten her down. ‘I know – the system sucks. We all feel it . . .’

‘And her artwork was good, it was so, so good!’ she says, tears starting to fall down her face. ‘It should have been enough! But I just . . . I just couldn’t leave it to chance . . .’

Oh Christ. I try not to sigh. I’m Team Kiera all the way. But this is going to be a nightmare.

‘As soon as we brought her portfolio into school, I swapped some of her pieces out with mine – not all of them. Just a few. I didn’t think she’d ever see them again and she deserves it so much . . . You should have seen her the day we got the letter saying she’d got the scholarship. She was so proud . . . But then . . . then . . .’

I grab my trusty box of tissues and hand them to her. She blows her nose and tries to slow her breathing. She can’t even look at me.

‘And then Stitchwell found out.’

This time I do sigh. I know how that must have felt. Exactly how that must have felt.

‘Oh, Kiera . . .’

‘She told me,’ she gasps. ‘She told me the night she died. Showed me the letter she’d written to Mrs Porter. She was going to tell her everything. I couldn’t let it happen, , I couldn’t . . .’

‘So what did you do?’ I ask cautiously.

She looks at me.

‘What I had to do,’ she says quietly. ‘To protect my daughter.’

I don’t ask. We’ve all done what we’ve had to do. Whatever our reasons.

She takes another moment to gather herself.

‘At first, I just wanted to humiliate Bitchwell, make her feel as small as she’d just made me feel,’ I say. ‘I wanted her to die on that stage. So I put some of Matt’s laxatives in her tea . . .’

‘Classy,’ I say with a smile. She doesn’t return it.

‘But Hattie caught me,’ she says. ‘Made me chuck it away, make her a new one. I kept trying to go to the office and get the letter, but someone was always in there – including you.’

‘Sorry about that,’ I say, trying the smile again. This time she half responds.

‘You’re forgiven,’ she says. ‘Then when it all kicked off, when she started choking like that, I did try to find the EpiPen, I really did – I swear on a stack of Bibles it wasn’t there. But the letter was. So, while everyone was distracted, I took it. Stuffed it in my bag, took it home and burned it. I thought that would be the end of it.’

‘Wasn’t it?’

She raises her eyes to mine. Even red-rimmed and full of pain, she is still astonishingly beautiful.

‘Clive,’ she replies. ‘Stitchwell made a copy. He found it. That’s why . . .’

‘Oh my love,’ I say, finally gathering her into that hug. ‘That bastard.’

‘He got his,’ she says. ‘They both did. And they deserved it.’

I say nothing. I completely agree. And all our secrets are best off dead with them. So I just hold her. She’s more like a teenager than a grown woman. She feels vulnerable, helpless, younger. I just want to kiss it all away. I want to take everything that has ever hurt her and make it stop. I can make her better – I just know I can.

‘,’ she says from inside the hug, ‘I need you to do something for me.’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Anything. I love you.’

She looks up at me, tear-stained and pink.

‘I need you to lie to Shottsford House.’

I close my eyes. I feared this was coming.

‘Kiera. Darling,’ I say to her. ‘You know I can’t do that. That’s fraud – I could lose my job. I could go to prison . . .’

She looks up at me. Her eyes harden. And then she shoves me away.

‘Oh, I see,’ she declares far more loudly than I want her to. ‘So you love me when it’s easy? You love me when it’s fun? When it’s all hearts and flowers and sneaky shags? But when I actually need you to put your head on the block for me . . . ?’

‘Kiera – sweetheart – please,’ I say, hoping my quieter volume might encourage hers. ‘We can talk about this later – I’m right up against it at the moment.’

‘Don’t bother,’ she practically spits in my face. ‘You keep your precious job. And you can stick mine while you’re at it. Fuck you, .’

She nearly yanks the door off its hinges and storms out. I want to call after her, but I need no more attention drawn to this. Thank God for the power cut. Hopefully no one saw her flounce out of here. I try to calm my anger – I love her, but how dare she risk my career to sort out her mess? I’m sorry for Gracie, truly I am. But what’s for you won’t go by you. She’s a good kid. She’ll do well anywhere.

The bell goes for the end of day and I could kiss it. I quickly try to wash the worst of the vomit from my trousers, narrowly avoiding puking myself, before pulling on my jacket to greet the parents. This has truly been a bin fire of a day. I don’t normally drink in the week. But I can feel my special blend calling me from here.

I head out of the door and into the playground. It’s always chaos at pick-up. But today it is eerily still, all the adults staring at their phones. And then at me.

‘Hi, everyone,’ I call. ‘Glad to see so many of you still standing!’

Nothing. Not so much as a smile.

Stella McEnzie-Roberts comes and grabs her children from right in front of me.

‘Disgusting,’ she hisses at me, and gathers William and Henry in her arms.

‘You should be ashamed,’ says Rosie Thompson.

Jimmy Platt spits at my feet. In his pyjamas.

‘I beg your . . . what on earth do you think you’re doing?’ I ask as people start hurrying their children out of the playground. I look to where Priya and Tanya are hovering on the far side of the playground, clutching their children and Al’s. I shrug a gesture at them, but even they just turn away. Only Leanne Phillips stands there. Staring straight at me. Smiling.

‘Mr Andrews,’ comes a voice behind me. I turn round to see Mr Nutt, a dressing on his head and his suit flecked with vomit. He’s holding his phone out in front of him.

‘Would you care to explain THIS?’ he says, thrusting it in my face.

Marcia is standing in the doorway, her usually unflappable face aghast.

I don’t understand, what is . . . ?

But then I read the first line.

By the second, my eyes are starting to blur – this can’t be happening . . .

I’m not sure I’m gonna make it to the third.

Because I’m already puking.

All over the lead inspector’s shoes.

* THEMIS SPECIAL EDITION *

THE NONCE OF ST NONN’S!

The Goddess is back! And this time she’s branching out to reveal that the latest perv to unnerve is none other than St Nonnatus Primary’s very own Mr Andrews! Yes, the man who put the head in headmaster is nothing more than a dirty old perv, preying on women young enough to be his daughter!

Last year he groomed a student from Flatford High on work experience. She was 16 years old. They had a sexual relationship until he decided he’d had enough. When our survivor reported him to the late Claudia Bitchwell, did she report him? Did she fire him? No! She paid our survivor off and made them sign an NDA! Don’t believe us? Look at the screenshot of the contract and the cheque below!

Is this the man you want as your Headteacher?

Or will you make a stand and say No to the Nonce!