Tell Tale (9 page)

‘What?’ Nina was shocked.

‘Relax. He meant his online place in Afterlife.’

Just as bad, Nina thought.

‘When she went there . . . oh, I don’t know how it works on that game, but it’s as if you’re suddenly in someone else’s room with all their personal stuff there. Anyway, when she went, the girls hooted with laughter although I could tell they were quite shocked.’

Nina swallowed.

‘I heard Nat say that it was like some bondage den. Some kind of Goth or Emo black and red place. Josie seemed quite scared, but here’s the thing – and you’ll be proud of her for this – Josie didn’t trust that it was someone they actually knew.’

‘Oh Laura, I don’t know what to say. It would be so easy for a perv to get chatting to two girls.’ Nina sat down.

‘They commented that he seemed like a different person entirely. Josie then went on to test him about stuff he should know if he really was Griff. She’s taken heed of whatever you’ve been telling her.’

‘I don’t get why you’re telling me then, Laura. I’m not keen on Josie spending time on that website but it sounds as if she’s being utterly sensible.’

‘That’s not exactly what I’m calling about,’ Laura continued.

‘Oh?’

‘Nat got a bit fed up with Josie for not flirting with this boy. She stormed out of the room to get a Coke. I managed to duck into the spare room just in time. When Nat had gone, I checked back on Josie through the gap in the door. She didn’t see me, but she was crying. Sobbing and choking on her words, talking to herself. She was saying, “No one’s ever going to want me now,” and that she hated herself.’

Nina thanked Laura and hung up with tears welling in her eyes. She gripped the edge of the table with whitened knuckles, wondering what was going on inside her daughter’s mind.

Nothing about Geoffrey Palmer particularly surprises me. Nothing about the small flat he occupies in the west wing of Roecliffe Hall is out of the ordinary – the maroon patterned carpet, the porcelain ornaments on the mantelpiece, the magazine rack with a dozen issues of
Country Life
stuffed between the bamboo slats.

Geoffrey Palmer is the perfect person to captain Roecliffe Hall School for Girls through the next decade or two. He read history at Oxford. He is a governor of another boarding school. He chairs several charities, is a committed Christian, and takes a safari in Africa every year. He creates an excellent impression on the parents, manages his staff with a firm yet caring manner, and is popular with the girls – not least because he runs the film club on a Friday evening. Once a month he invites the sixth-form girls to his private quarters for a special horror movie night.

‘Interesting,’ I say as he hands me tea. I gaze up at the wall again to indicate what I’m talking about. ‘Photographs,’ I add, and he nods a slow arc.

‘The Gambia, two thousand and four,’ he says proudly.
‘And that’s Kenya. Zimbabwe and Tanzania, plus Kruger National Park.’

‘Amazing,’ I say, thinking of the charities he supports. There’s a picture of him standing with a dozen African children, thin as pencils. Palmer is grinning beneath a khaki cap, while the children’s eyes are wide as owls’.

Mr Palmer moves on. ‘The reason I asked to see you, Miss Gerrard, is about your job description.’

My heart stops, refusing to add another beat until I know what he means. ‘Oh? There’s nothing wrong, I hope.’

‘Far from it, Miss Gerrard. Sylvia tells me that you’re doing a fine job of looking after the girls and, in view of that, we’ve decided to enrich our programme of PSHE.’

I stare at him.

Mr Palmer explains. ‘Personal, social and health education for our girls. Worries or concerns they may have. Things like that.’ He looks away, clearly embarrassed by the connotation of any personal problems that a teenage girl might suffer. ‘Anyway, we were thinking that you would be just the person to take these sessions. Currently we have a member of staff offering classes, but she’s very busy with sports clubs. Would you be interested?’

‘I’m not sure that . . .’ I sip tea to wash away what I should really say. ‘I’m not sure that I’m the best person for this role, Mr Palmer, although I am very flattered that you considered me.’ What does he think I know about teenage girls? What good would I be to any of them?

‘I’m not sure you quite understand, Miss Gerrard.’ Mr
Palmer smiles, but it doesn’t take much to read that it’s not a smile of pleasure. ‘I’m not asking you if you’ll do it.’ His icy blue eyes needle me, staring intently, waiting –
ordering
me to accept. ‘We really need your help.’

A sharp breath counters the hiccup that forces out. ‘I see.’ Staring back at Mr Palmer, in this room, the look he’s giving me, sets off something in my chest. Tight bands of fear tug my ribs together, making it hard to breathe. I grasp the edge of the table. Words are hard but they finally come out, dry and unbelievable.

‘Do I . . . do I know you?’ It’s his skin, the papery folds sliding over bent bones. That stoop; the stare, circling my face like the beam of a lighthouse.

I change the subject quickly before he answers. I don’t want to know if I know him, because if I do, then it means that I can’t stay here. Yet there’s nowhere else to go. ‘What about training then?’ I ask. ‘Do you really think I can do this job?’ His eyes are so difficult to read.

Finally, he says, ‘You’re just what the girls need, Miss Gerrard. Still young enough to relate to them, yet at an age where they can look up to you.’ Palmer smiles, satisfied it’s all sorted. ‘You are the perfect mother substitute,’ he adds, standing up and wringing his hands. He clearly wants me to go, even though I haven’t finished my tea.

‘Good,’ he says when I just sit there.

‘Fine,’ I reply, rising slowly because all the blood has left my head. ‘I accept.’

‘Don’t be scared of them, Miss Gerrard. They’re just teenage girls, after all.’

‘Yes,’ I say, leaving my tea, leaving the room. No reason to be scared at all.

I see the laptop before I see him. There’s a sticker on the lid – a flag – and as I walk past, I see it’s the Australian pennant. The computer is perched on the edge of the reception desk about five feet from where Adam is standing with his back turned to the rest of the hall. He’s with that fifth-form girl again, and suddenly his hands explode off his hips and punch the air above his head as if he’s conducting the final bars of a symphony.

‘For God’s sake, Katy, not again. Don’t you know when to stop?’ I slow down, listening, pretending to look at the pupils’ work stapled to the pinboards. I hear the girl chime a bitter retort:
That’s not the end of it, Mr Kingsley.
When I turn, they are gone, just the echo of their departing footsteps in the air. Adam has left his laptop behind.

I swear the route has changed; that this place morphs daily, twisting on its foundations, creaking through alterations as if ghostly builders are at work each night, changing walls, bypassing doorways, adding passageways to the already complicated network. Finding Adam’s room takes me several attempts. I knock and, as if he’s been standing behind the door waiting, he’s suddenly there, directly in front of me, gripping the edge of the door with both hands so that his knuckles are white. His pale face is crested red on his cheeks and his eyes look bloodshot.

‘Feeling any better?’ Last time we spoke was when I
escorted him back to his room as the sick bug swept the school. Most of the girls are recovered now.

‘Yeah, thanks,’ he says. His lower jaw trembles.

‘Anyway,’ I say, when I realise the silence has gone on too long. ‘I found this. It’s yours isn’t it?’ I hold up the laptop and Adam’s eyes widen to saucers. He glances back into his room to where I see a desk beneath the window.

‘Yes. Yes, it is.Where did you find it?’ He snatches it from my grasp.

‘You left it in the reception hall about ten minutes ago.’

Thoughts fly through his mind, perhaps wondering if I could have data-plundered in such a short time. ‘Thanks,’ he finally manages. ‘I’m grateful.’ He lifts the lid and snaps it shut again.

‘I didn’t look at anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. I thought I was doing you a favour by bringing it up. You had your hands full with that girl before.’

Adam wings the door closed to all but a foot. ‘All under control,’ he says flatly. ‘And thanks for this.’

I put a hand on the door, against the old latched planks. ‘I’m in charge of PSHE now,’ I say. ‘If she needs someone to talk to, if there’s a problem, tell her she can come to me.’

Adam nods and closes the door.

The stories went like this. If you were naughty, you got taken in the night by the evil gremlin from the woods. There would be no warning. There would be no escape. The only thing to do was relent and be taken. One boy said he’d seen the gremlin come three nights in a row for a young girl that refused to eat or speak. At the end of the third night, she never returned to her bed. Another girl said she’d seen the gremlin wearing a green mask and a hood, spitting and hissing as it trod the boards through the dorms, deciding who’d been the naughtiest.

Another told of a wicked demon landing on the window sill and clicking its long nails on the glass. The first child to open their eyes, to set a gaze on the knotty body of the creature, would be the one taken, the one tortured, the one brought back by morning wishing they were dead.

Someone passed around a tale of a vampire, and another boy cried as he recounted his brother’s pleas to save him from the imps that came for him. There were whisperings of evil old women, rumours of murderers, bogeymen and burglars, and late-night banter about the ghost of Roecliffe Hall.

It was me who told them not to be so stupid, that if they didn’t shut up, I’d tell Miss Maddocks or Patricia about their silly tales. Didn’t they realise the stories had been made up by the carers so that everyone would be good?

I’d had enough. I jumped up and stood on my bed, shouting at the top of my voice. A dozen children, all of us meant to be in the bathroom, stopped messing about and for the first time since my arrival at the home, they noticed my existence; they actually fell silent and listened to me. Before this, I had blended into the plaster, been so meek that once the flurry after my arrival had died down, I hadn’t caused so much as a whisper.

‘You’re wrong,’ I said. The shock of seeing them all staring up at me closed my throat. ‘There aren’t any monsters or gremlins.’ My cheeks burned scarlet. I wanted to fall through the bed, slip through the floorboards below, disappear through the bottom of the home, and drop into the centre of the earth.

‘Who said?’ asked a boy older than me. He was the one who’d given me his jam when I first arrived.

Hands on hips, chin jutting forward, I continued. ‘My dad said that there’s no such thing as monsters.’ I sniffed. They seemed to be listening. One or two sat down. ‘I used to get scared in the night after my mum died. I thought the monsters would come and get me too.’

‘What happened?’ asked Sally, a girl with plaits.

I shrugged. ‘No monsters ever came, even though I’d seen their shadows on the landing.’

‘That’s what happens here,’ another girl said. She was
younger than me, although dressed in clothes fit for someone twice her age. ‘They wait until we’re asleep.’

I crouched down beside her, suddenly feeling way more grown up than I really was. ‘If you don’t believe in them, then they won’t be real. They need our thoughts to survive. They feed on our fear.’

‘Really?’ she asked. She had pretty eyes, soft and brown, and skin the colour of sand. I held her hand.

‘It’s true. The monsters are all made up by grown-ups.’ I whipped a look around the group. ‘Don’t believe and they won’t come.’ There was silence. Just a cough, a scuff of a shoe on the floor.

‘Try telling that to Keith Bagwood,’ someone cried out. ‘The gremlin came and got him last week and he never came back.’

‘And if they do come back, they won’t speak about it ’cos they’re too scared.’ Voices of dissent rained around me. ‘I hope they come for you, Miss Know-it-all.’ One by one the other kids grumbled agreement with each other, calling me stupid, pulling my hair, pinching me.

‘I’ll tell on you,’ I wailed, but they weren’t listening. A circle of the meaner kids had formed around me. They danced about, singing a vile little rhyme that made my bones turn cold.
Tell-tale tit. Your tongue will split. And all the dogs in our town will have a little bit!

Tears welled in my eyes. They scoffed at me, filtering off to the bathroom when Patricia came in and shooed everyone away with two sharp claps of her hands.

Were they right all along? Had my father lied to me
about the monsters not being real if I didn’t believe in them? After all, he’d promised me he’d visit every weekend and he’d lied about that. My shoulders collapsed forward and my waist buckled. I lay down on my bed, breathing in years of other children’s sobs as I buried my face in the thin pillow. I cried silently.

‘Ava,’ Patricia said. Her warm hand cupped my heart through my back as she rubbed gently on my ribs. ‘What’s upset you?’

Reluctantly I prised my face from the damp pillow. ‘They said there are monsters,’ I told her. ‘That they come in the night.’

‘Just listen to how silly you sound. Do you think I’d let monsters hurt any of you?’ Patricia was one of the nice ones. She smelled of apricots and the skin was soft on her hands as my fingers crawled into her palm.

I shook my head. ‘No.’ She wasn’t my mother but perhaps I could pretend.

‘We lock all the doors and windows at night. No one can get in or out. You’re quite safe here at Roecliffe, Ava. That’s why your daddy asked us to look after you.’

My voice wobbled. ‘My dad said that if I didn’t believe, there wouldn’t be any monsters. I tried to tell the others.’

‘Well your father was quite right,’ Patricia said, smiling. She leaned forward and kissed the top of my head. ‘You’re a sweet girl, Ava. You just keep believing what your daddy told you and everything will be fine. If anything bad happens, you come and tell me.’

I frowned. ‘It’s wrong to tell tales,’ I said. ‘The others said the dogs would get my tongue.’