The Accident (18 page)

I reach the stairs and speed up them, using the banister to yank myself up, cursing my legs for not moving faster. I haven’t been to Brighton Academy for at least a year but I can still remember where the headmaster’s office is.

‘Can I help you?’

A fair-haired middle-aged woman in a pale pink blouse with pearls at her neck looks up from her desk as I charge into the small room adjacent to the headmaster’s office. She’s about the same age as me, maybe four or five years older. Her name is Clarissa Gordon. She was here the last time I came to see the Head.

‘I’m here to see Mr Anderson.’ I make a half-hearted attempt to pat down my hair. ‘It’s urgent.’

I can tell from the expression on Clarissa’s face as she looks me up and down that she remembers me. Her nose narrows and the hint of a smile plays on her pursed lips. ‘And your name is?’

‘Jackson. Sue Jackson. It’s very important that I see him. The safety of two of the pupils is at stake.’

Clarissa raises her eyebrows. She’s remembering the last time I was here – when I stormed into Charlotte’s biology lesson and demanded she leave with me. We’d been burgled a month earlier and a news report I’d just watched on the TV about a teenager being raped in a local park had convinced me that James was after her. I was shaking so much I couldn’t breathe. Mr Prosser, the biology teacher, took me through to see Mr Anderson and he called the school nurse. I can still remember Clarissa’s pinched face peering at me through the glass panel in the head teacher’s door as the nurse instructed me to take slow, deep breaths as I desperately pleaded with her to listen to me. Why did no one understand how much danger my daughter was in? I was on high-dose anti-anxiety medication for six months afterwards.

‘The safety of two pupils you say? Gosh. Well, if you could give me a few more details perhaps I could call through to Mr Anderson and …’ she tails off, distracted by half a dozen staff chatting noisily as they stroll past the window behind me.

‘There’s no time.’ I side-step her desk and reach for the door handle to her right. ‘I need to speak to him now.’

‘Excuse me. Excuse me, Mrs Jack—’

Her chair squeaks as she rises to come after me but I turn the handle and I’m in the headmaster’s study before she can reach me.

‘Clarissa, I—’ the Head looks up from his desk, his lips parting in surprise as I burst into the room, his secretary in close pursuit.

‘Sorry Mr Anderson,’ she breathes, ‘she just burst in. There was nothing I could do to stop her.’

‘It’s okay, Clarissa.’ He nods. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

‘But you specifically said you didn’t want to be disturbed. You said you had to prepare a report for the governors about—’

‘I’ll take it from here, Clarissa. Thank you.’

‘Yes Mr Anderson.’ She retreats, stepping backwards out of the room. From her expression I’m fairly certain that if we were thirty years younger she’d be waiting for me at the gates later with two of her mates.

‘I’ll just be outside,’ she says, closing the door with a click.

Ian Anderson eyes me from under his heavy brow and waves a hand in the direction of the empty chair in front of me. ‘Do take a seat, Mrs …’

‘Jackson. I’ll stand, thank you.’

‘Okay.’ He leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his broad chest. ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Jackson?’

‘I’m sorry for bursting in on you but,’ I grip the back of the chair, ‘it’s urgent. One of your teachers poses a very real danger to the children.’

He sits up sharply. ‘One of our teachers?’

‘I have reason to believe that one of your teachers is working at this school under false pretences. I think he may have harmed Charlotte and possibly her friend Ella too.’

‘Charlotte …’ Mr Anderson looks at me as though seeing me for the first time. ‘Not Charlotte Jackson? You’re her—’

‘Mother? Yes.’

I wait for him to jump to his feet and take action. Instead he keeps staring at me like he’s expecting me to say something else.

‘Please.’ I motion for him to stand up. ‘Can we just go and find him? The longer we wait the more chance there is that he’ll leave for the day.’ Or maybe forever. I can’t shake the feeling that James knows I’m onto him. ‘Please, Mr Anderson. He needs to be stopped before he hurts someone – if he hasn’t already.’

‘If who’s hurt someone?’

‘James Evans.’

‘James Evans – our business studies teacher?’

‘Yes. No. He’s not really a teacher, he’s an imposter.’ I inch towards the door. ‘Please, Mr Anderson. Let’s go.’

‘Mrs Jackson,’ he holds up a hand. ‘Sit down for a minute and let’s start this again. I’m struggling to keep up.’

‘There isn’t time.’ I cross the room and stoop down, my hands gripping the edge of his desk, my face at the same level as his. ‘Please. I’ll explain everything but I need you to find James Evans with me
now
. You have no idea how much danger the children are in. We need to stop him before he can escape.’ I can’t keep the exasperation out of my voice. ‘Please, let’s go.’

‘We take accusations against our teachers very seriously you know, Mrs Jackson.’ He gets up interminably slowly and I wait as he pulls his jacket from the back of the chair and slips one arm, then the other into it then smoothes it over his shoulders. For one terrible second I think he’s about to do up his buttons too but he suddenly becomes animated and crosses the room in four large strides.

‘Mrs Jackson,’ he says as he opens the door and I catch sight of Clarissa’s arched eyebrows, ‘if you’d come with me.’

Even with Mr Anderson’s long-legged strides it takes forever to reach the staff room. When we cross the ‘bridge’ between the science block and the main building I pause to press my hands up against the floor to ceiling window and search the car park. A dozen or so teachers mill around below, some chatting in small groups, the others letting themselves into their cars. I scan the group for James’s face but he’s not down there.

‘Mrs Jackson?’

The headmaster is standing at the far end of the bridge. I hurry after him.

‘Of course he might not even be here,’ he says, holding open the door to the staff room. ‘There’s every chance he’ll have left for the day, be in the business studies room or even …’

I don’t hear the rest of the sentence because my heart is hammering so hard in my chest I feel sick.

There is a man standing at the opposite side of the staff room. He has his back to us, his blonde head dipped as though he’s reading a book or marking a pile of papers. I can still hear Mr Anderson’s voice but I can’t make out a word he’s saying. Every fibre of my being is commanding me to turn and run, but I can’t. I can’t tear my eyes away from the broad expanse of back and the strong arms of the man across the room. The air stills, the distance between us closes and it is as though I am standing behind him and breathing in his musky scent. I reach out a hand and feel the coarse wave to his hair, the soft skin on the back of his bent neck and the starchy stiffness of his shirt collar under my fingertips. I have seen this shape, felt these things in a hundred nightmares. He just needs to turn around so I can see his face.

‘James?’ I breathe as the edges of my vision turn amber and then black. It’s as though a match is being held to a photograph. I blink to try and clear my vision but now there are black spots and my ears are ringing with the sound of the ocean. I feel like I’m swimming under water, deep, deep down under the—

‘Mrs Jackson?’

I feel a hand touch my elbow and try to turn my head to the left to see who has touched me but I’m fighting so hard to keep my balance I feel like the slightest movement will send me hurtling like a stone towards the sea bed.

‘Mrs Jackson, do you need to sit down?’

There is another hand, touching my right elbow and I feel something nudge the back of my knees and then I’m pushed/pulled down until I am sitting. Everything is black and the ocean inside my head pounds the sides of my skull. My stomach lurches and—

‘Oh God, she’s been sick.’

‘There are paper towels in the gents. I’ll get some.’

‘And a glass of water if you—’

‘We’ve got mugs. There might be a clean one some—’

And then there is silence.

‘Mrs Jackson. Mrs Jackson, can you hear me?’

‘Mrs Jackson?’ A different voice, female this time.

Then, ‘Sue?’

‘Brian?’ I say but no sound comes out. I try to sit up but gentle hands press down on my shoulders, on my hips and I am forced back down.

‘Don’t move. You hit your head when you fainted. The paramedics are on their way.’

‘James,’ I say, staring into the bright blue eyes that are looking at me with a mixture of concern and puzzlement.

‘No, Sue. It’s Brian.’

‘I know. I know you’re Brian. Where’s James?’

My husband twists around to look at someone behind him, someone out of my eyeline.

‘James, she wants to talk to you.’

‘No! No!’ I try to scream but the words catch in my throat. ‘No!’

‘Mrs Jackson?’ A face I’ve never seen before appears beside Brian. ‘I’m James Evans.’

‘No. No, you’re not.’

The man smiles. It’s a warm smile that lights up his face, spreading his nostrils wide and crinkling the skin under his eyes. ‘You can ring my mum or check my birth certificate if you like but I’ve spent the last twenty-nine years being called James Evans – well, Jamie to my friends – so I’m pretty sure—’

‘The other one,’ I say. ‘Where’s the other one?’

I try to sit up so I can look around the room but Brian shakes his head.

‘This is James Evans.’ He puts a hand to my face and gently brushes the hair from my cheeks. ‘Charlotte and Ella’s business studies teacher. He’s the only James Evans in the school, Sue.’

‘But …’ I look from Brian to the young, blonde-haired man beside him and instantly realize my mistake. James Evans wouldn’t be blond anymore – not at forty-eight. ‘Oh God.’

I cover my face with my hands and close my eyes. What have I done?

‘The girls skived a school trip.’ I hear Brian say. ‘They were supposed to go to London with Mr Evans but—’

‘They called in on the day and said they had food poisoning. Said they’d been to Nandos together the night before and had some bad chicken and were up all night with dodgy stomachs. I had no reason not to believe them although, in retrospect, perhaps I should have called you to check.’

‘You should,’ says a voice I recognize as Mr Anderson.

‘The MSN conversation you read, Sue. They weren’t really scared that Mr Evans was going to kill them,’ Brian says. ‘It was just a figure of speech.’

I remove my hands from my face and look at the four faces hovering over me.

‘If they didn’t go on a school trip with Mr Evans that weekend,’ I say, ‘and they weren’t at home with us, where were they?’

Brian shakes his head. ‘We don’t know.’

Saturday 7th April 1991

I’ve been a mess all week. I haven’t been able to sew or sleep and I’ve barely eaten. Every time the phone’s rung I’ve jumped, certain it was James, terrified he’d found out what I was about to do. As it was he only rang me once this week – and then it was just a brief call mid-week to check where we were meeting on Friday.

I didn’t want to go. I kept telling myself James wasn’t that bad, that there were a lot of men out there who were worse than him but then, almost as if she could sense my resolve wavering, Hels called me at 5 p.m.

‘I’ll be there for you,’ she said. ‘We both will. Rupert and I will help you through this. Be strong, Susan. Remember all the times he’s made you cry.’

Typical then that James, sitting alone at a wooden table by the bar, jumped out of his seat the minute he spotted me walking into the Heart in Hand, wrapped me in his arms and told me how beautiful I looked. He was in a fantastic mood, buzzing about a television role he’d seen advertised in
The Stage
and apologizing profusely for not ringing me because he’d been so busy preparing for his audition.

‘It went well, really well,’ he said, squeezing my hands between his as we sat down, ‘and if I get this I’ll be able to afford somewhere big enough for you and I to live with a granny flat on the side for Mum. We’ll have our privacy and she’ll have the reassurance that I’m close by. And, and …’ he practically jumped out of his seat, ‘… you can have your own sewing room, maybe start up a business rather than do it for free for the Abberley lot. It’ll be perfect.’

We stayed in the pub – him gushing and fantasizing – me nodding and playing the supportive girlfriend for a good two hours until, unable to bear it a second longer I suggested we grab a takeaway and go back to mine. James was surprised, he’d expected to go on to a restaurant but I said I was tired and he acquiesced. The walk home was horrible. I was too preoccupied to talk and we lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, James glancing at me every couple of seconds while I avoided his eyes.

He wrapped his arms around me as I unlocked the front door and nuzzled his face into my neck.

‘Maybe coming home wasn’t such a bad idea after all. You just wanted to lure me into your bed didn’t you, you little minx?’

I stiffened at his touch and slipped out of his arms. He followed me into the kitchen and watched from the doorway as I opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine. I could feel his eyes boring into my back as I unscrewed the lid and poured myself a large glass.

‘Want one, James?’

He didn’t reply.

I put the bottle back in the fridge then, noticing how messy it had become, set about rearranging packets of ham, cartons of milk and half-empty tins of baked beans.

‘What are you doing?’ His voice cut through me .

I murmured something inane about a tidy fridge and a tidy mind, unwrapped the cling film from a chunk of cheese then rewrapped it, tighter, and placed it in the top drawer of the fridge door.

‘Sue, stop fucking about with the fridge and look at me.’

I turned slowly, my eyes fixed on the tiled floor.