The Death Club Page 11

  She’s crying hard. Mascara runs down her cheeks.

  I lift her bag from behind me and hand it to her.

  She takes it.

  “Just go,” I tell her. “No more of this. Please.”

  She doesn’t say another word.

  She turns and runs.

  And I’ve never felt such relief in my life.

  She's finally left. She’s finally got it. She understands, and she is done, and it’s over, and I can finally return to the dull monotony of my meaningless life.

  I feel unusually happy during last period. Even my students remark upon it. They are more attentive, and I remember what it was like to be the teacher I was when I first started. Back when I cared. Back when I wanted to change the world with education. When I had a wife with troubles we could handle together, and a baby with so much potential.

  And the day ends.

  And I’m ready to go home.

  And that’s when I get the email.

  It’s from the Headmaster, and he’s asking to see me.

  37

  Harper

  Felix said he won’t be coming by tonight. That he has enough to go on for today, and that he understands this is difficult for me, and that he thinks I need a break.

  It makes tonight the perfect opportunity, and that’s what I tell Danny as I walk home.

  How should I do it?

  Well, that depends.

  Do you want it to hurt?

  I just want to make sure I don’t get hurt.

  Then you might want to make it look like an accident.

  Poison his food or something.

  I don’t really know where to get poison.

  Anything can be poison.

  Bleach.

  Toilet cleaner.

  Only problem is, he might taste something is funny before he eats enough.

  There is one way that is best.

  What?

  Stab him.

  Get him in the throat then keep stabbing him.

  Won’t they know it’s me?

  Not if you phone the police afterwards and tell them you found him that way.

  Sound tearful.

  Cry a lot.

  Hand the knife to the officer who arrives so you can explain why your DNA is on the weapon.

  But won’t it be suspicious if no one else’s DNA is on it?

  It can be explained.

  And even if you are caught, you’re under eighteen.

  They’ll lock you in young offenders for a bit then give you a new identity when you’re an adult.

  Suppose.

  Of course, you could always kill yourself afterwards.

  Then no one will find you.

  Kill myself?

  But then I’ll never get to meet you.

  We’ll still be in love.

  That’s what matters.

  I mean…

  This is crazy.

  I can’t believe we’re actually talking about this.

  Whatever you decide to do, I’ll support you.

  I believe in you Harper.

  I pause at those words.

  My thumb hovers over the screen, unable to reply.

  He believes in me?

  Suddenly, I am scared. Freaked out. Panicked.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Talking about killing someone…

  I remember Mum telling Dad she believed in him. It was eight years ago. He was going for a job, and he was wearing a suit, and he was looking in the mirror and she was straightening his tie. I don’t know why, but it’s an image I’ve never forgotten. Perhaps because it’s the only time I’ve ever seen Dad happy. Mum got pretty sick after that.

  But Dad never relented. He took care of her, and he kept taking care of her over and over. He never stopped.

  Maybe that’s why he struggles to take care of me. Because he’s worn down by how much he’s had to take care of her.

  Maybe I’m not being very understanding.

  I don’t think I can do this.

  That’s fine.

  Not forcing you.

  I just want to help.

  I know you do.

  I go to type something else, only to find that I don’t know what I’m typing.

  This talk of murder is getting really heavy.

  I love Danny, but I need a break from this talk. Not from him, but from this conversation.

  I’ll talk to you later tonight.

  Okay.

  Love you.

  Love you too.

  So much.

  I turn my phone off and put it in my bag.

  I walk past a group of girls who are laughing, loudly, and although they aren’t looking at me, I’m sure it’s at me, even though it’s probably not, I just don’t know; it feels like everyone’s always laughing at me and I can never tell whether someone is actually mocking me or not.

  I drop my head. Cover my ears to keep the noise out and rush home.

  38

  Will

  I arrive at the Headmaster’s office and, just as I go to knock, I hear that shrill voice again.

  “Can I help you?”

  The Headmaster’s secretary has a phone in her hand. She struggles to grip it because her fake nails are almost as big as her fake eyelashes.

  “He’s asked to speak to me.”

  “I’ll let him know you’re here, please take a seat.”

  “But he’s asked—”

  “He’s with a student right now, please take a seat and I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  I glare at this woman for a moment, wondering what she would do if I just walked straight in. I have a degree, a master’s degree, and a post-graduate certificate in education, yet this vain, inept woman who can only recite the same sentence over and over thinks she can dictate what I do.

  But, being the sad sack that I am, I meander over to the seat and I sit down.

  My arms fold. My foot rests on my knee. My eyes travel to the clock.

  She picks up the phone and tells the Headmaster that I’m here so loudly that most people in the building probably heard it. She’s the kind of person who doesn’t have a quiet voice; yet another reason I despise her.

  Ten, fifteen minutes go by and I feel more and more agitated. I try to stop my leg from shaking, but it doesn’t stay still for long.

  Eventually, the door opens.

  It stays open for a moment, then someone walks out of it.

  Destiny.

  She glances at me then keeps her head down, scuttling out; all part of the performance where she plays a timid, innocent girl, and hides the psychotic beast that hides within.

  The Headmaster steps out of the door. He looks at me. Grim expression. Pretending to hate what he’s about to do.

  “Come in, please, Will,” he says, and I do so.

  He shuts the door behind us. I notice a picture of him and his daughter on the desk. He notices me looking at it and shoots me a look, like I’m a predator, like I should not be looking at a picture of a young girl.

  “Sit down,” he tells me.

  I sit on the seat opposite his desk and I sink low. This seat feels smaller than it did a few days ago.

  “I’m going to give you an opportunity to talk,” he says. “For you to tell me what is going on before I relay what has been disclosed to me.”

  I say nothing.

  “Will, I really don’t want to do this, so please, just make this easy for me.”

  “I have done nothing wrong,” I tell him. “Everything she’s just told you is a lie.”

  “Okay, well let me go through a few things. She said that you printed off her Facebook profile.”

  I go to reply, but can’t.

  “She says you have shouted at her whilst being shut in a classroom alone with her.”

  Again, only stutters come out.

  “She says that you kissed.”

  “No, that’s not — she kissed me. She tried to.”

  “She tried to?”

  “Yes
. I stopped her.”

  “Then why haven’t you reported it?”

  I don’t have an answer.

  He bows his head in his hands.

  “Will… This looks really bad…”

  He’s hating this, but not as much as I am.

  “She says you’re in a relationship,” he tells me.

  “She’s convinced we are, but I promise you, we are not. She has erotomania.”

  “What? Eroto — what is that? Some sort of erotic act?”

  “No, it’s not. It’s an obsessive delusion.”

  “Cut it out, Will.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Yes, but I doubt you’re telling the truth either. Can you really give me an explanation to what she’s told me?”

  I can’t.

  Whatever I say, it will be misconstrued.

  And I know I can’t say anymore.

  “I need to speak to my union,” I say, and he laughs; not a laugh of genuine hilarity, but of awkward surprise.

  “Okay, Will, let me tell you what is going to happen. You are going to be suspended from teaching, immediately, and will not be permitted to enter school grounds, pending investigation. We will be passing what we have onto the police, who will no doubt want to speak to you. I just…”

  He shakes his head. Leans toward me.

  “What were you thinking? She’s a child, Will.”

  What am I supposed to say?

  I stand up. Walk to the door without looking back.

  Within ten minutes I’ve packed my things and I’m gone, staring at the school in the rear-view mirror, wondering if I’ll ever return.

  39

  Harper

  I hear Dad arrive but I don’t leave my room.

  I don’t ever want to leave my room.

  Only, I hear Dad talking, with vehemence and passion I’ve never heard, almost with aggression, and my curiosity becomes too much.

  I open my door, only slightly, and listen to what he is saying.

  “No, a lawyer... It’s a lawyer I need… Your website says you specialise in this kind of thing… Well don’t you?”

  A lawyer? Why would Dad be talking to a lawyer?

  I step out of my bedroom and walk down the stairs, stepping lightly, not only to mask my presence but to ensure I can hear every bit of the conversation.

  “No, yes, I mean I did kiss her, but I didn’t, she kissed me… She forced it on me, I didn’t — that’s why… No, it wasn’t like that…”

  She kissed me?

  Who did Dad kiss?

  Did he cheat on Mum? Was that why she left?

  I reach the bottom step, but I don’t move any closer to the living room. He appears by the doorway then disappears again, pacing back and forth, too involved in his conversation to notice me.

  “She’s sixteen, at the age of consent, yes, but I was her teacher — am her teacher, or would be, I don’t know… No, of course not! … She’s a psycho. She has erotomania, she was obsessed with me…”

  Sixteen?

  He’s her teacher?

  He kissed one of his students?

  That student could be one of the girls laughing at me, or joking with the teachers, or she could be like me, walking home alone and hating their parents.

  And Dad is just another predator in her life.

  “Yes, I found her Facebook profile, but it was a mistake… I printed it off, yes, but I swear I wasn’t stalking her…”

  Her Facebook?

  He’s lying. He was stalking her.

  Why else would you go on her Facebook? And print it off?

  I mean…

  I thought Dad was a piece of shit. But I never thought he was a stalker. An abuser. A paedophile.

  I never thought he was a man who would have harmed one of his students.

  “Quite a few times I’ve been alone with her… Yes, I know it’s my word against hers, but what happened to presumed innocent before found guilty? … To hell with the jury, that’s not fair… Look, will you represent me or not? … No I have not been arrested yet, but they are passing it on, so it’s just a matter of… Fine, okay, call me back… That’s fine. I’ll be in all evening… Well, hopefully… Goodbye, thank you.”

  He hangs up. Just stands there. By the fireplace. A hand on his hip and the other on his head. Staying very still, until he throws the phone across the room with a scream.

  That’s when he sees me. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking at him in a way I’ve never looked at him before, staring at the man I thought couldn’t get any lower in my estimation, but found a way to access the lower depths of humanity.

  My dad. Abuser. Groomer. Stalker.

  God, even rapist for all I know.

  Am I even safe with him here?

  Is anyone?

  He says nothing. Doesn’t offer an explanation. Just stares at me.

  Then his mouth does open, but I don’t want to hear it, so before he can say anything, I run upstairs and shut myself in my room.

  I was wrong to think he didn’t deserve to die.

  In fact, I’ve never met anyone more deserving.

  I pick up my phone and text Danny. He can tell me what to do next.

  40

  Will

  Harper looks at me, at first, with a curious peculiarity. A vague sense of intrigue, or a senseless interest.

  But then it changes.

  And I wonder how much she heard as her expression morphs into that of disappointment, and the way she sees me becomes so apparent.

  I know she doesn’t look up to me. I know she doesn’t admire me, or see me as a role model, or someone from whom she craves affection. But I at least hoped she thought I wasn’t a complete bastard.

  But she does now.

  Oh, how she does now.

  I go to explain, but she runs upstairs and doesn’t give me the chance.

  I should go after her.

  I should.

  But I don’t.

  I stand in the darkness of the living room. It’s not that late, but there’s a storm raging outside, and it leaves little light. I don’t turn the light on, not wanting the headache that the light will bring, instead preferring to remain in the grey and the shadows that the storm has granted me.

  The cabinet is where we keep the nicer drinks. Not the cheap wine Natalie left, but the whiskey and the brandy and the port and the sherry, and I take a tumbler and fill it to the brim with the first bottle I find.

  The colour is a brown transparency. A gulp and the sharp sting against my throat tells me it’s whiskey. I don’t care so long as it numbs every feeling I have.

  Lightning strikes. Thunder roars. All the cliches about the torrential elements come true, and I hear nothing but the rain battering the house.

  I refill my glass and wander to the window.

  I’m almost waiting for the police car to arrive. For an officer to come and arrest me. To confiscate my belongings, ready to search my phone and computer for incriminating evidence that proves I’m the predator I’m being made out to be.

  I wonder if Felix will make the arrest, or whether someone else will do it.

  I wonder what the charges will be.

  Sexual assault? Grooming? Predatory behaviour?

  Is predatory behaviour even an offence?

  The flower bed I planted with Natalie gets destroyed by the violent downpour. The petals fall off and the stems wilt as bullets of rain destroy them.

  I take another sip.

  It’s sharp. It stings, but not as much as the first sip.

  A car drives by the end of the drive. I wonder who’s in it. Some father, perhaps taking his daughter home. I stare at the space it temporarily occupied, waiting for another car to drive past.

  Then I see it, beyond the elements, amongst the weather’s punishment; a figure. A silhouette, stepping tentatively forward, emerging.

  It’s a girl’s outline.

  It stops at the end of the drive. Looks in this direction, though I can’t se
e the face.

  I peer harder, but I already know who it is.

  She’s found my house.

  Now she’s not only invading my work, she’s invading my home. No part of my life is safe.

  I think of Harper upstairs, and I can’t let Destiny in, I can’t let her get any closer; I can’t let her get to my daughter.

  Harper is all that matters.

  I place my drink on the windowsill and make my way to the front door.

  I open it.

  I stare at the figure, waiting for it to move, but it doesn’t. She hovers, not coming any closer, but not going any further away.

  “What are you doing?” I shout, but the storm is too loud and my voice is lost.

  I shout louder.

  “Why don’t you fuck off and leave us alone?”

  Stupid move.

  She can’t hear me, but Harper can.

  I step onto the drive, leaving the door open behind me.

  I don’t take a jacket. It takes a few seconds until I’m drenched, soaked, my clothes clinging to my skin, my hair dripping water into my eyes.

  “Please,” I say.

  She doesn’t move.

  I edge closer.

  She’s wearing a dress.

  Nothing but a dress. A short, summery one, that clings to every bit of her body. I can see the outline of her hips, her waist, her breasts.

  Her bare legs are smooth and wet.

  She’s doing this deliberately. She’s wearing a dress that she knew would be revealing. She wants to tempt me.