Blink(64)

‘Hush,’ Harriet hissed, glancing at the door. The last thing she wanted was to attract the attention of Mr Bryce, the bumbling, interfering old caretaker who refused to retire. ‘There’s no need for that racket.’

Evie looked at the floor.

‘As I was saying, the only other school around here is the place the bad children go. There are big boys there who will kick your shins in class,’ Harriet said. ‘So you must stop saying you don’t want to come to St Saviour’s. Do you understand, Evie?’

‘Yes,’ Evie said meekly. ‘I won’t say it anymore.’

‘That’s good. And you mustn’t tell anyone what we’ve talked about. You won’t have to go there, if you do what I say. Am I making myself clear?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, Miss Watson,’ Harriet directed her.

‘Yes, Miss Watson.’

‘Very well.’ Harriet smiled. ‘So, I want you to tell Mummy you’ve had a good day at school and that Miss Watson is very pleased with you. Which I am.’

Evie nodded and the ghost of a smile skittered across her lips.

‘Heavens!’ Harriet glanced at the clock. It was a full ten minutes after finishing time. ‘Your mummy is rather late. Stay here while I go and check to see if she’s waiting out in reception.’





55





Three Years Earlier





Toni





I called the school at least six times, hoping that someone would be passing the office and might pick up, but each time it went straight to the answerphone.

I’d left one message earlier, saying I might be a little late . . . At least, I thought I had, but now I wasn’t entirely sure.

Scenes slid through my mind like a super-fast slideshow: Mum sitting alone in the waiting room; Nurse Tom’s disapproving face; Mum falling down the stairs; me calling the school and leaving a message.

Some bits of it didn’t feel right, all mixed up and in the wrong order.

I squeezed my eyes shut against the line of stationary traffic in front of me and tried to think. I’d called Bryony’s mobile a couple more times but now it just went straight to answerphone. I didn’t have Dale’s mobile number in my phone contacts. I’d called the shop but nobody had picked up, which meant Jo was probably busy with customers.

Then I remembered Jo had sent me a text last week. She’d asked me for my number so she could share a silly joke that was currently doing the rounds. I found the text and called her. It rang but went to voicemail. I fired off a text and swallowed down the cloying lump in my throat.

‘Jo, it’s Toni. Got an emergency. Stuck in traffic can’t get to Evie. Could you pick her up ASAP? St Saviour’s Primary. Sorry to ask x’



I couldn’t work out why Harriet Watson hadn’t called me; I was now nearly twenty minutes late. Then I realised, with a sinking feeling, that I hadn’t yet completed the parental contact details form that had been in Evie’s admission pack.

She had brought home a second one too; I’d found it tucked inside her book bag on her first day at school with a note from the administrator asking me to fill it in as soon as I could. The school didn’t have my mobile telephone number.

I opened the window a little but the breeze was choked with exhaust fumes. The car had inched forward maybe five metres in the last five minutes. Five minutes seems an inordinately long amount of time when your daughter has nobody to pick her up and your mother is more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen her in your life.

I swallowed hard to try to relieve the dryness in my throat, cursing that I’d left my bottle of water at work.

A ball of heat uncurled itself in the pit of my stomach and began to work its way up to my head, where I knew from experience it would explode and give me a beetroot face and add fuel to my already raging headache.

I picked my phone up and stared at the blank screen, devoid of texts or missed calls.

Tapping my fingernails on the steering wheel, I willed the traffic in front of me to move.



* * *



I got to school at ten past five. Forty minutes late.

I parked up on double yellow lines directly outside the entrance to the school office, ripping off my seatbelt and jumping out of the car, running full pelt through the main gates. It was like a ghost town without the throng of children and parents to battle through.

The doors were locked and the blinds pulled down. The back of my neck prickled, my throat suddenly parched.

I hammered on the doors and all the windows. I ran around the whole building, banging and yelling. When I got to Evie’s classroom window, a man in his early sixties, wearing navy dungarees, appeared from around the corner.

‘My daughter,’ I gasped, rushing up to him. ‘I’m late picking her up.’

‘There’s nobody here, love,’ he answered. ‘They’ve all gone home.’

‘No, you don’t under—’ I swallowed down the taste of vomit, squeezing my eyes shut to try to ward off the feeling of nausea. When I opened them, he was watching me curiously. ‘You don’t understand. My daughter, Evie, she was here with Miss Watson for an after-school session.’

‘But everybody’s gone now,’ he repeated, shuffling back a few steps. ‘I’m the caretaker and I’ve done a sweep of all the classrooms. There’s nobody here. Nobody at all.’