The Hiding Place(12)

I hear the hubbub of the cafeteria long before we approach it. Once again, it takes me back. The wafting aroma of frying, stale oil and something indefinable that you never see served but only ever smell drifting from the extractor fans of schools or old people’s homes.

Inside, it hasn’t changed as much as I expect. Parquet flooring. Plastic tables and chairs. The kitchen looks like it’s had something of an overhaul since I used to line up for my burger, fried onions and chips. Now it’s all chicken and rice, vegetable pasta and salad. I blame Jamie Oliver.

“That’s some of our group over there. C’mon.”

Beth leads me in the direction of a table in a far corner. The teachers’ table. Four people sit around it. She rattles through the introductions: Miss Hardy, Susan—a wispy lady with long gray hair and thick glasses—history.

Mr. Edwards, James—a good-looking young man with a hipster beard—math.

Miss Hibbert, Coleen—a strong-jawed woman with a military haircut—PE.

And Mr. Saunders, Simon—a lanky figure in a Pink Floyd T-shirt and faded cords; receding hair yanked back into scraggy ponytail—sociology.

For some reason, I dislike him instantly. Perhaps because he introduces himself by saying: “How’s it going, man?”

Unless you are in a band or an American surfer, do not use the term “man.” It makes you look like a dick, as does a ponytail with a receding hairline—you’re not fooling anyone.

I sit down and he points at me with his fork.

“You look familiar, man. Have we met?”

“I don’t think so,” I say, carefully unwrapping my tuna sandwich.

“Where were you teaching before you came here?”

“Abroad.”

“Whereabouts?”

It takes me a moment to remember the lie. “Botswana.”

“Really? My ex-girlfriend taught out there for a while.”

Of course she fucking did.

He smiles. “Wareng?”

I consider the odds. Wareng? Not a place. Too obvious. Must be an introduction. Not “Hello,” as we’ve already done that, so it must mean…

“I’m good, thanks,” I say pleasantly. “You?”

The smile recedes faster than his hair. I take a bite of sandwich and wonder if anyone would care if I dragged him outside and threw him under the nearest bus.

“I hear you’re from Arnhill?” Coleen asks, thankfully changing the subject.

“I grew up here,” I say.

“And you came back?” James asks incredulously, and only half joking.

“For my sins.”

“Well, we’re glad to have you,” Susan offers. “It’s been difficult finding a replacement after…well, after Mrs. Morton.”

“Yeah,” Simon says. “You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps.” He chortles at his own joke.

Beth eyes him coldly. “Julia suffered from depression. She wasn’t mad.”

He sneers at her. “Right. Because smashing your own kid’s face in is completely sane?” He takes a hearty bite of pasta and chews noisily.

I turn to Beth: “Did everyone know about Julia’s depression?”

“She was quite open about it,” Beth says. “She went through a bad spell after her separation from Ben’s dad. I think moving here was supposed to be a fresh start.”

Some fresh start, I think.

“She was on medication,” Susan adds. “But apparently, she’d stopped taking it.”

“How did she get hold of a gun?”

“Her family owns a farm near Oxton. It was her father’s.”

“Obviously,” James says, “if any of us had suspected there was anything wrong—”

What? I think. What would you have done? Asked her if she was okay and smiled with relief when she said that she was fine. Job done. Concern-box ticked. The truth is, none of us wants to know. Not really. Because then we might have to care, and who has the time for that?

“Obviously,” I say.

Simon snaps his fingers and points at me again: “Stockford Academy.”

My stomach lurches.

“That’s where I remember you from,” he says. “I worked there as a supply teacher before I got the job here.”

And now that he’s said it I vaguely recall a skinny bloke with bad dress sense and halitosis. We weren’t in the same department. But still. Really?

“Well, I wasn’t there very long, so…”

“Yeah. You left kind of suddenly. What happened? You piss off the head?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

Pissing off didn’t even come close.

“Weird, though.” He frowns, and nods at my bad leg. “I don’t remember you having a limp back then.”

I stare at him. “Then you must be confusing me with someone else. I’ve had the limp since I was a kid.”

The moment lingers a little longer than is comfortable. Susan intervenes: “What happened? If you don’t mind me asking?”

Actually, I do. But I kind of brought this one on myself.

“I was fifteen. I was in a car accident with my dad and my little sister. We came off the road and hit a tree. Annie and my dad died instantly. My leg was crushed. Took half a dozen bits of metal to put it back together again.”