The Hiding Place(4)

“Joseph Thorne?”

I stand. Harry Price is everything I expected, and less. A thin, wrung-out-looking man somewhere in his mid-fifties in a shapeless suit and slip-on loafers. His hair is sparse and gray, combed back from a face that looks as though it is constantly on the brink of receiving terrible news. An air of weary resignation hangs about him like bad aftershave.

He smiles. Crooked, nicotine-stained. It reminds me that I haven’t had a cigarette since I left Manchester. That, combined with the caffeine craving, makes me want to grind my teeth together until they crumble.

Instead, I stick out a hand and manage what I hope is a pleasant smile in return. “Good to meet you.”

I see him quickly appraise me. Taller than him, by a couple of inches. Clean-shaven. Good suit, expensive when it was new. Dark hair, although rather more shot through with gray these days. Dark eyes that are rather more shot through with blood. People have told me I have an honest face. Which just goes to show how little people know.

He grips my hand and shakes it firmly. “My office is just this way.”

I adjust my satchel on my shoulders, try to force my bad leg to walk properly and follow Harry to his office. Showtime.


—



“So, your letter of recommendation from your previous head is glowing.”

It should be. I wrote it myself.

“Thank you.”

“In fact, everything here looks very impressive.”

Bullshit is one of my specialties.

“But…”

And there it is.

“There is quite a long gap since your last position—over twelve months.”

I reach for the weak, milky coffee that Miss Grayson eventually slammed on the desk in front of me. I take a sip and try not to grimace.

“Yes, well, that was deliberate. I decided I wanted a sabbatical. I’d been teaching for fifteen years. It was time to restock. Think about my future. Decide where I wanted to go next.”

“And do you mind me asking what you did on your sabbatical? Your CV is a little vague.”

“Some private tutoring. Community work. I taught abroad for a while.”

“Really? Whereabouts?”

“Botswana.”

Botswana? Where the hell did that come from? I don’t think I could even point to it on a frigging map.

“That’s very commendable.”

And inventive.

“It wasn’t entirely altruistic. The weather was better.”

We both laugh.

“And now you want to get back to teaching full-time?”

“I’m ready for the next stage in my career, yes.”

“So, my next question is—why do you want to work here at Arnhill Academy? Based upon your CV, I would have thought you have your pick of schools?”

Based upon my CV, I should probably have a Nobel Peace Prize.

“Well,” I say, “I’m a local boy. I grew up in Arnhill. I suppose I’d like to give something back to the community.”

He looks uncomfortable, shuffles papers on his desk. “You are aware of the circumstances in which this post became available?”

“I read the news.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“It’s tragic. Terrible. But one tragedy shouldn’t define a whole school.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that.”

I’m glad I practiced it.

“Although,” I add, “I do appreciate you must all still be very upset.”

“Mrs. Morton was a popular teacher.”

“I’m sure.”

“And Ben, well, he was a very promising student.”

I feel my throat tighten, just a little. I’ve grown good at hardening myself. But for a moment it gets to me. A life full of promise. But that’s all life ever is. A promise. Not a guarantee. We like to believe we have our place all set out in the future, but we only have a reservation. Life can be canceled at any moment, with no warning, no refund, no matter how far along you are in the journey. Even if you’ve barely had time to take in the scenery.

Like Ben. Like my sister.

I realize Harry is still talking.

“Obviously, it’s a sensitive situation. Questions have been asked. How could the school not notice that one of their own teachers was mentally unstable? Could students have been at risk?”

“I understand.”

I understand Harry is more worried about his position and his school than poor dead Benjamin Morton, who had his face caved in by the one person in life who should have been there to protect him.

“What I’m saying is I have to be careful who I choose to fill the position. Parents need to have confidence.”

“Absolutely. And I completely understand if you have a better candidate—”

“I’m not saying that.”

He hasn’t. I’m bloody sure of it. And I’m a good teacher (mostly). The fact is, Arnhill Academy is a shithole. Underperforming. Poorly regarded. He knows it. I know it. Getting a decent teacher to work here will be harder than finding a bear that doesn’t crap in the woods, especially under the current “circumstances.”

I decide to push the point. “I hope you don’t mind me being honest?”

Always good to say when you have no intention of being honest.