The Hiding Place(51)

I walk up the short pathway. A fat tabby cat lounges on the windowsill. It eyes me with a lazy contempt. At the door, I pause. Even though I’ve had all day to think about it, I’m still not sure exactly how to approach this. Those messages were anonymous for a reason. If Ruth sent them, she doesn’t want to talk. The question is, why did she send them?

I don’t know Ruth. I never really knew her all those years ago. No one did. At school, she was never part of any group. Never friends with anyone. Never included. Never picked first unless the team sport was humiliation and torment.

I remember one day some of the other girls stole her panties in PE. A gang of kids—boys and girls—armed with sticks and rulers followed her out of school. They surrounded her as she tried to escape home, jeering, calling her names and lifting her skirt to reveal her nudity. It was cruel and horrendous and not even sexual. It was brutal and simple degradation. I’m not sure quite how far it would have gone if Miss Grayson hadn’t spotted what was going on out of a window, intervened and taken her home.

Not that home was much better. Her mum liked a drink and her dad had a temper. Not a good combination. Apparently, you could hear them screaming at each other all the way down the street. About the only companion she had was a mangy old dog she used to walk up over the old colliery site.

I wasn’t one of the kids who bullied her. Not that day. But that’s nothing to be proud of. I didn’t help her either. I just stood by, watching her torment. And then I walked away. Not for the first time. Or the last.

Ruth was one of those kids you try hard not to think about after you have left school, because to do so makes you feel just that little bit worse about yourself. And I had far bigger things to feel worse about.

I raise my hand to knock on the door…and it swings open.

A short, stocky woman stands in front of me. She is dressed in a magenta cleaner’s smock, the company name neatly embroidered on the chest. Her thick, dark hair has been cropped short. For practical rather than aesthetic reasons, I presume. Beneath the blunt fringe her square face has the stoic look of someone who has become accustomed to disappointment. A face battered by life’s small blows. They are often the ones that hurt the most.

She regards me suspiciously, arms folded.

“Yes?”

“Erm, Mrs. Dawson? I left a message earlier. I’m Joe Thorne. I’m a teacher at—”

“I know who you are.”

“Right.”

“What do you want?”

The lack of social niceties evidently runs in the family.

“Well, like I said in the message, I wanted to return Marcus’s phone. He lost it at school today. Is he here?”

“No.” She holds out her hand. “I’ll give it to him.”

I hesitate. If I give her the phone now, I’m pretty sure I will be continuing this conversation with a closed door.

“Could I come in?”

“Why?”

“There’s something else I’d like to talk to you about.”

“What?”

I debate with myself. Sometimes you need to show your cards. Others, you need to play the long game.

“A cleaning job.”

I wait. For a moment I think she’s still going to slam the door in my face. Instead, she stands to one side.

“Kettle’s on.”


—



The house is as pristine inside as out, a little unnervingly so. It smells of disinfectant and air fresheners. I feel my sinuses swell and a dull throb begin in my temple.

“Through here.” Ruth leads me into a small kitchen. Another cat squats on the kitchen counter: gray, fluffy, malevolent-looking. I wonder where the dog is. Perhaps Lauren is out walking him.

I take Marcus’s phone out of my pocket and place it on the kitchen table.

“It got a bit wet but I think it still works.”

Ruth glances at it. Her face betrays nothing.

“Marcus has an iPhone.”

“Not anymore, I’m afraid. It got broken.”

She gives me a sharper look. “Broken or smashed?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Of course not. No one ever can.”

“If Marcus wants to make a complaint about bullying—”

“What? What will you do? What will the school do?”

I open my mouth then flounder like a grounded fish.

Ruth turns to the cabinet and takes out two mugs. One has a picture of a cat on it. The other proclaims: “Keep calm. I’m a cleaner.”

“I’ve been up to the school. Loads of times,” she says. “Talked to your head.”

“Right.”

“Fat lot of good that did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I thought things might have changed. Schools don’t put up with that type of thing no more. They crack down on bullying.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Yeah. Nice idea. Crap, though.” She turns to the kettle. “Tea?”

“Um. I’d prefer coffee.”

I’d prefer to tell her that she is wrong. That schools do crack down on bullying now. That they don’t brush it under the gym mats for the sake of a decent inspection report. That who someone’s daddy is has no effect whatsoever on their treatment by the teachers. That’s what I want to tell her.