The Hiding Place(65)

“So,” Miss Grayson says, placing a cup of coffee on the table beside me then sitting down in the other armchair with a mug of Theraflu. “You have some questions.”

“Just a few.”

She sits back. “Probably the first being am I a crazy old woman with too much time on her hands?”

I reach for the coffee and take a sip. Unlike the slop she first served me at the school, this is rich and strong.

“It’s up there.”

“I imagine it is.”

“You sent me the email?”

“Yes.”

“How did you find me?”

“Process of elimination. I knew you’d become a teacher. I tracked you down to your last school, explained you were applying for a position here and I’d lost your contact details.”

“But that was before I applied for the job here.”

“That’s right.”

Something else occurs to me.

“Did the school mention how I left?”

“It came up.”

“So you knew I faked the reference I gave Harry.”

A glint in her eye. “I was impressed with your inventiveness.”

I let this sink in. All along, she has been playing me.

“And the folder?”

“I collated it. Marcus left it for you—I thought it would attract less attention.”

“But the text came from Marcus’s phone?”

“An old one he didn’t use. But then his iPhone was smashed and he needed a spare.”

“Why? Why go to all this trouble? This pantomime? You didn’t think to just call me? I hear that the mail even delivers such things as letters?”

“Would you have come back if I had just called?”

“Maybe.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

Her voice is sharp. And I feel rebuked. Like a child caught in a lie.

“I learned a lot,” she continues, “working with children all these years. One—never ask anything outright. They will only lie. Two—always make them think it is their idea. And three—make something interesting enough and they will come to you.”

“You missed out four—never let them light their own farts.”

A small smile. “You always used sarcasm as a defense mechanism, even as a boy.”

“I’m surprised you remember me as a boy.”

“I remember all my students.”

“Impressive. I can barely remember my last class.”

“Stephen Hurst—sadistic, amoral but clever. A dangerous combination. Nick Fletcher—not a bright boy, an excess of anger. A pity he couldn’t have found a better way to channel it. Chris Manning—brilliant, damaged, lost. Always searching for something he could never find. And you—the dark horse. Deflecting blows with words. The closest thing Hurst had to a real friend. He needed you, more than you realized.”

I swallow. My throat feels like sandpaper.

“You forgot Marie.”

“Ah yes—a pretty girl, cleverer than she made out. A girl who knew how to get what she wanted, even back then.”

“But we’re not children anymore.”

“We’re all still children inside. The same fears, the same joys. We just get taller, and better at hiding things.”

“You’re pretty good at hiding things yourself.”

“I didn’t mean to deceive you.”

“Then what exactly did you mean to do?”

“Persuade you to return. In which I succeeded.” She starts to cough, pulls a tissue out of her sleeve and covers her mouth. Once the coughing has subsided, she says: “I presume you found out through Marcus.”

I nod. “He was worried you’d get into trouble. I promised him you wouldn’t…as long as you told me the truth.”

She nods. “Marcus is a good boy.”

“He thinks a lot of you.”

“He’s my godson, but I suppose he told you that as well?”

“Yes. I never realized you knew his mum—”

“Ruth suffered terribly at school. I rescued her from the bullies one day and became something of a confidante.”

I think about the children I would see in her office. The ones she tried to help. It wasn’t much. But, in school, when you are scared and bullied, a small kindness is everything.

“Anyway,” she continues, “Ruth and I stayed in touch after she left school. When she had Lauren and Marcus she asked me to be their godmother.

“I would look after them sometimes when she was working, in the holidays. We remained close, especially Marcus. He still visits me for tea twice a week. He’s a very smart young man and we share a lot of the same interests.”

“Local history?”

Another thin smile. “Among other things.”

“So you used him?”

“He wanted to help. He doesn’t know everything, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, you have no idea what I’m thinking.”

“Then tell me.”

I open my mouth and realize I have no idea what I’m thinking.

“You read the folder?” she prompts, taking a sip from her mug.