The quiet one, p.13
The Quiet One, page 13
It’s as I stride towards platform six that I realise I’m trembling. I clasp my hands together in front of me, my fingers locked to stop the shaking. I’m furious at my own weakness; for allowing myself to still be intimidated by her after all this time. I’m a grown woman, for God’s sake. I’ve worked hard to remove myself from the person I was. The last thing I need is for Tanya Sharpe to breeze back into my life and drag me right back to the girl that I used to be. I’ve moved on. She hasn’t. Still the same loud, graceless person she always was. Still the same bullying, domineering ways.
I shiver and block out those memories. It’s all too painful, too raw to think about. The passing of time hasn’t erased the hurt. I’m a different person now. A better, stronger person. I’ve made something of myself. Done things I’m proud of; done things I’m not so proud of. But I’m in a better place than I was when I knew Tanya.
A train pulls up alongside me. The metallic drag of metal against metal plucks me out of my thoughts. I’m only too glad to be released from the misery of the past. Seeing Tanya has only served to strengthen my resolve to work towards a better future, to leave those unwanted memories far behind me.
I spot Wade’s dark hair amongst the crowd. I am flooded with relief. I hadn’t realised just how much I had missed him until now. He is a solid reminder of who I am, my life raft in a sea of uncertainty.
Tears threaten to fall as I fling myself at him and bury my face in his chest.
‘Hey, hey! I’ve only been gone a couple of days.’ His voice is full of concern as he pulls me back and stares deep into my eyes.
I blink and smile up at him, desperately trying to conceal the tremble that is travelling up my body. Whether it’s the recent letter or the accident or seeing Tanya, I am both elated and exhausted, and terrified and relieved, all at the same time.
There are things I need to tell Wade, things I should have revealed to him a long, long time ago. ‘Come on,’ I say as I grab his hand and squeeze it tight. ‘Let’s get you home.’
20
The evening is a blur. We spend it wrapped in one another’s arms. Spread before us on the coffee table is a collection of half-eaten Indian food and an empty wine bottle with two garnet-stained glasses beside it.
‘Shall I open another?’ Wade stands up, looks at me, his face quizzical, his expression dark and enigmatic as he searches my features for something I cannot give. His gaze is relentless, probing deep into my soul. I want to reach up to him, become nestled in the safety and solidity of his embrace and lose myself forever.
‘Well, we’re off tomorrow, so why not?’ I wave my crystal glass at him playfully.
‘You’re a very bad influence, you do know that, don’t you?’ He leans down and kisses me. I can taste the garlic and wine on his lips and a feel an unexpected flush of excitement at him being so close by. I’m a teenager again with a crush, a young girl unable to contain her feelings, swept along by lust and exhilaration.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply, complete contentment washing over me, settling somewhere down in the pit of my belly. When I open them again, Wade is standing over me, watching me, his expression one of mild amusement. ‘I should go away more often. I can’t remember the last time I saw you this happy and relaxed.’
He winks at me and I have no idea whether it’s the sound of his voice or the fact that he is so trusting or if it is simply a release of all the pent-up anger and fear and frustration that has been building up over the past few weeks, but I unexpectedly burst into tears.
Through misted vision, I see Wade’s expression change from happy to horrified. He sits down next to me on the sofa and places his arm over my shoulder. It is solid, reassuring. ‘Hey, hey! What’s up? One minute, you’re all laid back and content and now this?’
I am not sure whether to move closer to him or move away and pull myself together. Too late now. He’s seen the cracks in my veneer, the flimsy façade that disguises how broken and damaged I really am. I can’t keep this to myself any longer. I have to tell him. So I do.
Leaning into him so I don’t have to see his reactions, I tell Wade about my childhood, about the abuse I endured and why I simply cannot forgive my mother. And then I tell him about the letters. I’d like to say the whole process was cathartic but as I sit here, consumed by misery and anxiety, I’m not so sure it was. I am exhausted by it all. I’ve aged twenty years in twenty minutes. I don’t tell him everything. I can’t. And I don’t tell him about Glenn. There’s no need. Why bring up something that is no longer relevant? Glenn has been eliminated and isn’t on my radar anymore. He’s part of a past I am trying hard to erase.
‘Have you still got the letters?’ Wade’s voice is quiet. Careful. Even his movements are measured and slightly contrived so as to not upset me any further. This is why I was drawn to him: to counterbalance my traumatic childhood with his steadiness and reliability. I know that now. Wade is everything I am not.
I nod, my voice too sore and croaky to say anything else, then go and collect the letters together, shuffling them into a neat and tidy pile in a bid to detract from their contents.
When I come back with them held tightly in my hand, Wade has cleared the table. He takes them from me and we sit side by side on the sofa. He lays them out on the coffee table one by one in such a precise and methodical fashion that it unsettles me. The sight of them there, squared up in front of me, the white paper incongruous against the dark wood, makes me feel quite sick.
He reads them all, his eyes sweeping over each word and then turns to look at me. I know what’s coming next and my stomach tightens with dread.
‘Two things,’ he says in a low, gravelly voice. ‘Firstly, why didn’t you tell me about this before now? And secondly, have you informed the police?’ His easy, careful manner is slowly turning to one of brusqueness and efficiency. He has slipped into work mode and is now doing what he does best – sorting out problems that involve people being difficult or unfair towards one another.
A rush of heat blooms on my flesh coating me with a thin layer of perspiration. I wipe at my upper lip, my fingers as heavy as stone, and then rub at my eyes like a small child caught stealing from the sweetie jar. My voice trembles as I speak, a thin rasp in the silence of the room. ‘I’m sorry. I should have told you. I don’t know why I didn’t. I was worried and when I worry, I find it hard to open up and talk.’
Wade knows this to be true. We’ve been together for ten years and he is all too aware of my faults and idiosyncrasies. We met when I was doing my teaching degree at Northumbria University. Wade was doing his masters degree and the attraction was immediate. I had passed him quite a few times on campus and thought he was the most handsome man I’d ever seen. Never in a million years did I expect him to approach me and speak to me. I was acutely aware of how damaged I was, always convinced my emotional baggage was visible to anybody who came into contact with me. I kept myself to myself and shied away from social events. While other students partied hard and drank themselves into a stupor, I sat in my squalid little apartment and read or ate or slept. Anything to stop me from mingling with people who weren’t like me. I also had a job. I needed the money. Support from home was zero and so I worked as often as I could at a café in town, serving greasy food and cheap coffee to the people of Newcastle.
And then one day, Wade walked my way. We talked. He smiled and spoke in a gentle voice making me feel reassured about the world in general. I needed to know that it wasn’t filled with bullies and bad people and Wade showed me just that. He was the security I craved, my haven after so much uncertainty and fear.
And now I’ve lied to him, kept things from him even though he has been unerringly kind and supportive.
‘Okay. Doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done. It’s how we handle it from this point on that’s important.’ His voice has softened somewhat but still has an air of gravitas to it. An iron fist in a velvet glove.
I swallow and nod. ‘I don’t want to tell the police.’ I look up at Wade, an obvious plea in my eyes. ‘Please.’
Wade sighs and looks away, then turns back to me. ‘All right. But tell me one thing, please. Why not? I just don’t get it. I honestly don’t know why you wouldn’t want them to help.’
I’m not sure I understand it myself. I have a fear that once the police get involved, they’ll begin combing through my every move. They’ll want to know who holds a grudge against me. They will ask me hundreds of questions about my past, keen to unearth any dirty secrets, dredging and digging and I don’t think I can face it. I shrug and shake my head. ‘I can’t face all the questions and knowing looks they’ll give me. All I want is a peaceful life.’
This is not so far removed from the truth. For once, I am not lying.
‘Look, we’ll strike a deal.’ Wade sounds and looks exasperated by my inability to give reasons for being so uncooperative.
I hold my breath, wondering what he has in mind. Wondering if I am in any position to actually refuse.
‘No police involvement as long as you don’t receive any more of this utterly spiteful and pointless drivel.’ He holds up one of the letters and shakes it in the air, his face dark and brooding. ‘The minute you get another one, I’m calling them in.’
My chest and throat tighten. Dare I hide any future notes? Am I really that devious and secretive? I refuse to think about it. I don’t want to go down that route so instead, I nod and pray to a God I’m almost certain doesn’t exist, that there are no more. Because if there are, and Wade keeps his word, which I know for sure he will, and he informs the police, then I dread to think what will happen. Only I know the dark secrets of my past. Glenn has been all but eliminated, but as misdemeanours go, he was a minor blip. I’ve been lying to myself that Glenn was the only one with a grudge. Lying is easier than thinking about the unthinkable. Lying is a way of concealing my past, pretending it never happened. Pretending I didn’t do that terrible thing, that awful thing that I’ve tried so hard to forget.
I nod and tell him that I agree. What choice do I have? Even as I’m sitting here, looking into his eyes, saying all the things he wants to hear, I’m still not sure I am up to this. Wade has led a simple life; he has nothing to hide, no shadowy past, no dark secrets. Just a steady, average existence. Mine has been a bumpy ride along a cliff edge. I’m constantly terrified of dropping over and plummeting to the bottom, my body falling apart as I hit the floor, splitting in two, releasing a host of demons into the ether. The past ten years with Wade have taught me how to act normally, how to conduct myself in social situations and not let my anger and fears bubble up to the surface, but underneath it all, I’m still that terrified little girl, the youngster who did a terrible thing to keep herself safe.
And now it would appear, it’s all coming back to haunt me.
21
I’m desperately relieved when the weekend is over, when Monday morning arrives and there is no letter. Is this how I’m going to be from here on in – checking the post every single morning with my heart in my mouth? Watching and waiting for the morning when Wade finds it before I do? Because he will. Since Friday evening, he has been up and out of his seat as soon as he spots the postman striding up and down the road. This is his new project: keeping me safe from an invisible maniac. And there is no way the mystery notes are going to suddenly cease. I’m not that lucky. One day soon, another will arrive. And then he’ll be as good as his word and will call the police. That’s when everything will come apart. That’s when my nicely ordered life will disintegrate.
I am being treated like a delicate, porcelain ornament. It will be a relief to get into work where teenagers curl their lips at me, where they make snide remarks when they think I am not looking. The memory of Jack Phelps seeps back into my mind, the thought of his words twisting at my intestines until I can no longer eat my breakfast. I furtively pick up the bowl and empty the contents into the bin before Wade notices how little I’ve eaten, then stand staring out of the window as I finish my coffee.
‘Right, I’m off,’ I say a little too breezily. I place the cup in the sink, aware that I am in danger of play-acting in my own home. Nothing feels natural; every movement, every single word is artificial and theatrical. We can’t continue like this indefinitely, me carrying on like a cardboard cut-out. At some point, we have to go back to living a normal life. Whatever normal is.
‘I’ll contact the insurance company today, see if they’ve heard anything from the tractor driver. I’ll pass on his details and let them do their thing,’ Wade says. He is busy reading the news on his tablet, his gaze directed at the screen and for once, not at me.
I lean over him and kiss the top of his head. He looks up then and pushes the tablet to one side. ‘Bye, kiddo. Have a good day. I’ll see you tonight,’ he says softly.
I’m relieved Wade is sorting out the insurance. It’s one less thing for me to worry about, and besides, he enjoys taking charge and tackling all the admin tasks that I find indescribably boring.
‘See you later. I’ll be in at the usual time. No meetings to attend, thank God,’ I murmur as I roll my eyes and head out into the hallway.
I grab my keys and unlock the door, before taking a glance behind me. Wade is looking at me, his dark eyes narrowed in concentration, his lashes fluttering slightly as he watches me leave.
I shiver and step outside.
The car park is almost empty as I pull up into my usual space and lock up. I spot Jonathan, the head of the English Department, striding through the main doors and run to catch up with him. His briefcase swings by his side before he suddenly stops, stretches out his arm to place his security fob against the metal plate on the doorframe and pushes open the door. I manage to get behind him in time to sneak through before it closes.
‘Morning, boss,’ I say sardonically.
He turns and smiles at me, his face already flushed with the exertion of walking from the car to the building. A dark arc of perspiration circles his armpit, a stark contrast against the soft creaminess of his shirt. ‘Morning, Stella. Another early bird, eh?’
I nod. ‘I like to get things organised before the rest of the world wakes up. I’ve always been the same.’ I don’t tell him that I have terrible problems sleeping, that I toss and turn for most of the night, worrying about anything and everything: the future, the present, the past. They’re all there every night, forcing me awake, presenting new dilemmas and problems. And as fast as I solve one, another appears, ready to grind me underfoot.
We walk to the English department, Jonathan holding open the door as I step through to the main office. ‘How’s our friend Jack been since coming back from his exclusion? I tried to call in to see you the other day but Allison caught me and we spent over an hour discussing the new SEN budget. Or rather, the lack of it.’
I think about Jack’s choice of phrase, calling me a bitch, the connection to the letters, and do my best to dismiss it. It’s a tenuous link and I’m clutching at straws here. Jack Phelps is many things – disaffected, challenging – but he’s not angry or even bright enough to be behind such a dark and nasty affair. ‘He’s fine,’ I say with a smile. ‘Still hates me and still loathes Shakespeare and all aspects of English grammar with a passion but apart from that, we’re all good.’
Jonathan’s laugh fills the empty room. ‘Well, so far today, I haven’t got any meetings penned in so you know where I am if you need me.’ He gives me an inoffensive, affable wink and we part to prepare for the day ahead.
In school, there are days when times stretches out before me, when every lesson is arduous, like wading through treacle or trying to clamber out of quicksand. And then there are days when everything slots together with ease: students are responsive, the noise levels stay within an acceptable level and I manage to remain cheerful and not end the day like a washed-out old rag. Today is one of those days. Each and every lesson runs like clockwork, the pupils are receptive; even staff who usually look as if they’ve lost a tenner and found a penny seem happier and lighter.
The sun is that little bit brighter as I stare out of my classroom window, the sky that little bit clearer. I decide that I will go shopping after work. I still have enough energy and think that perhaps a wander around town on my own will do me good. I text Wade to tell him of my plans. He replies, saying that he has to stay late anyway and could I pick up some food on the way home.
I am heading out of the class and about to make my way down the corridor towards the exit when Marion from the school office rushes towards me with the headteacher Andrew Holland by her side. Andrew is looking down to the ground, his expression unreadable. Marion looks stricken.
They reach me and stop, Marion’s chest rising and falling as she gasps for breath. She looks up to Andrew for a reaction, her fingers fluttering over her face like the wings of a small bird. I wait as he clears his throat and indicates for me to go back into the classroom, nodding towards the door. Andrew is a young, fresh-faced headteacher, many of the staff believing him to be lacking in experience. Personally, I think he’s an okay guy but right now, he is starting to scare me. His sombre expression, his inability to convey what is happening here, all serve to unsettle me. A thousand possibilities for this unplanned liaison are racing through my brain: a serious complaint from the parent of one of my pupils, somebody close to me is gravely ill or worse still, dead, or I’m about to lose my job due to some serious misdemeanour or budget cuts.
My head is spinning by the time we sit down at one of the desks. Andrew twists at his tie, perspiration starting to cover his slightly equine features. He stares at me from beneath his dark, knitted brow. ‘Really sorry to have to catch you like this, Stella but we didn’t want you going out in the car park on your own and seeing it,’ he says, further deepening the feelings of concern and unease that are currently burrowing into my brain.
