Influence Page 7

  Mr Fletcher, a stuffy middle aged nervous mouse of a man, had been the English teacher when Lizzie had arrived at Queen’s. He was probably in his early fifties but had the appearance of someone much older with his lack of hair and geriatric shake. He was known less as Mr Fletcher and more as one of two nicknames: Old Fletcher, or The Claw, which was in reference to his chronic rheumatoid arthritis. Both hands were gnarled, and on a bad day he could barely grip anything, but his right hand in particular was badly affected. All of the fingers were curled round into a fist, unable to be freed except for the index finger which was locked in an extended long curl giving him a perpetually malevolent Nosferatu point, which he used to good effect at his students. She had felt sorry for him, initially, but a couple of negative run-ins with him quickly changed that and her sympathy had turned to apathy at best, distain at worst. It was a widely known fact that Mr Fletcher and Mr Pallister hated one another. Since his divorce from Mrs Fletcher the man had become withdrawn, depressed and predictably absent. Queen’s Grove House prided itself on so many things and seldom having to invoke the assistance of relief teachers was one such boast. Indeed in the first few months of Lizzie’s life at Queen’s she had been taught by Miss Abrahams, a newly qualified substitute teacher, as often as she had been Mr Fletcher. And since Christmas Mr Fletcher had not been seen at school at all giving rise to various rumours of growing ridiculousness from fits of deep depression to a murder suicide pact with his ex-wife now circulating.

  ‘Were you here that day when old Fletcher got Tabitha to read her story to the class?’

  ‘Oh God yeah, that was unbearable,’ said Lizzie recalling that particular afternoon. Fletcher had taken a bit of a shine to Tabby Perkytits, no surprise there. He claimed her story was exactly the type of thing the rest of the class should be aiming to emulate. Lizzie would have hated the story no matter what she had produced but she was a little relieved to discover her story was, in fact, awful. A lot of the class had opted to place themselves, or loosely veiled versions of themselves, in the lead roles of modern takes on fairytales and Tabby’s effort was one such. She had re-told sleeping beauty writing herself as a frustrated office clerk trapped in a dead end job, in a relationship going nowhere, metaphorically asleep until the love interest arrived; some clichéd chisel chinned executive who had awoken her with a kiss – and some truly cringe-worthy, clumsily written lovemaking – and led her into his privileged high flying life. The girls laughed remembering how sincerely Tabby had read her story and how offended she had looked when the class had failed to erupt into spontaneous applause when she had finished.

  ‘What did she expect,’ chuckled Lizzie, ‘it was a total puke-fest.’

  Vic was forced to work with a boy in the class who had failed to find a partner of his own, from what Lizzie could see they pretty much sat in silence for an hour. Lizzie on the other hand found working with Amy a welcome relief from being perpetually paired with Vic. Although they chatted about so many things, not just the schoolwork, they were still a far more productive team and when the bell rang to signal the end of class Lizzie couldn’t believe the hour passed so quickly.

  The students began shovelling their books back into their bags. ‘How’s the study going?’ asked Amy carefully placing jotters and books into her backpack. ‘Are you taking much in? I swear the words are just bouncing off my brain and falling out again.’

  ‘Yeah much the same really, I guess we just have to trust it’s doing some good and keep bashing on,’ the first exam on this year’s timetable was English and it was only a little over a week away.

  ‘Hey after exam week I was planning to do something to celebrate, do you fancy tagging along?’ Lizzie paused her own book packing for a second, taken aback slightly by this sudden development in what could barely be called a friendship.

  ‘What did you have in mind?’ said Lizzie trying to sound nonplussed.

  ‘My brother’s band is playing at the Mill, sort of an end of year blow-out. They’re worse than awful but they’re a good bunch, should be fun.’

  ‘A gig? Hell-yeah I’m in.’

  ‘Hey don’t go getting excited. If you like music you’ll probably hate it. It’s usually a spree-kill of massacred covers by pretentious teenage boys who’ve drunk enough to find the courage to get up and perform, but too much to play their instruments properly.’

  Lizzie and Vic ate their lunch in the library – which they were not supposed to do, but the nameless librarian always turned a blind eye. Robe would usually join with them at lunch time, There was no sign of him so far though. ‘Is he sick?’ asked Lizzie.

  ‘I don’t remember the last time he was sick, he’s probably just running late. I don’t think he’s missed a day’s school in his life,’ he said.

  There was a feeling of finality about Sully’s class. Robe had failed to show up and there were only three students in attendance. Sully hadn’t bothered arranging the desks as normal and instead had merely pulled a few chairs together. He ran through a checklist for the final exam, making sure everyone knew the areas to concentrate on. He stated that he would be popping into the school from time to time before the exam and that he had left his office phone number with Mr Pallister and could be contacted for any last minute advice. For the first time Lizzie felt a twinge of sentimentality toward Queen’s Grove House, albeit she acknowledged it was more accurately to do with Sully than anything else. His laid back style of teaching and the way he treated his pupils as mature adults was refreshing and Lizzie hoped it was a little taste of the university life they would be experiencing next year. Lizzie would admit, if pressed, the fact that Sully was easy on the eye didn’t hurt, and the faint Scottish accent also made him all the more approachable but these were only after thoughts. He was a terrific teacher and she would miss his class very much.

  ‘Okay people, our time together fast comes to an end and I just wanted to take this opportunity to thank you for your efforts this year and for your contributions in class,’ Sully sat upon the foremost desk, arms held wide as he addressed his depleted students. ‘This type of class doesn’t work if everyone isn’t on board with the collaborative idea and you all embraced it. I hope you’ve taken something from it beyond the pursuit of exam success; I know I certainly have. Intimate classes such as this one are a joy to teach and I wish you all every success for the future.’ Sully appeared genuinely melancholy as the pupils packed their books away. He made a point of patting the backs of their shoulders as they left his class for the last time. ‘And remember people, knowledge is power so arm yourselves and no man can stand against you.’ Lizzie packed her books slowly, pretending to rearrange the contents of her bag, ensuring she was last to leave the class. ‘I hope we’ll be seeing you next year Lizzie, and I certainly believe you’re capable of it’ Sully placed a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘I’ll do my best, I can promise you that much,’ she said.

  ‘And who could ask more.’ Just then Vic arrived.

  ‘Walk you home…Liz?’ Vic stuttered seeing Sully’s hand on Lizzie’s shoulder as if walking in on something far less innocent.

  ‘All the best Lizzie, do pass on my regards and a message of good luck to your brother Victor. Not that he needs it.’ Lizzie smiled at Sully while she shovelled a stern faced Vic out into the corridor.

  ‘I don’t like that guy. He’s creepy’ Said Vic as he and Lizzie made their way across the driveway, avoiding the four by four stampede as usual. A steady drizzle had started to fall and the sky was a patchwork of increasingly threatening greys. The parents within their brutish cars stayed inside them, only cranking a door open when the appropriate student arrived.

  ‘Sully? You’re mad. He’s a great guy. Best teacher I ever had,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘He tries too hard, and just look at the way he was letching over you this afternoon.’ Lizzie suddenly understood where his attitude was coming from.

  ‘You would feel differently if you’d taken his class, believe me. And he’s not a let
ch, he was just saying goodbye, how many other teachers have done that?’

  ‘That’s my point, it’s inappropriate,’ this made Lizzie laugh. His pouted lip made him look like a five year old denied sweets. Vic’s hands were thrust ubiquitously into his pockets and Lizzie hooked her arm through the crook at his elbow and playfully pulled him in close as they walked. They made their way off the road and into the shortcut through the woods. The rain had gathered fervour but neither of them was particularly bothered as it wasn’t cold and besides it brought out the smells of the wood, and the grass. The shower beat a steady rhythm on the sparse canopy overhead and Lizzie, already feeling a little nostalgic from her goodbyes with Sully, was reminded of Scotland where so many of her memories bore a background of grey skies and rain. The wooded trail turned to the left and opened out slightly, and the path ran downhill. To the right a high embankment thick with trees blocked out the noise of the main road which was only a few hundred metres away. To the left a rickety fence housed fields of varying spring colours that stretched for miles. Lizzie hadn’t realised just how lovely it was here, she guessed when the three of them made this journey they would normally be lost in conversation, but since Vic was on his own here his awkwardness made for a quiet walk. Also Lizzie’s unexpected close proximity ensured he was utterly silent until his bodily functions spoiled the calm. ‘Sorry, need to pee’ said Vic looking down at their knotted arms.’ Lizzie released him.

  ‘Go to it Vic, I’ll walk further down, don’t wanna give you stage fright.’ Vic clumsily made his way up the embankment looking for sufficient cover while Lizzie walked down the path to where the fragile looking fence came close enough to lean on. She stood facing the fields, her arms taking her weight as she looked out over many miles of open vista. It struck her how quiet it was. The rain was the only detectable sound, except of course for Vic’s crunching through undergrowth with the occasional yelp of pain. No birds, that was odd, or maybe it wasn’t. Lizzie wasn’t sure whether the rain kept birds quiet or not. She turned, leaning her back against the fence, indifferent to her ever increasing saturation, Vic was going to great lengths to find cover deep enough to satisfy his coyness. Lizzie looked at her watch, getting impatient and was just bringing her eyes up again when something caught the periphery of her vision. A swatch of grey-blue-brown drew her attention. It was barely visible amongst the undergrowth just adjacent to the path thirty metres or so further downhill. Were it not for the fact that the colour was alien to its bright green and dark brown surrounding Lizzie would never have noticed. She cocked her head to one side like a curious dog trying to comprehend what she was looking at without having to go to the effort of relinquishing her comfortable fence. There was something familiar about the colour.

  She gave up and heaved herself from her position and started down the path. She had only gone ten metres or so when she stopped dead in her tracks. The thing was slowly coming into view, she couldn’t be sure yet exactly what it was, but what stopped her was the realisation of where she knew that particular colour from.

  Just then Vic came lumbering down the path towards her, still adjusting his trousers. ‘Sorry about that, call of nature.’ The look on Lizzie’s face caused him to pause. ‘You ok? You look like a ghost just flashed his knackers at you. What’s going on?’ Lizzie glanced down the path and then back to Vic, not sure what to say. She wanted to say it was probably nothing, but she couldn’t. Vic read her concern and followed her gaze down the path. Lizzie saw his eyes narrow, and then he started to move past her. Lizzie paused for a second then some instinct made her reach out. She pulled on his arm.

  ‘Vic, wait.’ But he had spotted the same familiar colour and he shrugged her off adamantly. Lizzie wanted to go after him but she couldn’t. She couldn’t move. She stood on the path facing back the way they had come and she waited.

  Impossibly long seconds passed and Lizzie wrung her hands to stop them from shaking. She was just becoming convinced that everything was okay, under the - no news is good news - way of thinking when she suddenly knew it wasn’t.

  Lizzie’s wringing, shaking hands went to her mouth when she heard Vic emit a truly heart shattering cry.

  She wanted to go to him, to help him. But she could only stand there, her back to him and weep. Shuddering sobs broke through her as Vic howled.

  Nine

  Queen’s had been closed for a few days; partly out of respect but mainly due to pressure from the Police. The days following the discovery of Robe’s body had been a blur. Lizzie couldn’t recall how many times she had attended at the Police station to give statements, each time Janice had gone with her. She had taken a leave of absence from work, which was completely unheard of and her bosses were so shocked she had asked that they agreed immediately. Janice was determined to be there for Lizzie in whatever way she needed her to be. She had never, and would never forgive herself for not making it to her sister’s funeral and this, in some small way at least, was her atonement.

  Lizzie appeared to Janice to be in a slight state of shock, she was distant, quiet and tired. The visits to the police station had quickly become tiresome. Janice spent hour after hour with Lizzie while she gave the same account of events over and over. The bleak cold walls of the building made for a chilling atmosphere and this was only the public facing section of the station, Janice could only wonder how much worse it must be in the business end of it. Time and time again the Police would thank Lizzie for her assistance and hollow empathy was thrown at her with plain clothed officers telling her how hard it must be and that they would keep things as comfortable and as brief as they possibly could. No interview proved to be remotely brief and each was as far from comfortable as they could possibly be. Still it was with a sense of duty that Lizzie and her aunt continually attended, and Janice was prepared to continue to dutifully entertain the police requests right up until the point where they took Lizzie’s fingerprints – for “elimination purposes” of course. But after Janice saw tears roll down Lizzie’s face as she tried to remove the ink from her hands with a woefully insufficient paper towel she decided enough was damn well enough. In the end the Police were told that if they wanted to speak to her they could call the house to make an appointment and conduct whatever business they had there.

  The Police had declared it a murder investigation right from the start but had declined to go into detail about the precise circumstances and injuries which had resulted in Robe’s death. Janice had feared the press would get wind of the fact that Lizzie had been one of those to discover the body and would pursue her for details, but they were either uninterested, or more likely unaware and had thankfully left Lizzie alone.

  Queen’s reopened its doors after a week had passed, with Mr Pallister eager to get the students back to some sense of routine, no doubt under less than sympathetic pressure from school authorities since exam week had already been pushed back and a back log was now gathering.

  Janice dropped Lizzie at the school gates. ‘You’re sure you’re up to this? Nobody would blame you if you needed to take more time; in fact I think it might be best,’ said Janice pulling on the handbrake. ‘The school said you were under no pressure to do this today.’

  ‘Thanks, but no. Apart from anything else I’m as prepared for this exam as I’ll ever be, I need to get it done,’ Lizzie leaned over and hugged her aunt. ‘I’m fine. Really.’

  ‘Call me after? I’ll come get you.’

  ‘Okay, but you needn’t bother. You should get back to work; it must be killing you to be away from it.’

  ‘Nah, it’s been nice spending some quality time with you. Well, nice maybe isn’t the right word given what’s happened but it’s been good, you know? Besides the school sent letters out to the parents telling us students need to be picked up until further notice, that or teachers would drop students off at the end of the day. ’

  Lizzie heaved on the large front door of Queen’s, someone had gone mad with “Quiet, Exams in progress” signs and they were plastered ove
r doors and walls alike. A knot tightened in Lizzie’s stomach. She was prepared, but she was also terrified. Of all her exams this was her best shot at an A. She felt unforgivably selfish for thinking that the past week or so had done nothing for her chances. She wondered, but doubted, whether Vic would be at school today for the exam. She looked about the corridors but saw no sign of him. Instead she saw only concerned faces and whispered glances. There was a strange sullen atmosphere about the place. Faces were grim and voices subdued, it was one of the eeriest situations Lizzie had ever encountered. Usually the halls were buzzing between classes with laughter and the squeak of trainers but today you could have heard a pin drop. That was until she reached the lockers which aligned one of the particularly long corridors within the school.

  Bitch Tits stood, his back pushed up against a locker with his rabble of minions jealously admiring some device he was holding. Whatever profound effect Robe’s death had had on the rest of the school had clearly passed them by. Lizzie halted in her tracks when she saw them, she quickly ran through her knowledge of the school layout wondering if there was an alternate route to the dining hall which was now being utilised as an exam hall. It was too late though, Bitch Tits had spotted her and was already whispering something to the boy nearest to him. Lizzie pressed on, head down, bag clutched to her chest. For a moment she thought she might make it past them unmolested but Bitch Tits stepped into her path at the last second. Lizzie looked up to find him and his many chins grinning at her. In his hand was a mobile phone, probably an expensive gift from daddy. ‘Not. Today,’ she said with an echo of a growl. Bitch Tits stepped back and Lizzie walked on. Bitch Tits waited a moment before sending after her: