The Other Tenant, page 9
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad I was awake and heard something, or God knows where you’d have ended up!’
I smile, weakly.
Mags looks into my face, and I sense that she hasn’t quite switched out of her paramedic role yet. ‘Will you be OK getting back to your room?’ she says. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’
I shake my head. ‘I’ll be fine. I don’t want to put you to any more trouble.’
Mags eyes the weather and then me. She shuts the door and points to a chair.
‘It’s no trouble,’ she says. ‘Wait there while I get my coat.’
A few minutes later, the two of us are hurrying across the wet playground, heads down against the wind. At the far edge of my vision, over by the caretaker’s huts, I think I see something. A towering, dark shape that for one absurd and terrifying second I think is some mythical creature, standing watch from the shadows. A hulking great golem.
But when I force myself to turn my head and look straight at it, there’s nothing there. Nothing except a tree. I must be going mad.
18
Elle
Elle is coming back from the toilets. She is almost at her room when she hears footsteps on the stairs. Marlow. She’s the only other person in this block.
Elle pushes open the fire door as quietly as she can and peers down the stairwell to see the top of Marlow’s head disappearing. She shrinks back. What the hell is she doing, creeping around at this ungodly hour?
Elle goes back to her room to grab her coat and slip her feet into a pair of Crocs. Then she sets off after her. Outside, she is careful to keep her distance by sticking to the perimeter, tucking herself so closely in to the line of hedges that drops of water from the wet leaves soak into her shoulders. She pulls the collar of her coat up around her neck, wishing she’d worn another layer. Wishing she wasn’t here at all. But she must find out what Marlow is doing. She still feels guilty about not keeping a closer eye on Hayley.
Perhaps Marlow doesn’t have her own kettle and is making her way to the kitchen for a late-night cuppa. But something about the furtive nature of her movements, the way she keeps stopping and looking about, makes Elle suspicious. Someone who is so desperate for a hot drink that they are prepared to venture out across a dark, cold playground in the middle of a rainy night would be walking a little quicker and more purposefully than that. Surely they would.
And what about last night, when Elle caught her in Rob’s office? She’s definitely up to something. Just like Hayley was up to something. And now Hayley is gone, and Elle has a horrible, sinking feeling about what might have happened to her.
She doesn’t want the same thing to happen to Marlow. Or herself, come to that.
Elle freezes. Marlow has stopped again and is staring directly at the memorial garden. Flanked by darkness, the profile of her face is starkly illuminated by the white moon. She looks terrified, almost as if she’s seen a ghost.
Elle follows her gaze, her heart thudding in anticipation as her eyes roam the length of the padlocked garden. She takes in the dark shapes of the trees, the silvery moonlight filtering through their branches, their trunks gleaming like white bones behind the railings.
She too has seen things in this place. But it’s not the dead she’s afraid of.
A fox tears across the playground and Marlow is on the move again. Elle watches her enter the hall and sets off after her. She is almost at the door when she hears voices from inside and darts to one side, flattening herself against the wall.
A few minutes later, Mags and Marlow emerge, arms linked, and hurry across the wet tarmac. Elle edges along the wall of the old building, the brickwork cold on her back, waiting until they’ve disappeared from sight. First Lou and Hayley, now Marlow and Mags. What the fuck is going on?
Now that Elle is here, wide awake, she might as well make use of the time and see if Rob is still up. She slips into the hall and turns right, moves swiftly and silently past the office and along the corridor towards the science block. He’s there – he’s always there – sitting on a lab stool, staring into space and doing that weird thing with his jaw.
Her stomach clenches at the thought of spending more time with him, but Craig is right. It won’t be long now. All their hard work is about to pay off.
This will be the last time she does anything like this, the last time she mixes with this kind of company. Elle knows that now. All she wants is for it to be over, once and for all. The whole sordid business. She feels soiled by it. Tainted.
She wants to go home to Suffolk and see her family.
She wants to be normal again.
19
Marlow
When I wake up, I’m disorientated and groggy. It took me ages to drop off after the ‘sleepwalking’ fiasco with Mags. Thank God I’ve asked for the next couple of days off. I’m not sure I could have dragged myself into work today.
I check to see if Dev’s responded to my last message yet, but he hasn’t. I know he’s got loads of work on this week, but I thought he might have got back to me by now. I’ve got a horrible feeling he’s distancing himself deliberately – something he accuses me of from time to time. It’s not so nice when the boot’s on the other foot. I’ll try calling him a bit later, see if I can find out what’s going on.
Right now, I need coffee – badly – and not the instant shit I’ve been drinking lately, but the real stuff. I also need to get out of this place for a couple of hours, to clear the fog in my head and take stock. In the cold light of day, my decision to break into Hayley’s room seems rather foolish. Wouldn’t I be better off just speaking to Harry directly and telling him my concerns?
Half an hour later, after I’ve been over to the drama block and had a disappointingly tepid shower, I’m dressed and on my way out. It’s a grim sort of day, but when I open the gates, I see a small crowd milling about on the pavement outside the railings a little further up, spilling on to the road. Some of them are holding placards that say, ‘Save Lottie’s Garden’, and all of a sudden, one of them spots me and shouts out the words in my direction. Before long, they’re all chanting the same thing, over and over again, and I don’t know what to do. I’m like that fox last night, pinned to the spot.
There must be about thirty of them, but one face in particular stands out. There’s no mistaking that high forehead and prominent nose, that steel-grey hair in a tight bun. My chest constricts. Even after all this time, she still has the power to make me feel like I’ve done something wrong. Miss Latham, my old headmistress. The very last person I want to see right now. Thankfully, she’s deep in conversation with someone, but when I realize who she’s talking to, my heart skips a beat. It’s Lottie’s dad.
I pull my hoodie up and hurry away in the opposite direction. I really, really don’t want them to recognize me. I’m not sure I could bear the pitying look in Miss Latham’s eyes at seeing one of her ‘old girls’ reduced to living like this. As for getting into a conversation with Lottie’s dad, it would be unbearable. I should have kept in touch with her parents. It’s one of the things people who’ve been bereaved always complain about, isn’t it? That friends avoid speaking to them because it’s too awkward. Too uncomfortable. I was a coward not to go and see them again after the funeral. To bump into him now, in these circumstances, would be awful. For all I know, her mother’s here too, somewhere in that crowd.
But just when I think I’ve got away with it, one of the demonstrators runs after me and shoves a wodge of flyers in my hand. There’s something about her that looks vaguely familiar. But no, I must be mistaken. She’s a scrawny-looking woman with a pallid, unhealthy-looking complexion and an ill-fitting tracksuit. I’ve never set eyes on her before.
‘Nice, comfortable place you’ve got here,’ she says. ‘Living your best life, eh?’ There’s something spiteful about the way she says this, something threatening about her face, almost as if James Brampton’s decision to pave over Lottie’s garden is somehow my fault. I can’t get away from her – from all of them – fast enough.
When I reach the top of the street and turn the corner, I’m out of breath. Bloody hell, that was a close call. If they’d been standing right by the gate when I came out, I might have been spotted by Miss Latham or Lottie’s dad. I’d have had no choice but to talk to them, and my precious anonymity – the only thing that’s keeping me sane – would have been blown.
And what on earth did that crazy woman in the tracksuit mean about me living my best life? In an empty classroom in a draughty old school full of mice? She’s unhinged, she must be. I stuff the flyers in my pocket. God only knows why she’s given me quite so many. If she wants me to hand them out and spread the word, then why was she so aggressive?
By the time I find a coffee shop, my anxiety has subsided. But seeing Lottie’s dad so unexpectedly has brought with it a fresh wave of grief. Poor, poor Lottie. She had her future all mapped out. First, a Fine Art degree at Central Saint Martins, followed by gallery assistant work if she could get it. But her main ambition was to create her own art and make a name for herself. She would have done, too. I have no doubt in my mind about that.
I can’t bear to think of the pain all this must be causing her mum and dad. It’s like a slap in the face from James Brampton. He can’t possibly have any children of his own, to do something like this. To ride roughshod over a bereaved family’s feelings.
Once again, I’m consumed with guilt. Not that it ever goes away for long. Why did Lottie choose that day of all the other possible days she could have chosen to follow my stupid example and hide out in one of the art pods? And why didn’t I have the guts to reach out to her parents before now?
The familiar knot of distress twists and tightens in my stomach, as it always does when I open the door to my feelings. What kind of friend was I to turn my back on them the second the funeral was over?
A bad friend. The very worst.
And what kind of person am I now to run away from her father, and all the other people who care enough about her memory to make a stand against James Brampton?
I’m a despicable coward, that’s what I am. Despicable.
Forcing myself to push away the thoughts before they spiral out of control, I buy myself a large Americano, then take it over to a table at the back of the cafe. Nothing good ever comes of reliving the events of that day, nor the self-recrimination that inevitably follows.
When I’ve drunk half of my coffee, I steel myself to take the flyers out of my pocket. The very least I can do is read what they say.
I put them on the table in front of me. That strange woman seems to have given me her own copies by mistake because there are some notes written in black felt-tip down the side of the one on top – someone’s Twitter or Instagram handle, by the looks of it, and underneath that …
The little hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I read the words printed underneath. I know who you are. The words swim before my eyes, and an icy feeling trickles down my spine. I stare at them, my mouth gaping. What is this? She can’t possibly know who I am. She must have mistaken me for someone else.
I tap the username scrawled above the message – @bohobirdie3 – into Twitter (I refuse to call it X), but the account is an inactive egghead. I try Instagram instead and bingo, there she is. Boho Birdie. It’s one of those lifestyle accounts with loads of pictures of some kind of renovation project in a period property. There’s something about these pictures. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but they look … familiar.
I scroll through the grid until I come to one that makes me pause. The photo that fills the screen is of an open notebook next to a cactus in a beautiful, Moroccan-style ceramic pot. The two items are arranged on a wide windowsill and—
My breath catches in my throat. This is Mrs Barrie’s classroom. It’s the window of the room I’m currently living in – there’s the tulip sun-catcher sticker, and beyond that, the fabulous view of the London skyline. Whoever took this picture must have done the exact same thing I did the day I moved in, and hooked the ugly old blinds out of the way first.
The caption beneath the photo reads: This place was worth every penny. I feel utterly blessed to be able to look out on this view every day.
I blink in confusion. It’s as if this person, this Boho Birdie, is pretending it’s her house. That she actually bought it.
I look at the message on the flyer again. I know who you are. Does that horrible woman think this is me?
Something is niggling away at the back of my mind, a half-formed theory I can’t quite pin down. My brain is so scrambled from being ambushed on the street that I can’t think straight.
I feel a headache coming on – a tight band of pressure low on my forehead. I finish my coffee and look at my watch. There’s no way I’m going back to the school while the demonstrators are still there, and who knows how long they’ll be hanging around. I get up and order another coffee, and a bacon roll to go with it. I’m not that hungry, to be honest, but this place is filling up now, and if I want to keep my table, I need to spend more money.
I continue looking at the Instagram account, trying to see which parts of the school I recognize. Boho Birdie is a liar. Or rather, she’s not telling the whole truth. The way she’s set up each shot gives the impression she’s living in a stunning conversion. They are stage-managed pictures, carefully curated corners and sections of the school with specific focal points in each one – a vase, a candle, a chair, a book – and the background is always tantalizingly out of focus.
A couple of pictures have been taken of, and from, the little metal bench that’s set into the circular paving area in the memorial garden. I think of how upset Mags was at being told the garden was going to be padlocked. Gilly was annoyed, too. I suppose it’s possible that one of them might be Boho Birdie.
I continue scrolling and immediately identify one of the windows in the main hall, sunlight streaming through it and forming a yellow square on the parquet flooring. Three candles have been arranged on a small table below the window, and to the left of this table is a pair of green wellies, one standing upright, the other having fallen on to its side. It looks as if someone has just that moment come indoors to take them off, spotted the way the sunlight is hitting the floor, and been inspired to capture the image. It’s exactly what I did before my first early-morning perimeter walk – minus the accessories, of course. It’s an excellent picture. Really well composed. In fact, all of them are. This person certainly knows how to take a good photo.
The caption beneath reads: My favourite spot in the entire house. Think I need a reading chair here. Watch this space.
Sure enough, a few days later, there’s a picture of a chair in the exact same spot with an open book lying on the sheepskin that’s been draped over the seat. A well-thumbed book, by the looks of it. I zoom in. The title is blurred and unreadable, but I can tell from the shape of the single word and the three-part author name underneath what it is. Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. I feel a squirm of discomfort in my belly. It’s the same book I found in the bin and took up to my room.
The half-formed theory that’s been lurking at the back of my mind assembles itself into a more solid shape. There’s no caption with this picture but a whole paragraph of book-related hashtags, including #myfavouriteeverbook and #bookstotreasure. The unease that’s been building in my gut intensifies.
My gaze returns to the most recent photo, taken from inside another room. For some reason I missed it the first time, but now I recognize the tree outside the window. It’s one of a pair of silver birches that flank the East Gate entrance, on the landscaped belt of ground that separates the front of the school from the pavement beyond the railings.
It’s Mr Barker’s old room, the room Hayley has just vacated.
20
Rob
It’s Wednesday morning, and Rob is sitting at his other desk. His work desk in the large college where he is employed as an ICT and AV Support Technician, a role which suits him very well. The only aspect of the job he doesn’t enjoy is visiting one of the end users at their desk in order to give them support. He prefers fixing problems remotely if he can. If Rob could have his way, he would fix all problems in life remotely, without having to see or speak to anyone.
If only people were more like computers. But alas, he thinks, they are not. People are messy and unpredictable. People have unreasonable expectations and demands. People do not follow the simplest of rules. Hayley’s stricken face flashes into his mind, as it so often does these days.
Rob shifts in his chair and blinks at his screen. It is unusual for him to feel sick, but lately he has been fighting back unexpected waves of nausea. Once or twice, he has had to rush into the toilets and retch into one of the lavatory bowls.
He would prefer to fish out the liner from the stainless-steel bin in his office and heave into that than put his face anywhere near a toilet bowl, especially one in the men’s toilets, but he knows that this kind of behaviour would not be acceptable in a shared office, along with passing wind, even if silent. These are the things Rob has picked up over the years and which he adheres to, albeit reluctantly.
Once again, he tries to distract himself with thoughts of how an intruder might have found their way into the school grounds to chalk that message yesterday morning. Rob has a degree of sympathy for the campaigners and sincerely hopes that they are successful in their quest to preserve the garden for posterity.
He has even, on one occasion, attempted to talk to James Brampton about the matter himself, informing him that, according to his own very detailed calculations, the playground is more than large enough as it is to accommodate one vehicle for each new residential dwelling planned, plus ten extra places for guest parking – once the caretaker’s huts have been removed – but he received disappointingly short shrift for his efforts and has not approached him since.
