They’re out of peanut butter. Again. Ellie scrapes the jar, smearing the last dregs onto a piece of toast before she settles at the kitchen table with her earbuds in, losing herself in a steady crash of drums and guitars.
She’s not got much of an appetite, but she needs to make a pretence of breakfast, if only to get her mum’s watchful gaze off her back, so she sits for a while, allowing the music to do its work, masking all anxious thoughts trying to crowd her mind, filling any possible thinking space with noise. It’s better than sitting in silence waiting for the phone to ring or the blue lights to appear outside the cottage. It’s only a matter of time surely, before they drag her back to the station for round two.
Her mum stands at the kitchen sink, dressed for work in a long black dress and cream jacket. She gulps a cup of tea then lowers the cup to the counter and starts talking, her lips moving fast. She gestures at Ellie’s plate and Ellie nods. She has no idea what she’s just said but her mum is still speaking and Ellie nods again, hoping it’s enough.
It’s not. She gestures for her to remove her earbuds.
‘Did you sleep?’
Ellie nods.
‘And do you think you might go into classes today?’
Ellie chews her lip. ‘I’m sure everyone’s had a lovely time gossiping about me behind my back, but I guess I should face the music sometime. I’ll look even more suss if I hide.’
‘You walk into school with your head held high.’
Ellie doesn’t answer. She plays with some stray toast crumbs on the table, moving them around with the tip of her finger.
‘How’s your bedroom?’
Ellie shrugs. ‘They went through everything.’
Rachel takes up her cup again and eyes Ellie keenly over its rim. ‘Remember, you don’t have to tell any of your friends anything you don’t want to. What happened yesterday in the police station can stay private. OK?’
Ellie nods again.
The worried crease between her mum’s eyebrows deepens.
‘What?’
‘I need to ask you something. Can you put your phone down?’
Ellie obliges with a sigh.
‘Last night, on the way home, you said something about Mr Crowe.’
‘What, that he’s a weirdo?’
‘Yes, that.’
Her mum holds her cup so tightly that her knuckles are blanching white. Jeez, thinks Ellie. Her stress levels are even higher than her own. ‘I know,’ Ellie sighs. ‘It wasn’t kind. I won’t say it again.’ She attempts to return to her phone, but her mum isn’t finished.
‘No, it’s not that. I was wondering if you’d ever heard anything said about him? If any of your friends or fellow students had any reason to think him… I don’t know… a little… odd or… inappropriate?’
Ellie narrows her eyes, suspicious. ‘You only have to take one look at Mr Crowe to know he’s a little odd.’
‘Yes, but perhaps you’ve heard something around campus? Rumours, I don’t know.’
‘Do you mean that thing about him wandering around at night spying on girls?’
‘What?’ Her mum visibly pales. ‘Spying on the female students?’
‘Mum, you know what school’s like. Especially this one,’ she adds under her breath. ‘Every day there’s a new rumour doing the rounds. People like to make stuff up and someone like Mr Crowe… he’s kind of an obvious target, don’t you think?’
‘But who’s saying these things?’
‘I don’t know. One little whisper and suddenly it’s wildfire all over school.’
‘Rumours like this can affect people’s livelihoods.’ Rachel frowns. ‘You didn’t think to mention it to me?’
Ellie rolls her eyes. ‘Jesus, Mum. Boundaries! I’m not your personal mole. You can’t expect me to share every stupid rumour that goes around the school. It’s hard enough being here with you, without everyone thinking I’m a snitch as well.’
Her mum shakes her head. ‘But these are serious accusations, Ellie.’
‘They’re hardly accusations. Just gossip. I think it could’ve been Sarah who said it, if you must know. It’s common knowledge he likes to watch the school’s sports games. It’s said he’s particularly interested in the netball matches, if you catch my drift. But like I said, I’m not your mole.’
Her mum looks horrified. ‘But something like this should be reported.’
Ellie throws her an exasperated look. ‘Mrs Crowe’s hardly going to hear anything bad said against her own husband, is she?’
Fed up with the circular nature of the conversation, Ellie reaches for her earbuds and jams them back in. She glances up once or twice and sees her mother’s worried frown as she washes her tea cup in the sink, but then, thank goodness, she is waving goodbye, heading out the front door with her laptop bag swinging from her shoulder and that pinched frown still creasing her face.
Relieved to have reclaimed her solitude, Ellie takes a nibble of her toast. She doesn’t like being a bitch to her mum. She hates seeing that wounded look on her face. It’s just ever since her dad moved out, it’s been so intense. Her mum hovering over her, all soft sighs and searching looks, like she’s entertaining some fantasy that at any minute they’re going to turn into the Gilmore Girls, all cute café breakfasts and movie nights in matching pyjamas and surely they both know that’s never going to happen?
It’s obvious her mum feels guilty about the way things have ended up, and she can see how hurt she is about Chrissie, because truthfully, she’s hurt, too. And now a baby? What the fuck? It was so gross. So unnecessary. Like her father was trying to erase them both, whitewashing all his past mistakes with a perfect new family. It felt like rejection of the worst kind.
She forces down another bite of toast, the bread like cardboard in her mouth, as her phone pings with a message. She swipes at the screen.
If you go down to the woods today…
She freezes, the phone suddenly white-hot in her hands. It’s another message from sally@inthewood. She waits, knowing there’ll be more.
Naughty, naughty girl…
A stab of fear hits her.
You just can’t help yourself, can you?
One foot out of line… one misstep…
Sally will punish you.
She glances out of the kitchen window to where the autumn foliage droops in the subdued morning light. The surrounding hills cast a heavy shadow. Someone could be out there right now, watching her, waiting for her to leave the cottage. She feels alone and exposed. Vulnerable. Prey to an unseen hunter. A mouse awaiting the swipe of a claw.
What was it her mum had asked her the night before? If you’d like to speak to someone…
Who can she talk to about this? Certainly not Jasmine. Ever since Saturday night, Jas has been distracted by Saul. Fawning over the boy like he was some bloody sex god. She’d seen them yesterday morning, sneaking around, all whispers and stolen kisses. Right now, Ellie doesn’t fancy her chances of getting Jasmine to take anything she says seriously.
Danny had always been nice to her. He was nice to everyone. Only Danny can barely look at her now. She knows he blames her for his argument with Sarah, which is rich, given how Sarah behaved with Connor. You’d think he’d have seen for himself that night what a manipulative cow she was, without Ellie having to show him the actual evidence on Sarah’s phone. More fool her for assuming he’d want to know that his crush was treating him like a simp. If he wants to deflect his guilt for leaving Sarah in the woods that night onto her, then that’s on him.
So, if it’s not Jasmine or Danny, who else is there? Her dad’s busy playing house with Chrissie. Busy with his work. Her mum was too close to everything… but maybe she had a point. Maybe she could talk to her tutor, Edward Morgan? Of all her teachers, he’d always been the nicest, the most engaged, the one who’d seemed to take an interest in her right from day one, when he’d interviewed her for the sixth-form scholarship programme.
‘Very clever,’ he’d told her, thumbing through her portfolio, murmuring approval at her paintings and stencilling. ‘I like the way you see things. The way you subvert the expected and turn everything on its head. And these,’ he’d added, pointing to a series of sketches inspired by the famous graffiti sites in Bristol, ‘these are wonderful. Very exciting.’
At that first interview, she’d sat in the art studio looking around at the incredible facilities, the immaculate workstations and tall wooden easels, the brushes and paints, the trees swaying gently beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows through which spring sunshine fell and bathed them in its warm glow. Despite herself, she’d felt a small, thrumming excitement build. ‘You paint, too?’ she’d asked.
‘I do. In my spare time. It’s my release.’ He’d nodded at a painting behind his desk. ‘That’s one of mine.’
Ellie had stared at the canvas, captivated by a landscape washed in moody greys and blues. ‘It’s amazing.’
She’d walked into her interview feeling less than lukewarm about the idea of attending Folly View, but it was Edward Morgan who’d convinced her to push aside her worries and when the scholarship offer had landed on their doorstep in its stiff white envelope with the folly logo stamped on the reverse, Ellie knew she’d already decided to accept. Edward was a teacher who would inspire her, a teacher who would help her produce her best work. And if she was going to get into a competitive graduate programme like the one at the prestigious University of the Arts London, she’d need someone like him behind her.
Since then he’d been a teacher and a mentor, pushing her to think a little more deeply, challenging her artistic practice, trying to draw her out of her shell and pull her into the school’s extra-curricular programmes. ‘Come down to the set-painting day, Ellie. We need someone like you helping out. The whole cast will be there, but we could do with a “proper” artist. Someone who understands colour and perspective,’ he’d added. ‘If we leave it entirely to the actors, our Parisian streets will be une catastrophe.’
She’d been flattered, but had declined. She knew the Drama department types. Loudmouths and extroverts, girls like Sarah Lawson, the most confident pupils who insisted on being at the centre of everything. It wasn’t her vibe. She’d leave that to Edward and his crowd of adoring students. There were certainly enough of them, hanging on his every word, vying to be his favourite.
Eyeing the threatening messages on her phone, she decides to swipe the screen closed and turn it to silent. There’s no one she can talk to. Not even Edward Morgan. If she ignores them, whoever is sending them will get bored. Eventually. Won’t they?
She pushes her toast away. What little appetite she’d had is long gone.