I’d never really thought about walking home from school alone before. It had always been about getting from A to B, half an hour where I thought about what I might watch that night, that or beat myself up about something or other.
I saw the other kids trooping out in groups, bursting to share their news from the day, but I didn’t envy them or wish it for myself. Or I hadn’t until that first walk with Mr Hobson. After that night I wanted it all the time, the company, the banter, the smiles it brought to my face. And it had to be from him.
He didn’t appear every day as school ended, and on those nights I’d meander down the path alone, turning every minute, desperately needing to see him trotting along to catch up. Sometimes he did, sometimes not. I even found myself slowing down as I left for the day, giving him time to gather up his stuff, increasing the chances of running into him ‘accidentally’. It mattered that much, made the hugest difference to my mood for the rest of the day.
We didn’t always talk about much. Well, apart from the obvious. He had weird taste in films, was always banging on about art-house things from directors I’d never heard of. I’d wind him up, telling him he couldn’t possibly like them if he was into rom-coms, that he was a film snob. He always took the wind-up with a smile before dishing the abuse straight back at me.
We’d walk for a bit, and chat for a bit, and sometimes sit on this bench by a particularly ugly bit of the river, all silt and marooned shopping trolleys. Not that it mattered. I’d forget about everything apart from how I was feeling. How he was making me feel.
And how was that?
Well, it was just different.
Nothing corny or dramatic.
Half an hour in his presence stopped me drowning for the rest of the day, stopped me fretting about what might or might not get said to Dad when I pushed through the front door. He made me feel like I was worth something, like what I said counted. And it felt good.
‘I worked out last night that this is the eleventh school I’ve taught in.’ He sighed and sat down.
‘And how long have you been doing it?’
‘Couple of years.’
‘Why move about like that? Wouldn’t you rather stick around and get to know places better?’
‘It hasn’t appealed,’ he sighed. ‘Not since my mum died really. It’s easier to keep moving around. New places mean new challenges. It stops me thinking about her and getting maudlin.’
His words hit me hard. At least he knew what it was he was trying to replace. I’d never had that luxury. I would have killed to have known Mum for even a year or two. The thought alone started the fear circling.
‘This place feels different, though. Better.’
‘Why’s that, then?’
‘Not really sure. I’ve taught in places with better resources and brighter kids, but your school has got under my skin, you know?’
He fixed me with a stare that made me nod automatically, although I didn’t relate to what he was saying. I had no idea why this place would appeal to anyone. But I couldn’t help hoping that I might have something to do with it. The fear laughed at the thought, causing my skin to prickle in embarrassment.
‘So you think you’ll stick around for a while, then?’
I cringed after saying it.
‘Yeah, I reckon so. Miss Addison’s no closer to coming back, so you’re stuck with me for a while yet.’
‘Donna will be pleased.’
‘What is it with you and her?’ he asked. ‘Have you had a falling-out or something?’
‘We were never friends to start with.’
‘But I’ve seen the way she relies on you in class. She obviously looks up to you.’
‘You’re kidding me?’
‘Well, she obviously sees that you know the answers.’ He paused for a second, noticing the tension in me at the mention of her.
‘Is she the reason you’ve been ducking out of class, Daisy?’
‘No,’ I lied, clenching and unclenching my fists to stop them fizzing.
‘Because if she is, you need to do something about it. Or we do. You can’t let one person get in the way of you progressing. Not when they have no interest in learning themselves.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
I could feel my voice getting quieter, the bumping of my heart against my ribcage. I didn’t like the digging, wasn’t in control any more of where it was going. The fear loved it, started hanging on to me as my thoughts unravelled.
‘Of course it matters. You need to do something about it. Talk to her. Sort it out. Or let us do it for you.’
‘You have met Donna, haven’t you?’
‘I’ve seen her in every school I’ve been at, or variations of her. And you can’t allow yourself to be scared of her, you really can’t. It’s not worth it. You’re not scared of her, are you, Daisy?’
It wasn’t a difficult question, or even a profound one. But for some reason it was all he needed to ask. Because it was true, I wasn’t scared of her. I was scared of everything. And I was suddenly so overwhelmingly tired of feeling like it.
A gasp of sadness burst into my throat, taking me by surprise, pushing its way past my lips as a tear escaped from my eye.
Stupid. How could I be so weak?
He was on to it in a flash. Hardly surprising, as it was a pitiful sight, full of weakness.
He turned towards me, tucking his left leg underneath the other on the bench.
‘Hey now, what’s all this about?’
‘It’s nothing. I’m just tired, that’s all. It’s been a bit full on, what with everything.’
‘And what is everything, Daisy? What is it that’s getting to you?’
I shook my head, blowing deeply to calm myself down, aware of my heart speeding up.
‘It’s fine. You can tell me. Really you can. Whatever it is, I can guarantee you it’s not as bad as you think. It never is.’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Then you have to speak to someone else. You can’t hold these things on your own. It’s not fair to expect that of yourself. If you can’t tell me, then tell your dad. Let him help you. Maybe he could come into school to see Donna’s folks, set them straight on whatever’s going on. I could even talk to him if you want.’
‘I appreciate it, but there’s no point. Dad’s not … comfortable with stuff like that. He’s not the talking type.’
‘But he’s your dad.’ There was surprise in his voice that told me he didn’t like the sound of this. ‘If something is bothering you, he’d want to know, wouldn’t he?’
‘He’s got his own stuff going on. Anyway, there’s some things he just can’t deal with. It’s not the way he’s made, you know?’
‘Can you talk to him about your mum?’
All the tension in me leaked out at her name, at how simple the problem was to him. All I had to do was talk to Dad. It really was that simple, but it was also the one thing I couldn’t do.
‘Not about that, sir, no. I want to, and I’ve tried, but I can’t. It’s too difficult.’
‘Why is it difficult? He’s your dad. He must miss her too.’
‘That’s just it,’ I moaned. ‘I don’t know how he feels. She’s this unspoken thing in our house. What I do know I’ve had to drag out of him and it kills him to talk, I can see it does. Anything else I found out, well –’ I thought about the report and what it told me – ‘I had to go searching for.’
He smiled at me sadly, his hands reaching gently for my shoulders, the same electric current rippling down them as when he touched me before.
‘God, that must be so difficult. Believe me, I know.’
‘You haven’t seen how he looks at me sometimes. It’s as if every time he lays his eyes on me, all he can really see is her, my mum. And all that does is break his heart all over again, that and make him hate me.’
I felt a whoosh of air escape from me as that final sentence left my mouth, a sentence that left me off balance and giddy, teetering into him, my forehead resting on his chest and my ridiculous tears soaking his shirt.
His arms snaked round my back and pulled me gently into him, his words in my ears.
‘That’s crazy. Why on earth would he hate you? You’re his daughter. You’re all he’s got. Why on earth would he possibly hate you?’
I pushed my head further into his chest, so far that I feared I might knock him over. This was it. The last moment I could turn back. But I had to do it, even if it meant muffling the words so that if he did hear them, he wouldn’t be able to push me away immediately.
‘Because I took her away from him. I killed her. It’s all my fault.’
My words bounced around the tiny gap between us.
I’d done it, spoken the words out loud that I feared the most, the words that had been stuck in my brain for what felt like forever. I couldn’t control it any more, it was out there, and I had to accept the consequences.
I felt my shoulders jerk as the tears struggled out of me and I braced myself, ready for him to push me away in disgust.
But he didn’t. In fact he didn’t move away at all. At first he whispered softly in my ear, telling me that everything was OK, that he understood. And as he told me, his upper body swayed slightly, taking me with him, rocking me like I was a baby.
I felt confused, convinced that he hadn’t heard me, or understood what I’d said. I’d just told him that I’d killed my own mother and all he could do was coo in my ear. I had to put him straight before it made me any angrier.
I pushed my head back, trying to break his grip around me, forcing him to look at me.
‘Did you not hear me?’ I yelled in his face. ‘I just told you I killed her.’
‘And I heard you,’ he said, his eyes not leaving mine as his left hand stroked my hair. ‘But I don’t believe you.’
‘But you have to,’ I spat. ‘I’ve been trying to find a way of telling someone for months. I’ve read the report. It told me what I did. I can show you. You’ll have to believe me!’
‘It’s OK, Daisy. I hear what you’re saying. But I don’t have to read anything to know what’s true. And I know you don’t have it in you. That’s not you.’
I felt my body tense, the anger surge in me, and instantly I wanted to hit him, to hit him like I wanted to hit Donna. But he wouldn’t let me. He just held on and told me again and again, ‘That’s not you.’
I don’t know how many times he told me. It could have been five, it could’ve been fifty, but at some point something snapped and I couldn’t listen to him any more.
‘How is it that you think you know me, eh? How is it that you can sit there and tell me that I didn’t do what I said I did? You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know how old I was when I did it, or how I did it. You don’t know anything!’
But no matter what I threw at him, he didn’t lose his temper or his grip. It was just the same expression locked on me, the same calming arm around my back, the same hand smoothing my hair.
I had only one thing left. Just one bullet that I could fire at him to prove he knew nothing, and without thinking I pulled myself out of his grip and ripped the sleeve of my right arm up past my elbow.
‘Do you see this?’ The anger in me was so loud that I looked at my scarred, scabbed arm for the first time with no feelings of repulsion. ‘This is what I’m capable of. Can you see it? Well, can you?’
He nodded, his expression not changing for a second.
‘Yes, I can see it.’
‘Good. So don’t tell me I’m not capable of hurting someone. If I’m capable of doing this to myself, how do YOU know what I could do to anyone else?’
‘It’s all right,’ he said, and gently pulled my sleeve down. I tried to draw away, but somehow, with no force on his part, he wouldn’t let me. He just buttoned my cuff and held on to me.
I struggled at first, but with little effect, and instead of the anger tears returned instead. Huge raking sobs that came up from my boots.
His quietening noises returned, soothing enough to fall into a rhythm with my crying, which slowly, slowly eased.
My head ached. Ached with the crying, with the size of the confession and the confusion of his acceptance.
But it was nothing compared to the confusion that followed as he pulled away from me and wiped away the tears before, slowly and deliberately, closing in to kiss me.