The Taking of Annie Thorne Read online

  I turn away and stare down at my boots. The leather is a little scuffed. I should have polished them. I really need a coffee. I almost give in and ask for a damn drink when I hear the squeak of shoes on polished linoleum and the double doors to the main corridor swing open.

  ‘Joseph Thorne?’

  I stand. Harry Price is everything I expected, and less. A thin, wrung-out-looking man somewhere in his mid-fifties in a shapeless suit and slip-on loafers. His hair is sparse and grey, combed back from a face that looks as though it is constantly on the brink of receiving terrible news. An air of weary resignation hangs about him like bad aftershave.

  He smiles. Crooked, nicotine-stained. It reminds me that I haven’t had a cigarette since I left Manchester. That, combined with the caffeine craving, makes me want to grind my teeth together until they crumble.

  Instead, I stick out a hand and manage what I hope is a pleasant smile in return. ‘Good to meet you.’

  I see him quickly appraise me. Taller than him, by a couple of inches. Clean-shaven. Good suit, expensive when it was new. Dark hair, although rather more shot through with grey these days. Dark eyes that are rather more shot through with blood. People have told me I have an honest face. Which just goes to show how little people know.

  He grips my hand and shakes it firmly. ‘My office is just this way.’

  I adjust my satchel on my shoulders, try to force my bad leg to walk properly and follow Harry to his office. Showtime.

  ‘So, your letter of recommendation from your previous head is glowing.’

  It should be. I wrote it myself.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘In fact, everything here looks very impressive.’

  Bullshit is one of my specialities.

  ‘But …’

  And there it is.

  ‘There is quite a long gap since your last position – over twelve months.’

  I reach for the weak, milky coffee that Miss Grayson eventually slammed on the desk in front of me. I take a sip and try not to grimace.

  ‘Yes, well, that was deliberate. I decided I wanted a sabbatical. I’d been teaching for fifteen years. It was time to re-stock. Think about my future. Decide where I wanted to go next.’

  ‘And do you mind me asking what you did on your sabbatical? Your CV is a little vague.’

  ‘Some private tutoring. Community work. I taught abroad for a while.’

  ‘Really? Whereabouts?’

  ‘Botswana.’

  Botswana? Where the hell did that come from? I don’t think I could even point to it on a frigging map.

  ‘That’s very commendable.’

  And inventive.

  ‘It wasn’t entirely altruistic. The weather was better.’

  We both laugh.

  ‘And now you want to get back to teaching full-time?’

  ‘I’m ready for the next stage in my career, yes.’

  ‘So, my next question is – why do you want to work here at Arnhill Academy? Based upon your CV, I would have thought you have your pick of schools?’

  Based upon my CV, I should probably have a Nobel Peace Prize.

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘I’m a local boy. I grew up in Arnhill. I suppose I’d like to give something back to the community.’

  He looks uncomfortable, shuffles papers on his desk. ‘You are aware of the circumstances in which this post became available?’

  ‘I read the news.’

  ‘And how do you feel about that?’

  ‘It’s tragic. Terrible. But one tragedy shouldn’t define a whole school.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear you say that.’

  I’m glad I practised it.

  ‘Although,’ I add, ‘I do appreciate you must all still be very upset.’

  ‘Mrs Morton was a popular teacher.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘And Ben, well, he was a very promising pupil.’

  I feel my throat tighten, just a little. I’ve grown good at hardening myself. But for a moment it gets to me. A life full of promise. But that’s all life ever is. A promise. Not a guarantee. We like to believe we have our place all set out in the future, but we only have a reservation. Life can be cancelled at any moment, with no warning, no refund, no matter how far along you are in the journey. Even if you’ve barely had time to take in the scenery.

  Like Ben. Like my sister.

  I realize Harry is still talking.

  ‘Obviously, it’s a sensitive situation. Questions have been asked. How could the school not notice that one of their own teachers was mentally unstable? Could pupils have been at risk?’

  ‘I understand.’

  I understand Harry is more worried about his position and his school than poor dead Benjamin Morton, who had his face caved in by the one person in life who should have been there to protect him.

  ‘What I’m saying is I have to be careful who I choose to fill the position. Parents need to have confidence.’

  ‘Absolutely. And I completely understand if you have a better candidate –’

  ‘I’m not saying that.’

  He hasn’t. I’m bloody sure of it. And I’m a good teacher (mostly). The fact is, Arnhill Academy is a shithole. Underperforming. Poorly regarded. He knows it. I know it. Getting a decent teacher to work here will be harder than finding a bear that doesn’t crap in the woods, especially under the current ‘circumstances’.

  I decide to push the point. ‘I hope you don’t mind me being honest?’

  Always good to say when you have no intention of being honest.

  ‘I know Arnhill Academy has problems. That’s why I want to work here. I’m not looking for an easy ride. I’m looking for a challenge. I know these kids because I used to be one of them. I know the community. I know exactly who and what I’m dealing with. It doesn’t faze me. In fact, I think you’ll find very little does.’

  I can tell I’ve got him. I’m good in interviews. I know what people want to hear. Most importantly, I know when they’re desperate.

  Harry sits back in his chair. ‘Well, I don’t think there’s anything else I need to ask.’

  ‘Good. Well, it was a pleasure meeting –’

  ‘Oh, actually, there is just one thing.’

  Oh, for fuck’s –

  He smiles. ‘When can you start?’

  2

  Three Weeks Later

  It’s cold in the cottage. The sort of cold you get with a property that has been shut up and unlived in for some time. The sort of cold that gets into your bones and lingers even when you pump up the heating to max.

  It smells too. Of disuse and cheap paint and damp. The pictures on the website didn’t do it justice. They conveyed a shabby kind of chic. A quaint neglect. The reality is rather more careworn and dilapidated. Not that I can afford to be picky. I need to live somewhere, and even in a dump like Arnhill this cottage is the only thing I can afford.

  Of course, that isn’t the only reason I chose it.

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  I turn to the slick-haired young man hovering in the doorway. Mike Belling from Belling and Co. Letting Agency. Not local. Too well dressed and well spoken. I can tell he’s itching to get back to his city-centre office and wipe the cow shit off his shiny black brogues.

  ‘It’s not quite what I expected.’

  His smile falters. ‘Well, as we state in the property’s description, it’s a traditional cottage, not a lot of mod cons, and it has been empty for some time –’

  ‘I suppose,’ I say doubtfully. ‘You said the boiler was in the kitchen? I think I should get the place warmed up. Thanks for showing me in.’

  He continues to linger awkwardly. ‘There is just one thing, Mr Thorne …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The cheque for the deposit?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I’m sure it’s just a mistake, but … we haven’t received it yet.’

  ‘Really?’ I shake my head. ‘The post just gets worse, doesn’t it?’

>   ‘Well, this is why we prefer bank transfers, but it’s no problem. If you could just –’

  ‘Of course.’

  I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out my chequebook. Mike Belling hands me a pen. I lean on the arm of the threadbare sofa and scribble out a cheque. I rip it out and give it to him.

  He smiles. Then he looks at the cheque and the smile snaps off. ‘This is for five hundred pounds. The deposit, plus the first month’s rent, is one thousand.’

  ‘That’s right. But now I’ve actually seen the cottage.’ I look around and pull a face. ‘Quite frankly, it’s a dump. It’s cold, it’s damp, it smells. You’d be lucky to get squatters. You didn’t even have the courtesy to come up here and turn on the heating before I arrived.’

  ‘I’m afraid this really isn’t acceptable.’

  ‘Then get yourself another tenant.’

  Bluff called. I see him hesitate. Never show weakness.

  ‘Or perhaps you can’t? Perhaps no one wants to rent this place because of what happened here? You know, that small murder/suicide you failed to mention.’

  His face tenses, like someone has just stuck a hot poker up his backside. He swallows. ‘We’re not legally obliged to inform tenants –’

  ‘No, but morally, it might be nice?’ I smile pleasantly. ‘Bearing all that in mind, I think a substantial discount on the deposit is the very least you can offer.’

  His jaw clenches. A small tic flickers by his right eye. He’d like to be rude back to me, maybe even hit me. But he can’t, because then he would lose his cosy twenty grand a year plus commission job, and how would he pay for all those nice suits and shiny black brogues?

  He folds the cheque up and slips it back into the folder. ‘Of course. No problem.’

  It doesn’t take me long to unpack. I’m not one of those people who accumulate things for the sake of it. I’ve never understood ornaments, and photographs are fine if you have a family and children but I have neither. Clothes I wear until they wear out, then replace with identical versions.

  There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. Two items that I have left until last to remove from my small suitcase. One is a pack of well-worn playing cards. I slip these into my pocket. Some card-players carry good-luck charms. I never believed in luck, until I started to lose. Then I blamed my luck, the shoes I was wearing, the alignment of the fucking stars. Everything, apart from myself. The cards are my reverse talisman – a constant reminder of how badly I screwed up.

  The other item is bulkier, cocooned in newspaper. I lift her out and place her on the bed, as gently as if she were a real baby, then I carefully unwrap her.

  Small pudgy legs stick upwards, tiny hands are clenched at her side, shiny blonde hair fans into crumpled curls. Vacant blue eyes stare up at me. Or, at least, one does. The other rattles around in the socket, staring off at an odd angle, as though it has caught sight of something more interesting and not bothered to inform its companion.

  I pick up Annie’s doll and sit her on top of the chest of drawers, where she can regard me with her lopsided gaze every day and every night.

  For the rest of the afternoon and evening I potter, trying to warm up. My leg bothers me if I sit still for too long. The cold and damp in the cottage aren’t helping. The radiators don’t seem to be working too well – probably air in the system somewhere.

  There’s a log burner in the living room but an extensive search of the cottage and the small shed outside doesn’t reveal any logs or kindling. However, it does reveal an old electric heater in one cupboard. I switch it on, the bars crispy-fry a thick layer of dust and the air fills with the smell of burning. Still, it should throw out a decent amount of heat, if it doesn’t electrocute me first.

  Despite the vague dilapidation I can tell this was probably a cosy family home once. The bathroom and kitchen are tired but clean. The garden out the back is long and football-friendly, fringed by open countryside. A nice, comfortable, safe place for a young boy to grow up. Except he never did.

  I don’t believe in ghosts. My nan was fond of telling me, ‘It’s not the dead you need to be scared of, love. It’s the living.’ She was almost right. But I do believe you can still feel the echoes of bad things. They imprint on the fabric of our reality, like a footprint in concrete. Whatever made the impression is long gone, but you can never erase the mark it left.

  Perhaps that’s why I haven’t gone into his room yet. I feel okay about living in the cottage, but the cottage does not necessarily feel okay. How could it? A terrible thing happened within its walls, and buildings remember.

  I haven’t gone shopping for food, but I’m not hungry. Once the clock slips past seven I open a bottle of bourbon and pour a quadruple. I can’t use my laptop because I haven’t sorted out an internet connection yet. For now, there’s not much to do but to sit and adjust to my new surroundings, trying to ignore the ache in my leg and the faint, familiar itch in my gut. I take the pack of cards out and place it on the coffee table, but I don’t open it. That’s not what the pack is for. Instead, I listen to some music on my phone while reading a much-hyped thriller that I’ve already guessed the ending of. Then I stand at the back door and smoke a cigarette, staring out at the overgrown garden.

  The sky is darker than a pit hole in hell, not a single star piercing the blackness. I’d forgotten what countryside dark is like. Too long living in the city. It never gets properly dark in the city, nor this quiet. The only sounds are my own exhalations and the crinkling of the cigarette filter.

  I wonder, again, why I really came back. Yes, Arnhill is isolated, a half-forgotten dot on the map. But abroad would have been safer. Thousands of miles between me, my debts and people who do not take a losing streak kindly. Not when you can’t pay.

  I could have changed my name, maybe got a job bartending in some shack on a beach. Sipping margaritas at sundown. But I chose here. Or perhaps, here chose me.

  I don’t really believe in fate. But I do believe certain things are hard-wired into our genes. We’re programmed to act and react in a certain way, and that’s what shapes our lives. We’re incapable of changing it, just like our eye colour or propensity to freckle in the sun.

  Or perhaps that is just so much bullshit and a handy excuse to avoid taking responsibility for my own actions. The fact is, I was always going to come back one day. The email just made the decision easier.

  It arrived in my inbox almost two months ago. Surprising, really, that it didn’t get shunted straight into junk.

  Sender: [email protected]

  Subject: Annie

  I almost deleted it straightaway. I’d never heard of the sender. It was probably a troll, someone playing a sick joke. There are some subjects that should remain closed. No good can ever come of opening them. The only sensible thing to do was to delete the message, empty the trash and forget I ever saw it.

  That decided, I clicked Open:

  I know what happened to your sister. It’s happening again.

  3

  Parents shouldn’t have favourites. Another stupid thing people say. Of course parents have favourites. It’s human nature. Right back to the time when not all your young would survive. You favoured the stronger chick. No point getting attached to the one who might not make it. And let’s face it, some children are just easier to love.

  Annie was our parents’ favourite. It was understandable. She was born when I was seven. My cute-toddler phase was long behind me. I had grown into a serious, skinny little boy with permanently scabbed knees and dirty shorts. I didn’t look sweet any more. I didn’t even make up for it by enjoying a kick-about with a football in the park or wanting to go and watch Forest with my dad. I’d rather stay in and read comics or play computer games.

  This disappointed my dad and annoyed my mum. ‘Get outside and get some bloody fresh air,’ she’d scowl at me. Even at seven I felt fresh air was overrated, but I would reluctantly oblige and inevitably end up falling over or into or on to something, come home filthy
and get yelled at all over again.

  No wonder my parents hankered for another child: a sweet little girl they could dress in pink and lace and cuddle without her frowning and squirming away.

  I didn’t realize back then that my parents had been trying for another baby for a while. A little brother or sister for me. Like it was some sort of special gift or favour they were bestowing. I wasn’t too sure I needed a brother or sister. My parents already had me. Another child seemed, in my opinion, surplus to requirements.

  I remained unconvinced after Annie was born. A strange shrunken pink blob, her face all kind of squished and alien-looking. All she seemed to do was sleep, shit or cry. Her high-pitched wails kept me awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wishing my parents had bought me a dog or even a goldfish.

  I continued in a state of apathy for the first few months, neither loving nor disliking my baby sister that much. When she gurgled at me or clutched my finger until it felt like it was turning blue, I remained unmoved – even as my mum cooed in delight and screeched at my dad to ‘Get the bloody camera, Sean.’

  If Annie crawled after me or touched my stuff, I would walk faster or snatch my things back. I wasn’t unkind, just disinterested. I hadn’t asked for her so I didn’t see why I had to pay her any attention.

  This continued until she was about twelve months old. Just before her first birthday she started to walk and babble things that almost sounded like words. Suddenly she seemed more like a small person rather than a baby. More interesting. Amusing even, with her foreign-sounding gibberish and wobbly old-man steps.

  I began to play with her and talk to her a little. When she began to mimic me back an odd feeling swelled in my chest. When she gazed at me and gabbled, ‘Joe-ee, Joe-ee,’ my stomach glowed with warmth.

  She started to follow me everywhere, copy everything I did; laugh at my silly faces, listen intently when I told her things she couldn’t possibly understand. When she was crying, one touch from me and she would stop, so eager to please her big brother that all her other woes were instantly forgotten.