The Mistress - Jill Childs Page 0,36

worked quickly. He detached the old locks with a flurry of cascading plaster, then tore glistening new ones out of their plastic wrappers and started to fit them with an electric screwdriver.

He looked like the sort of man who would never be afraid, who would get things done, however dirty the job. While he was standing there, sorting out my locks, I felt cared for. I felt safe again.

Afterwards, he handed me two sets of keys, then tore off a receipt from a pad of white and yellow pages. I paid with cash and rounded it up for a tip.

He started to pack away his tools.

I ran my fingers over the shiny locks.

‘They’re strong, are they?’

He gave me a sideways look. ‘Of course.’

I realised I didn’t want him to go and leave me on my own again.

‘I mean, a burglar would struggle to get through these, wouldn’t he?’

He closed up his toolbox and spoke without looking me in the face. ‘You frightened of boyfriend, you tell police.’

I didn’t answer.

His feet thumped off down the stairs, heavy and fast, off to change the locks of the next frightened woman.

I went inside and closed the front door behind me, then stood in the hall and spent time double-locking with each key in turn, practising being safe. The door still smelled faintly of the locksmith, the dark grease on his fingers and stale coffee. I liked that.

I wondered why he’d told me to call the police. Did he have faith in our police force, in law and order? Or was he just trying to fob me off?

You’re not my problem, lady. I just fit the locks. If you’re being stalked by a crazy guy, call the authorities and report him. And good luck with that call, by the way.

I went through to the kitchen. Silence. Emptiness.

I made a cup of tea and sat for a long time at the kitchen table, considering the two sets of newly cut keys.

That was the trouble, I thought. Whatever happened now, however frightened I felt, how could I ever call the police again?

My ex-boyfriend might be stalking me, officer. The one I killed, then helped his wife to dump at sea.

From now on, whatever happened, I was utterly on my own.

When I entered the staffroom a few days later, Hilary and Elaine were discussing whether it was appropriate to buy a card. ‘Appropriate’ was one of Elaine’s favourite words.

‘I just feel we should say something. It’s awkward.’ Hilary was vigorously buttering cheese biscuits, one of her new ideas for a healthy lunch. ‘Maybe it would be better coming from you, Elaine. Or from John.’

Elaine pulled a face. Her range of dismissive expressions was the nearest she ever came to criticising the Lower School headteacher.

‘A card would be easier,’ she said. ‘I’ve got some blank ones in my desk.’

‘But what do we put?’ Hilary unwrapped a chunk of yellow cheese and started to cut it into pieces and then arranged the pieces on the biscuits. She seemed determined to leave no space without cheese. ‘I mean, I don’t want to be crass, but is he even officially dead yet?’

Elaine opened up her own sandwiches, ham and pickle. ‘We don’t need to be specific. We can just say “welcome back”, can’t we? No harm in that.’

Hilary bit into a biscuit, spraying crumbs. ‘It’s a bit, well, cheerful.’

‘Not necessarily. Depends how you say it. It’s all about tone.’

I settled beside them.

Elaine turned to include me. ‘We’re just talking about poor Mrs Wilson. Anna’s mother. She’s coming in again this afternoon to read with the children. First time back since…’

I knew perfectly well what it was since.

‘I wonder how she’ll feel,’ I said. ‘Being here again.’

Hilary said, ‘Well, she comes to the school gates every day, anyway. And at least Anna’s still in the Lower School. She doesn’t need to venture to the Upper School just yet.’

In my mind, I walked down an Upper School corridor and into a classroom where Ralph was sitting, perched on the front corner of a desk, a book open in his hand, reading to the class. That voice. Melted honey.

‘So maybe a blank card?’ Elaine said. ‘Something simple on the front, like flowers. I’m sure I’ve got one. I’ll just write “best wishes” inside and get some people to sign it.’

Olivia joined us, stirring a cup of instant soup. The smell of spicy tomato engulfed us all.

Hilary looked up. ‘Is there any news – you know, on what happened to him?’

‘Nothing I’ve heard.’ Olivia shrugged.