The Classroom: A gripping and terrifying thriller which asks who you can trust in 2018

Chapter 58 (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

Reading Group Questions (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader … (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

To my parents, in recognition

To my two little miracles, in joy

PART ONE (#ulink_df76bf13-4a0f-5b33-aa46-60398b3acbba)

Prologue (#ulink_ebda81b4-002b-575c-a8bf-892b1e6f9de0)

She puts the letter to one side. Today isn’t about that. Not in this moment. Today is about Harriet. Her, and Harriet, making a fresh start, together. Away from all this nonsense. If the letter shows anything, it’s that they need to make that fresh start even further away. There’ll be people looking for them. And Harriet is so pretty – people will notice them. England is too small. She needs to go abroad. They need to get tickets to France or, ideally, somewhere outside Europe that doesn’t need a visa. Somewhere not hugely swamped with international newspapers. She gets out her phone, begins Googling destinations. That’s stupid, though. She should just take Harriet to the airport, see what flights they can get. And go.

Resolved, she gets to her feet. Thank God for Harriet being well looked after this morning, while the fresh crisis was breaking. She can imagine her now, playing happily on the grass. Soon, Harriet will be playing happily in another country, doting eyes on her. They’ll be happy together. Of course they will.

At first glance, she doesn’t notice, when she gets outside.

The absence.

She looks around another time.

It’s then she realises: Harriet isn’t there.

Just the woman who was supposed to be looking after her, sitting all alone.

Chapter 1 (#ulink_f3192349-1ab5-5fbe-bc0e-18ed3c2b13e7)

KIRSTEN, 4 SEPTEMBER 2018

‘I just wasn’t sure about the headteacher, at the new joiners evening, you know?’ Kirsten says to her husband, as she gazes at little Harriet. She bites her lip, as she resists the urge to hug her daughter another time before getting her into the car. Harriet looks so smart and grown-up in her new uniform, but Kirsten doesn’t want to deliver her to the destination: first day of reception.

Ian lays a hand on Kirsten’s shoulder.

‘The headteacher was just fine, darling. You know that. You got on like a house on fire.’ There’s a wryness to his delivery, probably born of being a headmaster himself. He knows the conversations that go on.

‘And what about the other kids? They say that the most important thing is the cohort your child’s in. What if they’re mean?’

Ian shrugs. ‘There’s bound to be one mean kid there. Maybe it will be Harriet.’

Kirsten shoots him a poison dart with her eyes.

‘Joking,’ he tells her. ‘Harriet’s no bully. But they’re five, Kirsten. No one’s going to be selling drugs, or making them down alcohol.’

Kirsten looks at him more carefully this time. It’s an oddly chosen example, considering.

She sees Ian notice her look. ‘Whatever,’ he says. ‘What I mean is, she’ll be fine, you need to get her in the car, or we’ll both be late, OK? You’ve been taking her to nursery for three years. School’s no different, really. She should be so lucky, going somewhere like that. We can catch up this evening.’

Kirsten nods. But she doesn’t agree. He doesn’t get it. Or maybe he does: he gets what’s on the surface. The anxiety that she’s actually expressed. But there’s the deeper anxiety, the one she never shares. The one she never knows whether dads truly face too, or if it’s just the mums, the worried mums. The need that can suddenly seize you to know exactly where your child is at all times. The sudden rush of panic that they could be with anyone, with any number of terrible things befalling them. And that even if they were meant to be in safe hands – with relatives, at school – it would always ultimately be your fault for making the choice that day, that hour, to outsource their care. To not be looking after them yourself.

The guilt, Kirsten knew, would always linger. And it worked the other way too: if she was indulgent enough to take a day off work, that particular day would be the one when their route to the Fun Activity was favoured by terrorists, or a gas explosion, or a sinkhole.

‘Can I go to school now, Mummy?’ Harriet asks.

Kirsten tries to shut her anxiety down. She’d made such a thing of school being Grown-Up and Very Important that Harriet can’t be blamed for wanting to get there sooner. But it’s still too soon. Only a moment ago, Harriet was a newborn. Kirsten still remembers looking at those amazing owl-like eyes, wide and unblinking, as Harriet sat in the back of the car on the journey home with Ian – their little miracle. He’d been a bit cold, nervy with the weight of responsibility, but she’d been transfixed. If she’d known, really known, how enchanting a newborn could be, it would have got her through the discomfort of all those rounds of IVF – the injections, the hormone reactions, the tests – with much less heartache. Or maybe more, knowing what she was missing.

‘Of course, darling – it’s so exciting. I’m so proud of you!’

Kirsten watches as Harriet clambers into the back of the car. She tries to capture the moment in her mind. It’s just as significant as the ride home with the newborn, those life milestones every mother faces. Kirsten knows she’ll only get to savour them once – there are no more children after Harriet. So she must enjoy them now.

But she also really must get to work. Kirsten sees the time as she turns on the car ignition: 8.25. Shit. Not only were they meant to be at the school five minutes ago, her first appointment is fast approaching, as well. And as emotionally rewarding as it is to gaze dotingly at Harriet, it isn’t financially rewarding. Those financial rewards have kept the roof over her daughter’s head. OK, so Ian may be laudably busy managing the struggling comprehensive school he heads up out of special measures, before the Ofsted inspection – but he doesn’t get a bonus for the hours he works. The more Kirsten works, the more she gets paid, and the less they have to watch the overdraft every month.

Harriet begins complaining that she’s left one of her new special pencils in the house and says that they’ll have to go back and get it. The gloss of the first school day becomes tarnished. The usual negotiations (or bribes) kick in. By the time Kirsten drops Harriet at school, she is thinking very positively about the benefits of being able to deposit your child elsewhere for someone else to deal with.

As soon as she has that thought, she wants to run back after Harriet and apologise. Never wish away something so precious. Never try to abdicate responsibility for one so dear. The school staff seem good on health and safety, but what if they aren’t?

She considers calling Ian, asking him what he thinks. Should she go back in and make sure Harriet is properly settled? But no. She knows what he would say. It’s fine. The school is a good one, excellent parent feedback, and the teachers are fully checked for criminal records. She’s safe, Kirsten tells herself. She’s safe.

Chapter 2 (#ulink_4e2fef3e-42a4-5479-9a3a-7ca4d76610d1)

MIRIAM, 4 SEPTEMBER 2018

Miriam stands at the front of the still-empty classroom, mentally hugging herself. Finally, she is here – about to embark on teaching at St Anthony’s. All summer, the thought of it had been her best thing – the one that gave her hope and excitement each morning. The one that made her happy to exist as she curled up in her bed at night. She’d think about all those little faces, staring up at her, yearning for knowledge.

She knew how the first morning would go. Pick out one particular face, that natural teacher’s pet – all blonde, dimpled, cute floppy hair. Then look to the one next to them. That’s the one you want. The one you should go for. Maybe their hair is red or brown. Maybe they don’t smile. Maybe they have glasses, or their lack of a smile suggests they’ve learnt the hard way that everything doesn’t go hunky-dory just because you’re a kid. Maybe they wouldn’t be the archetypal cute kid on the bleeding heart ‘Missing Child’-type posters, or the pictures that stare out from papers hauntingly when sad news hits. But it’s that little one, the less than obvious one, that you want. That child will change your life. It’s worth taking the rap for that kid, if something goes wrong. She’d seen her formative teachers choose the less obvious kids, and she knew for herself that it made an otherwise average teacher become truly memorable.

And it was that thinking that got her the job. Not her own personal goal for where all this is going, of course. But the emphasis on child-focused attention. Thinking beyond the normal line of duty. Looking beyond the obvious to achieve results. She replays the interview in her head. So nervous. All her dreams depended on it.

‘Ms Robertson, where do you see yourself in five years’ time?’

She’d wiped her sweaty palms on her dress. She’d bought it specially but hated it already. Why did she go for acrylic peach? She’d read in some magazine one time that you look confident in pink. This was not the right pink and she did not feel confident. What she felt was hot and grimy, and the dress wasn’t helping. She could literally see her palm marks on the fabric.

‘In five years, I’ll be … I don’t know, maybe married, with my own child, maybe two children?’

The headmistress had stared back at her, stifling a yawn. How many other twenty-somethings had she tried to imagine being five years older that day? It was a world away. Miriam had to up her game. She tried again.

‘So. Five years. I’d hope to be well on the way to making an early Deputy Head at a school like this one and be helping out in the co-curricular activities – running a breakfast club, that kind of thing? I see you don’t have one, but I’d be more than willing to start one. But I guess I don’t need to wait five years – I can start it sooner, if parents want it. It’s so important to have these extra conveniences, isn’t it? Happy parents, happy children, that’s what I always think.’

And she’d smiled brightly, hoping it was enough, that she wasn’t just gushing madly. And it was enough. The headmistress’s yawn had gone. She was leaning forward. Rapt. Thank God. Miriam took a sip of water. The next twenty minutes were a formality. The job was hers. The other twenty-somethings could go home; the school had found ‘The One’. Maybe she wasn’t the best choice, objectively speaking – if the school had all the facts at its disposal. She certainly didn’t have the best childcare credentials (her sister had still never forgiven her). And if she’d told them where she really wanted to be in five years – well, they might, in their misguided way, have called the police. But she was the choice they made.