Cass Green - The Killer Inside

‘I don’t know why I did that just now,’ she said, taking a sip of her tea. She flashed me a quick, vulnerable smile. ‘I’m still kind of finding my way, in all honesty.’ I waited, and she continued. ‘I was with a bloke for years. Bit of an arsehole. One day I’ll get shitfaced and tell you all about it.’ She puffed out her cheeks and sighed, then continued, in an even quieter voice. ‘I didn’t expect to fall in love with a woman, but it seems I have.’

When she put down her mug I gave her a little mock punch on the arm.

‘Sensible decision,’ I said. ‘Women are lovely. Blokes are hairy, horrible things.’ Her loud laugh turned heads again.

‘I knew I could rely on you for a deep, philosophical conversation,’ she said. ‘Thanks for helping me work through this complex issue.’

‘Anytime, doll,’ I said in my best old-time American accent.

She laughed and then her expression turned serious again.

‘And you?’ she said. ‘Everything okay with you guys?’

I looked back at her, puzzled and not a little discomfited.

‘Me and Anya, you mean?’ I said. ‘Why?’

She looked flustered and gave a slightly forced laugh. ‘Oh, nothing, nothing,’ she said. ‘Just with leaving early and all.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘She was just under the weather, no biggie.’

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Right,’ then, with a bright smile, ‘Anyway, things to do, kids to corral!’

I didn’t manage to see Clare until afternoon break because I was on lunchtime playground duty.

I watched Tyler for a bit at lunchtime. He was part of a football game that mainly involved screaming at the top of his lungs and denigrating the prowess of his team mates. I found myself wondering again about his home life so, when I saw Clare in the staffroom, I asked if I could have a quick word.

Clare was a small, serious woman in her forties. She had a couple of kids and a husband who, as far as I could gather, did as little as he could in their upbringing. She often seemed to be sighing at her mobile phone and generally had a careworn sort of air about her.

We sat down on the sofa. She peeled the lid of a tub of yoghurt and began to spoon the contents into her mouth in small, neat movements.

‘So,’ I said, ‘tell me about Tyler Bennett’s dad.’

She made a face and then said, ‘What do you want to know?’

I told her what happened that morning at the school gates. She sighed and put down her yoghurt and spoon.

‘Well, he’s an ex-soldier,’ she said. ‘His name’s Lee. Emily, Tyler’s mum, died of breast cancer.’

‘Shit,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘Hmm.’ She fixed me with a serious look, and her next sentence came out in a rush. ‘I probably shouldn’t pass this on,’ she said, ‘but he’s an ex-offender. I think there were some issues with the mother after he came back from Iraq. Possibly PTSD or something like that. But whatever went on, they had got over their differences when she got sick.’

‘Right,’ I said thoughtfully.

‘I do find him a bit prickly,’ she went on. ‘But I think he’s just trying to cope on his own, so I generally cut him, and the boy, a bit of extra slack. Can’t be easy for them.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Can’t be easy at all.’

As I made my way back to the classroom I thought about poor little Tyler and the big tough man who was trying to be both mum and dad in that sad household.

I felt sorry for him. But I didn’t like the sound of ‘ex-offender’ and the implication of domestic violence.

It was a little too close to home.

There was a ginger cat lying across the middle of the carpet. It wore a grumpy expression and gave a silent, shivery mewl as she stepped over it and looked for somewhere to sit down.

A quite astonishingly ugly dog – a pug, perhaps; Irene didn’t really ‘do’ dogs – wandered over and made snuffling noises while pawing at her foot. It was almost spherical, neck wrinkles spilling onto its fat little body.

‘Come on, Elvis,’ said the woman, and scooped the animal up, ‘you need to be on good behaviour for our visitor.’

The room was dimly lit, some kind of Turkish rug slung over the window. It didn’t fit, and daylight streamed from the sides. Otherwise the room was lit by a series of lamps. There was a sofa so low to the ground, Irene worried about getting back out of it again, covered in a pale orange sheet and piled with cushions. Most of them had colourful prints that Irene thought of as Moroccan.

On various surfaces were remnants of half-melted puddles of candles. Along with the sweet drug scent, Irene could smell garlic and some sort of musky perfume from the woman.

‘Can I get you anything to drink? You look a bit peaky,’ said the woman, in that girlish voice. The dog panted in her arms, ham-like tongue lolling, giving it an even more unappealing look.

Irene carefully lowered herself onto the sofa, which gave even more than she’d expected. She tried to cover up her discomfort by smoothing her skirt over her knees and fixing the woman with a dignified stare. She wanted to decline the offer, but she really could do with a cup of tea. For a moment she worried that the woman might only have strange druggie tea, then said, ‘Yes please. Do you have tea?’

‘Only PG Tips, I’m afraid,’ said the woman and Irene felt relief flooding her veins.

‘Then yes please,’ she said.

The kitchen was behind a beaded curtain and Irene could see the woman (Rowan, was it?) collecting cups from a tree mug as the kettle boiled.

When she came back into the room, she was also carrying a few misshapen biscuits on a plate, along with Irene’s drink. Irene took the slightly chipped mug, which seemed clean enough, and eyed the strange biscuits now on the coffee table, which was otherwise covered in copies of a magazine called Spirit and Destiny and an almost full ashtray.

‘Have a biscuit,’ said Rowan, taking one herself and biting into it with a loud crunch. ‘They’re made from hemp and flax seeds. Really good for you.’

Hemp definitely sounded druggie. And this person looked very much like the sort who wouldn’t wash her hands after touching an animal. Irene declined, even though her stomach was rumbling, and took a sip of her tea. It was strong and milky, just how she liked it, and she could feel it restoring her almost straight away.

‘I’m Rowan,’ said the woman. She was looking at Irene in that way people do when you get to a certain age; as if you’re daft. The dog settled onto her lap and regarded Irene with the occasional nasal wheeze, like it had a head cold.

‘Yes, I know,’ said Irene and was taken aback to see the bright eagerness on Rowan’s face now.

‘Oh, did he talk about me then?’ she said. ‘Michael?’

‘Sorry, no,’ Irene said quickly. She hadn’t intended this to be cruel but the other woman’s mouth turned down at the sides.

Oh Michael , she thought. This isn’t your sort of person. She wondered if that was why he went away. Had he got in too deep with this woman?

‘He’s talked about you a lot,’ said Rowan, blowing on her tea. Hers was in one of those impractical teacups with a huge circumference and a tiny handle. Steam curled up from it and she seemed to cradle it more for comfort than from a desire to drink. ‘Very warmly.’