Литагент HarperCollins - Shadow Sister

SIMONE VAN DER VLUGT

Shadow Sister

Translated from the Dutch

by Michele Hutchison

Cover

Title page SIMONE VAN DER VLUGT Shadow Sister Translated from the Dutch by Michele Hutchison

Lydia

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Elisa

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Lydia

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Elisa

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Lydia

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Elisa

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Lydia

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Elisa

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Lydia

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Elisa

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Lydia

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Elisa

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Elisa

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About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

All of a sudden he’s got a knife. The flash as he draws it is so unexpected fear paralyses me. I try to speak, but the sound dies in my throat. I can only stare at the blade glinting in the light streaming through the classroom windows.

Then waves of adrenaline pulse through my body and I can move again. I reverse towards the open door. Bilal steps forwards at the same time so that the knife remains pointed at me, at my chest, my throat.

My thoughts scramble and fall away. I once did a training course on how to handle these kinds of situations. An image of the textbook flashes through my mind. But I can’t remember the tips. I can’t remember.

Intuition kicks in: Don’t make eye contact. Try to escape. But will I make it to the door?

I glance at Bilal. His gaze is strange, fixed, predatory. His eyes register every movement I make, but surely he cannot see the wild heartbeat I can feel in my throat. I try to empty my face of expression, but I’ve no idea whether I’m succeeding. I probably look more surprised than frightened.

Surprised, because I hadn’t seen this coming. But I should have been prepared for it, particularly with Bilal Assrouti.

As he passes the first line of desks, the other students are still quiet, stunned. I stare at the knife and the world contracts into a tunnel through which I can see only the long blade and Bilal’s glittering eyes. The nineteen-year-old standing in front of me might be a schoolboy, but he’s also a man; he’s a head taller than me, his arms are muscular and there’s a tic in his neck.

My eyes become glassy with fear; time stretches. Probably no more than a few seconds have passed, but it feels like minutes, minutes in which I know I’m in serious danger.

Thick fog in my head. Reason, Lydia. Talk. I need to talk. Start up a calm conversation. Show him this isn’t the solution. Show him I’m taking his feelings seriously.

After letting out a dry cough, I find my voice. ‘Put the knife down, Bilal. You really don’t want this and it won’t get you anywhere. Why are you so angry?’

‘Why am I so angry?’ he shouts. ‘Why do you think, bitch? You just stood there, all full of yourself, and told me to leave school!’

‘That’s not what I said—’ I begin, but the denial is a mistake. His face contorts and I fly into the corridor. There’s a clamour in the classroom, but I don’t stop.

I run to the headmaster’s office and throw open his door. Jan van Osnabrugge has the phone in his hand, but one glance at my wild appearance is enough for him to put it down.

‘Lydia! What is it?’

I close the door behind me – Bilal hasn’t followed me – and lean against it. For a few seconds I can’t speak. ‘Bilal. He pulled a knife on me.’ I indicate the size of the knife with my hands and Jan’s eyes grow even wider.

‘You look pale. Are you all right? I’ll get you some water.’

He gets up, but I shake my head – I don’t want to stay here alone while he fetches water.

‘Sit down for a bit,’ Jan says. ‘Tell me what happened.’

Shaking, I sit down in the chair opposite him, but I can’t remember a single thing. I can’t recall anything of what happened beforehand or how the argument progressed, all I can see is the knife. I bury my face in my hands and weep hot tears.

Jan crouches next to me and puts his arms around me. ‘Have a good cry. Don’t worry. We’ll handle this. Where is Bilal now?’

I shrug, still shaking.

‘I’ll send someone to your classroom to look after the other students.’ Jan strides out of the room and I want to call out to him to stay, but no sound emerges from my throat.

I sit there in a daze, looking out of the window that opens onto the playground. Rotterdam College offers various types of education, but most students are doing some kind of technical or professional training. Generally they’re pleasant, reasonable young people. They do need keeping an eye on, but you can have a good relationship with them. Just like at any other school. And just like at any other school, we have students with learning difficulties such as ADHD, autism, Asperger’s or dyslexia. In the old days they would have gone to special schools, but not now.

I’ve always invested a lot in my students – I do a lot of overtime, making home visits or popping into the McDonald’s where they hang out, so we can have a chat. Mostly, my students appreciate this. Plenty of them have told me so; others have demonstrated it by sharing secrets, big and small, or telling me about their home lives. Believe me, this is not easy for them. In general, a child’s shame runs deeper than their need to talk about their problems.

In the beginning, if I turned up unannounced at their homes, they’d refuse to let me in, but little by little I’ve gained ground. I’ve been in most of their living rooms by now and, yes, I’ll admit that I’m proud of it. Why shouldn’t I be?

I wouldn’t have been able to get up in front of a class and teach if it didn’t inspire me. I feel responsible for my students; I might not be the driving force of their existence, but I do have some kind of influence on their future.

If I call a student to my desk to discuss their behaviour, we can have a conversation without them storming out, as they often do with my fellow teachers. The other teachers haven’t gone to the trouble of attending the inter-cultural coaching sessions – they take up a lot of time in the evenings but give important insights into immigrant children. Every teacher there has come because of troublemakers in their class, and Bilal Assrouti has always been a troublemaker.

Bilal has been in my class for almost two years and we have clashed from the start. He’s the kind of domineering child who rules the roost at home and thinks he can act that way at school too. But the idea that he’d draw a knife…

I’ve been teaching Dutch for seven years now and I’ve never come up against a problem with a student that I couldn’t solve, but every day Bilal gives me the feeling that I’m a failure as a teacher, that I fail at all those things I’m desperate to do well. I’ve tried from the start to get through his armour-plating of defensiveness and scorn – the problems that he has with me as a female teacher – but in vain. And on a sunny morning at the end of April, it’s come to this.

The noise of the school bell pierces the corridors and makes me jump. There’s an instant uproar and shortly afterwards the playground fills up with students. Dark hair, caps and headscarves everywhere. Is Bilal among them or has he gone? Would he really have stabbed me? I shunt restlessly backwards and forwards on my chair and decide not to leave the school premises before I’ve seen Bilal being carted off by the police.