Renée Knight - Disclaimer

“So this was a pupil at his previous school. Sunnymead Comprehensive?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And how did you hear about it?” The mother tries to remember.

“A friend of mine. Her children went to Sunnymead.”

“Do you know the name of this pupil? I’d like to talk to him.”

“Well, no, but I could find out, I’m sure.”

“That would be incredibly helpful. Thank you. And thank you for taking the time to talk to me.” Well, of course she took the time. Catherine has a reputation, a string of socially conscious credits to her name. She is a woman of sound credentials, a woman who can be trusted to do the right thing. For the first time in weeks her head feels clear, uncluttered by shame. She is working up a story, gathering information, getting to know her enemy.

I have her telephone number, I have her address, and I have seen her in the flesh. She is no longer just a figment on my laptop. I’ve taken to haunting the underground station where she changes trains on her journey to work. Right now, I’m standing behind her.

There are a few people between me and her, and she is taller than me, but I can see her between their shoulders, their necks. If I reach forward I’ll be able to touch her. Her hair is caught in the back of her collar and she flicks it out, and then shifts her shoulder to hitch her bag up. She’s twitchy. I like that. But her fingernails are painted. I don’t like that. They make me want to weep. They are a sign that she doesn’t care. That she is carrying on as if nothing has happened. I don’t want to see that. She must not be allowed the comfort of amnesia. That cannot happen. She should not be able to paint her nails, do her hair. She should not care about herself. She knows what she has done and yet she still thinks she is worth preserving. I want to see her nails chewed and bleeding. I want to see a sign that she feels something.

There’s a surge forward as the train pulls in and I allow myself to be carried behind her. I am walking on air. She is being pushed too, but not by me. I haven’t touched her. She glances round, but she misses me, I’m not in her sight line, she is head and shoulders above me. We’re not ready yet, Nancy and I. I’ve brought Nancy with me. Her arms are over mine, my chest is where hers was. I have taken to wearing her cardigan most days now. The doors open. She gets on. She doesn’t mind the gap, and trips on her way. Have I missed my moment? And then the doors close and I watch her move off. Does she heave a sigh of relief? I can’t be sure, but she ought to. Not this time. Not yet. But we know her route now. We know where and when to find her.

And I am capable of great patience. I was a fisherman years ago. Amateur of course. I fished from the rocks by the Martello tower. This is like fishing. I have thrown in the bait and now I must wait. Just wait. It will come. And Geoff is on standby too, to throw in more as soon as I give the word. There are two bookshops in her neck of the woods, and he will move in at my command. Good old obliging Geoff. And there will be a bite, I know it. And then I can haul in my catch, well, not haul exactly, it will hardly be a net full, so not a haul, one bite, that’s all I need, one bite from one slippery fish. I anticipate how my hand will tingle when I feel the tug on my line. I want to see the hook caught in the throat. To see my catch gasp for breath. Its fate in my hands. A simple crack on the head with a blunt instrument. Or will it be enough to have removed it from the depths and then watch it gasp for air, its eyes wide and staring in panic? There is something extremely satisfying in that idea. A fish out of water. A fish rudely introduced to a hostile environment. Will it survive? Unlikely. The sudden exposure will probably kill it. They drown, don’t they, fish. If they’re left too long out of water. Exposure first, and then perhaps I’ll put it out of its misery.

It is not the “boy,” but his mother who Catherine speaks to. She is a more hesitant informant than the previous mother. It takes Catherine a little while to coax it out of her, but she opens her up in the end. Yes, it had been a very upsetting time. And for her son, Jamie, who is now thirty-seven, well, it had been frightening. Catherine is patient, understanding. She really doesn’t want to push her. They can easily speak another time. Perhaps she would prefer Catherine to come and see her? No, she’d rather do it now, over the phone.

Stephen Brigstocke had taught Jamie in his GCSE year and then taken him through his A levels. He was a good teacher and Jamie had liked him. He’d taken an interest in him, given him extra help if he needed it, and they had been grateful. If it wasn’t for Mr. Brigstocke he might not have done so well and he got a place at Bristol University. It was a big thing for all of them — Jamie was the first person in the family to go to university. She remembers driving him up there with his stuff and then leaving on the Sunday night. She’d cried, leaving her boy there. It was the first time he’d been away from home for more than one night, and her husband had told her she was being silly, that he’d be fine. They both thought university was the safest place for him to start living independently.

“Anyway, that first week Jamie saw Mr. Brigstocke on the campus. He was wandering around and Jamie thought it was just coincidence — that he had some work to do there or knew someone. Then he saw him again. He was outside one of his lecture halls, but when Jamie went up to talk to him he hurried off like he hadn’t seen him. Pretending he hadn’t seen him. He started following Jamie. He’d be in the pub, hanging around campus, outside his lectures, always keeping his distance, never talking to Jamie, never coming up to him, just watching him. And it really freaked Jamie out. He said it was like Mr. Brigstocke thought he couldn’t see him — like he thought he was invisible. We told Jamie to tell someone but he didn’t want to make a fuss. Then one day he went back to his room and Brigstocke was sitting there, on his bed. He’d told one of the other students he was his uncle. Jamie said he just kept repeating the same thing over and over — that he should make the most of university, he shouldn’t waste his time. Over and over. It scared Jamie. He was bonkers, off his head. In the end Jamie had to pretend he was meeting someone — that was the only way he could get rid of him. There were lots of things that we found out later, not from Jamie, from one of his friends. Jamie would never talk to us about it. The friend told us that Jamie suspected Brigstocke of going through his stuff when he’d been in his room. You know his personal stuff. That things had been moved about. We didn’t know about it ’til much later. If we had, well, my husband would have gone up there straightaway and sorted him out.”

“So what did you do?”

“Well, we wanted to call the police but Jamie wouldn’t let us. My husband spoke to the university and they said they’d keep an eye and then nothing happened for a little while. Then one night, Jamie was in bed, and Brigstocke turned up. Started banging on his door, wanting to be let in. Said he’d missed his last train back. He wanted to sleep on Jamie’s floor. I mean, he was a bloody nutcase. Another student, Jamie’s mate, helped get him out of there.”

“And did the police get involved that time?”

“No, no, Jamie wouldn’t call them and he wouldn’t let us when we found out. But his mate said that he’d sorted Brigstocke out. He didn’t come back after that. We went up there as soon as we could. Jamie’s friend told us Brigstocke had been sobbing at Jamie’s door, banging and banging for Jamie to let him in, and he’d had to drag him away. Jamie was too upset. It was his mate who got Brigstocke out of there. Bashed him about a bit — well, he had to. He said he was a nutter, crying like a baby. Jamie never told us any of that. Thing is, he’d really liked Mr. Brigstocke, looked up to him.”