Dying to Write Read Free Page B

flow. ‘Not a clue. Who?’
    â€˜Customs and bloody Excise, that’s who.’
    â€˜So?’
    â€˜They harass you. They follow you even when you’ve done your time. Them and the filth.’
    I paused in my washing-up. To give myself time I poured away the dirty water and started to run fresh. I try to be broad-minded, always, but words like ‘filth’ upset me. The only policeman I know at all well is not at all filth-like. He is eminently civilised in most respects.
    â€˜Even here, for Christ’s sake,’ he said, quite wildly, now. ‘My probation officer, he managed to get me on this course, you see. There was this tutor I had in Durham: reckoned I could write, see. And I come down here, where no one knows me, and who do I find but her?’
    â€˜Who? You’ll have to tell me.’
    â€˜I bet she’s told everyone. I bet she’s told you. I saw you talking to her.’ His voice was shrill with ill-concealed hysteria. ‘Why should she be here? She wasn’t supposed to be!’
    I knew by now, of course, but I thought I’d do better to ask flatly: ‘Who are you talking about?’
    â€˜The one you were best buddies with when we arrived. That Freeman woman. What’s she doing on a course if she’s so bloody good? Someone must have told her. Harassment, that’s what it is!’ His voice still rose alarmingly.
    I had to keep calm. ‘Kate’s said nothing to me, I promise you. Or to anyone else, as far as I know. Are you sure she even recognises you?’
    He stared at me. ‘How d’you mean?’
    â€˜I’m a teacher, right?’ I tried to keep my voice as low and calm as I could. ‘And because I see so many students I don’t always recognise them when I see them out of college. I’m sure I’ve offended lots of them because I couldn’t quite place them. You may just seem vaguely familiar.’
    â€˜She ought to remember me. She had me sent down for eight years.’
    I don’t know anything about crime and punishment but eight years suggested he might have done something pretty serious. I tried hard not to react.
    â€˜Eight years. Well, not her personally. But her evidence. So what do I do, Soph? Tell me: what do I do to shut her up?’
    â€˜Nothing,’ I said.
    â€˜Come on –’
    I didn’t like that note in his voice.
    â€˜Honestly, Courtney. Either you can do nothing and trust she says nothing. Or, if you’re really worried, you might just try asking her to keep quiet. What d’you think?’
    â€˜I don’t know. I just don’t know. All I know is if she talks …’ And he shouldered his way out of the kitchen.
    Then he was back.
    â€˜And don’t you fucking say nothing either, Soph,’ he said, pointing a hostile forefinger as if it were a gun.
    I’d wanted something to sober me up, and I’d certainly got it. In fact, Courtney’s transformation from mild young man to raging criminal scared me more than I cared to admit. It had been so unexpected. The question was, what to do next? There seemed to be only one answer. I didn’t feel proud of myself, breaking an implicit promise, but clearly I had to say something to Kate, and quickly, too. I left the remaining glasses to drain, and slipped up the staff stairs.
    The wooden treads made an embarrassing amount of noise. According to the background blurb in the course prospectus, old Eyre had installed a primitive heating system – the first since the Romans’ – ducting hot air under the stairs and along what was now the staff corridor into the principal rooms. The old wood had no doubt dried and now, since the introduction of humidifiers, was expanding again, with considerable protest.
    I stood in the shadow at the top of the stairs, wondering what to do next. I didn’t know which was Kate’s room, of course. Just that it was along here somewhere.
    And