The Faceless Read Free Page B

But... the whole point is that it’s on a trial basis. Just for Christmas. For now anyway. The doctors at Roydtwistle thought it might help. A first step.”
    “Sounds to me like they’re treating his daughter as a guinea pig. It’s been less than a month since–”
    Ten days after the college fire, two days after the funeral, Mary had called her at the library, scared and weepy. Anna had come over; Martyn had been slumped in his chair, conscious, but unmoving and silent. Once Mary was out of the room, he’d calmly told Anna how he’d spent the night planning to hang himself from a ceiling beam. Anna had called their GP straightaway. Sod keep it in the family; better Mary saw her dad sectioned than dangling from a rafter.
    Anna kept her voice level. “Mary loves her dad. And he’s pretty much all she’s got right now.”
    Click, click, cl– “She has you.”
    “And I love her. I’ve given her all the love and care I can. But she’s still, effectively, lost both parents. At least she sees one of them for Christmas this way.”
    “Well,” Mrs Hartigan sniffed and glanced away. “The decision has been made.”
    Bite your tongue, Anna. Don’t rock the boat. Martyn’s not out of the woods yet. And no-one else knows you’re gay. That shouldn’t stop them letting you care for Mary. Times have changed and it’s not even as if you do anything about it. But this is Kempforth, and here old attitudes die hard.
    Click, click, click.
    “Where’s Mr Griffiths now?”
    “At mine.”
    “Alone?”
    “He’s not a suicide risk anymore.”
    “Let’s hope not.”
    It won’t come to that. It won’t. But if it does, make sure Mary doesn’t see. She comes before everything else now. She blinked. Calm down, Anna. Don’t be silly. He’s not at risk. With your past you ought to be more understanding.
    Mrs Hartigan tapped a pencil against her teeth. Then smiled. “I’ll walk you to the classroom. May as well meet Mary there.”
    “Thank you.”
    Children ran shrieking down the dim corridor, fell silent when they saw Mrs Hartigan. Watercolour paintings of Father Christmas in various guises grinned from the walls. Mary’s classroom was at the far end, the door open. A few children still struggled into coats. Miss Rhodes, Mary’s teacher – a sweet, rather vague woman with unruly hair, huge glasses and a liking for baggy sweaters – tidied papers at her desk.
    “Hi Mary.”
    Mary’s blue eyes flicked to Mrs Hartigan, then back to Anna. A heart-shaped face, achingly solemn for a child of ten; Eva’s copper hair.
    “Say hello to your aunt, Mary,” said Mrs Hartigan.
    “Hello, Aunty Anna.”
    “Hey, princess. Guess who’s waiting for us back home?”
    Mary’s eyes went wide. “Daddy?”
    “Got it in one.” She took Mary’s hand. “And how about fish and chips for–”
    Thud . The crack of glass. Mary grabbed Anna’s arm. A black shape at the window, hands splayed against the glass. Thin silver cracks fled outwards from them; a HAPPY CHRISTMAS banner peeled loose from above and fell.
    Anna’s heart thudded. Her last fight had been thirty years earlier, in the playground outside, and she’d lost. But she stepped in front of Mary. It wasn’t courage; just simple necessity.
    “Get away from the window!” Miss Rhodes shouted.
    Two other figures stepped up to the window to flank the first. Miss Rhodes – vague no longer – strode towards them, metre ruler in hand. “Children, get out into the corridor. Do as you’re told. Now. ”
    Anna recognised them. But from where? The man seemed very tall and very thin; a black cloak hung in tatters around him, clinging to him one moment, then flapping loose. His face – pale, immobile, like a mask. You’d remember a face like–
    The newcomers spread their hands against the window. Fingers long and thin as broom twigs scraped the glass. They couldn’t be real.
    And Anna remembered. No, they couldn’t be real – not just the fingers, but the men themselves.