The Three Rs Read Free Page B

early?”
    I don’t wait for her answer, but I trust Sally to cover my back at work. I’m out of there, and I deliberately leave the wretched, much abused letter behind on the desk. I want none of it.

Chapter Two
    The red light is flashing on my answering machine as I let myself into my flat. Sally most likely. She’s already tried to reach me twice on my mobile phone since I dashed out of Mrs Boothroyd’s office, but I switched it off. I’m in no mood for more talking, for more sound advice. I ignore the red light and head for my kettle. I need coffee. Good and strong. And sweet.
    I drink my coffee while it’s still too hot, scalding my tongue in my rush for caffeine.
    The phone in my flat rings again as I’m dropping my empty cup into the sink. I let it go to the answering service, expecting to hear Sally’s voice telling me to pick up.
    “Miss Fischer. This is Cain Parrish. Again. Please return my call. Now. I left my number previously, but here it is again.” It’s not my friend. This is a male voice, deep, clipped, sounding distinctly irritated.
    He reels off a string of numbers, but I’m not listening. No need, I won’t be returning his call. I delete the message, and the previous one without even listening to it. So much for Cain Parrish.
    He’s persistent though. I get—and ignore—seven more calls during the course of the evening. Each time he leaves a message, and each time I delete it. After the second call, I turn my phone to silent, and my mobile stays switched off, just in case.
    * * * *
    The following morning I get up early as usual. I’m due at school by six-thirty to do my rounds disinfecting the toilets and hoovering the staff room before anyone else arrives and I like to have time for a shower in the morning before I leave. I use the ten minutes or so I spend under the steaming spray to contemplate what to do now, how to extricate myself from this nonsense. Talk about random! None of it makes any sort of sense—the letter, the quiet certainty of that lawyer, the belligerent persistence of Mr Parrish.
    I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I clean my teeth then comb through my long, straight hair. These days, thankfully, the strident color has softened from the carroty redness of my childhood to a more muted blonde with a hint of ginger, which seems more fitting in adult life. Strawberry blonde, I think it’s called. My eyes, a nondescript blend of hazel and green stare back at me from the glass. I recognize that look, that expression of apprehension. I see it often enough in my mirror. Today I have good reason. Today I feel cornered, hunted. Tracked down and caught.
    With a quick shake of my head, I try to throw off this crushing sense of foreboding. It will get me nowhere. And I really need to get to work, whilst I still have a job. The hours aren’t brilliant—six-thirty until nine in the morning, then three o’clock until six-thirty in the afternoon, five days a week, and seven till one on Saturdays. I do have all day free for other things in the week I suppose, so I shouldn’t complain. I daresay there must be a queue of people down at the JobCentre who’d happily take my job. They’re long days though, and I don’t get the school holidays off because that’s when most of the heavy maintenance work gets done.
    Between nine and three I do my own stuff. I like to draw and paint. Despite the art teacher’s copious red pen, I am quite good at it. I spend great chunks of my time at the city art galleries, admiring the exhibitions there and getting inspiration for my own creations. I can draw anything. I only have to see an item or a picture once and I can recreate it from memory. I’d be a great forger, although I’d struggle with the signatures I expect. But I’m not out to fool or con anyone, I just love re-creating wonderful works of art, and I sell my versions at car boot sales over the summer. It helps to boost my income a little, and the customers seem to