Guilty

Photo by Kevin Jesus Horacio on Unsplash

This is a long short story written just before Christmas. It’s very much a work in progress, but I’d love to know what you think. If you would prefer to read this in pdf, please drop me a line and I’ll send you a copy.

Now

Mary’s face is covered by a large pink mask despite the sunflower lanyard that bounces off her chest as she hurries this way and that, answering questions and offering encouragement to the volunteers. Frances rubs behind her ear, where the straps of her mask are irritating a patch of eczema.

‘You look pale, love.’ Mary lifts a blue-gloved hand towards Frances’s cheek.

‘I haven’t been out much.’ Frances dodges the glove.

‘Sorry, I forget. You’ve not been out? What a shame, with all this sunshine.’

‘I’ve got the garden...’

‘Well there you go. There’s always something to do in the garden.’

‘My dad’s been looking after it.’

Mary takes a step back and puts her hands on her hips. ‘Are you Maggie and Gerry’s...?’

‘That’s me.’ Frances peers at the blue eyes above the pink mask.

‘Let’s have a cup of tea.’

She leads Frances past rows of tables and chairs and a line of trestles in front of metal racks filled with tins, cartons, boxes and bags of food. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ Mary shouts over her shoulder. She points Frances towards a door. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

Frances clears space on a busy desk for the dusty concertina files which occupy the single chair in the room. She shakes her bag from her shoulders and removes a pack of wipes from a pocket. She is on her knees, scrubbing the parched vinyl seat when Mary bursts through the door carrying a small tray.

‘You look like white, no sugar.’ She hands Frances a red mug.

‘Nearly. No milk.’ Frances moves away from the seat.

‘No, you can have it, love. Oh God, you don’t object to milk do you?’

‘Not like that.’

‘It doesn’t matter. We get them, even here.’

‘Do you?’

‘We have three questions: how are you; how can we help; and what do you need.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Although, we have to be more circumspect with our volunteers.’

‘Oh.’

‘But I know your mum and dad. Father Tom and I are aware of your situation.’

A few of the volunteers have sewn name badges onto their sweatshirts. Others have printed their monikers on sticky labels; and some have penned messages on their masks: Hi, I’m Johnnie. How can I help?; Charley says relax!; and Frances’s favourite, Fr. Tom, whatever you need. She prints Frankie on a label and presses it to her chest. Her hand jolts at the thud of her heart. As the double doors are thrown open a block of daylight invades the hall. Small children wriggle free of their parents and sprint for a corner where three boxes of toys and books sit on pockmarked crash mats. Laughter and shouting lift the mood as volunteers and clients get down to brisk business. Mary works with Frances, having delegated her check-in duties to Brian and Barry, middle aged twins who have been seen apart by health professionals, priests, and few others. Ten months into his tenure, Fr. Tom has yet to crack the secret of which is which.

‘Don’t let on if you recognise anyone, unless they introduce themselves.’ Mary hands Frances a cloth bag. ‘A cauli and a bag of spuds for this young man please, Frankie.’

‘Ey up Mary. You flirtin’ again?’ An old gent in a blazer that has seen better days lifts his cap as his mask slips from nose to moustache. ‘Got a new helper? Who is it? I can’t read your label.’

‘I’m Frankie.’ She edges away from the trestle. ‘Small cauli do you?’

She keeps her face covered on the walk home and is surprised when there is no queue outside Tesco. She ventures in, lowering her head as though there’s a problem with her trolley. She fills the cart with fruit and veg, bread, pasta, tea, coffee, toilet paper and soap: the same items she has been putting into bags for the previous three hours. She lingers in the drinks aisle and settles on three French whites and a bottle of Glenfiddich. At the checkout she pulls some notes from her purse, but the woman behind the till points to a hand-written sign: Card Payments Only. Frances stuffs the notes into her bag and fumbles for her Visa.

‘I dropped my card and she picked it up, Mum.’ She places a carrier on the doorstep and backs away.

‘What happened, love?’ Maggie reaches for the bag and passes it to her husband, whose head has appeared in the corner of the doorframe. ‘Take this in Gerry.’

‘What’s happened?’ Gerry grabs the bag.

‘She saw my name.’

‘Oh love.’

‘Do you want me to go down there?’

‘Dad. You can’t go out.’

‘Bloody shielding.’

‘It’s for your own good.’

‘But who’s looking out for you?’

‘She didn’t say anything. She might have looked at me a bit funny, that’s all.’

‘I’ll give her a look.’

‘Dad, it doesn’t matter.’

‘You shouldn’t have to put up with it.’

‘Well, I do. There’s a present in there for you. A thank-you for the garden, and everything else.’

‘Did you get milk?’

‘I forgot. I’ll nip round the corner.’

She leans against the window, concentrating on her phone until a pair of teenagers tumble out of the corner shop, tugging at each other’s hoods. A Pepsi bottle rolls towards her feet. She leaps past the boys and into the store. She places a four pint bottle of milk on a pile of newspapers and presents one of the notes she stuffed into her bag in Tesco.

‘Is that you Frances? Nothing in the paper.’

‘Hello Mr. Morgan. No, not this week.’

‘How’s Mum and Dad?’

‘Fed up.’

‘What about you?’

‘I suppose it’s good to get out the house.’

‘You’ve got to shop for them now?’

‘Yes. The tables have turned.’

‘You’re a good person Frances. I won’t let anyone say...’

‘Thank you. I should go now.’

Three Weeks Ago

The young woman who answers explains that her name is Megan and she is not a police officer. Her job is to record the details of the call and pass the information to an officer, should the matter merit further attention. Yes, it is like triage, but no, she has no relevant – she draws this word out – qualifications. She is using a checklist that she feels sure has been drawn up by someone with relevant qualifications, since the organisation to which she is contracted employs a legion of highly qualified and well paid specialists. ‘I never turn anyone away,’ she whispers, and Frances pictures a short haired twenty-something in a cubicle decked out with photos and slogans. ‘May I take your details?’ Nothing in her tone, as she asks Frances to spell out her second name, suggests that she recognises the person she is dealing with. On the other hand, she sounds so clever and streetwise that Frances can’t imagine her not being familiar with the exotic second name. People who sound far less reasonable than Megan and who use words of far fewer syllables to such shocking effect have no trouble remembering the surname and tracking her down. It is a source of wonder and frustration that some of her antagonists don’t let things like distance, oceans and continents get in the way of good old-fashioned vitriol.

‘What sort of abuse, Frances? May I call you Frances?’

‘Please do.’

‘Phone calls?’

‘Not since I changed my numbers.’

‘Social media?’

‘Not anymore.’

‘Letters?’

‘That’s how it started. And eggs.’

‘Eggs?’

‘Against the walls and windows.’

‘Have any windows been broken? Damage to your property?’

‘One window in January, during the cold snap.’

‘Anything else?’

‘I had to cover the carpet in the hall...’

‘Carpet?’

‘...because of what is coming through the letterbox.’

‘What is coming through the letterbox?’

‘I’m sure you can imagine, Megan.’

Megan can imagine and asks Frances if she would consider what is happening a hate crime; because – at this point it is Frances’s turn to use her imagination and what she imagines is Megan leaning into her cubicle to make sure none of her colleagues overhear – if we can tick the hate crime box, you’ll jump to the top of the list.

Two days later, Detective Sergeant Ahmed Khan knocks at Frances’s door. He makes a mental note of two soil-encrusted eggshells under the bay window. The glass and sill are spotless and he wonders how Frances missed the shells. Nothing else is amiss in the garden and as he looks around he sees curtains twitching on the other side of the road and in the bay next door. If this woman wants to hide she is not making a good job of it; and with neighbours like these, there must have been witnesses to whatever crimes he is about to record. He pulls the straps of his mask over his ears as a pair of blinking eyes appears in the frosted glass two thirds of the way up the door. He holds his warrant card in front of the eyes and wishes he had updated the photograph.

‘You should seal the letterbox and have your mail intercepted.’ He lifts his feet one by one off the tarpaulin that is covering the floor in the hall. The tarp is as tacky as a pub carpet and he doesn’t appreciate having sticky soles on his new shoes.

‘I keep it clean.’ Frances looks at a bucket filled with cloths, brushes and bleach next to the coat stand.

‘Even so, it’s not hygienic. You could get ill. What do you do...I mean, how do you get rid of it?’

‘I scrape it into black bags and go up the street after dark. There’s a dog bin half way up. I know it’s not dog...’

‘That’s okay.’ He holds up a hand. ‘My mum did something similar.’

Sergeant Khan tells Frances that the call handlers do not work at the police station. He is not acquainted with anyone called Megan, but she was correct in fast-tracking this case to the Hate Crimes Unit. However, he doubts that Megan – here Frances detects the tiniest misstep in his reasoned and caring tone – is aware of Frances’s unique set of circumstances. He is aware of them. He would not be doing his job if he had not done his homework; and he is not about to not do his job, for which he has fought very hard and because of which he has to stomach being known as Andy, at the station at least. Besides, Frances’s name and her address are flagged on the system.

‘What system?’

‘Our records. You must be aware...’

‘I’ve met some of your colleagues.’

‘You have my sympathies, although I’d be grateful if you didn’t repeat that.’

‘I don’t really talk to anyone these days.’

‘That’s a shame.’

‘We’re all locked down anyway, for who knows how long.’

‘That’s true. Nevertheless...’

‘I don’t expect to be seeing any of them any time soon. I’m waiting on a date for the inquest.’

‘Aha.’

‘It’s been put back.’

‘Most things have shut down.’

‘Indefinitely.’

‘That can’t be good for anyone.’

‘Probably means I’ll have to put up with more of this.’

Sergeant Khan confirms that Frances’s case falls under the definition of hate crime. He promises to investigate further. However, ‘we would prefer to be led by you in this case’; and while Frances would be well within her rights to prosecute if it came to it, his bosses have asked him to point out that discretion might be the best way forward. What this amounts to, he explains, is a word in some ears and weekly visits or telephone check-ins from yours truly. He hands Frances a card and promises to return in seven days.

Two Weeks Ago

Ahmed Khan thinks better of checking on Frances with a phone call and decides to visit in person. He changes into standard issue boots before getting out of his car. He is not wearing the suit he bought with the shoes, but he judges his plain clothes favourably and is sure he looks the part to the curtain twitchers, none of whom had noticed anything amiss when he had quizzed them a week ago. They don’t have much else to do – they’re not allowed to do much else – and he sympathises. He doesn’t worry about the risk, despite the rumours of some groups suffering more than others, because there are so few people on the streets. He has been issued with a supply of disposable masks and he won’t stay long in the house. He’ll keep moving and stay one step ahead. Colleagues are being reassigned daily and he wants to prove his worth before he is next in line for street patrols.

There is something different about Frances today. Her hands are shaking so much that he offers to make tea. He has gloves, he tells her, and he won’t touch anything. You can touch whatever you like, she says, it’s all clean. And it is. The smell of lemon and bleach reminds him of a house he once visited after a team had been in to get rid of the blood. His first and only murder: a domestic. A woman had snapped after years of slaps and punches and worse. The jury had deemed her guilty. She was still inside the last time he checked, but he’s not supposed to get involved.

‘Do you mind if I take this off to drink my tea?’ He pulls at his mask.

‘No.’ She takes him into the lounge and points at the sofa.

‘So,’ he sips his tea and blows at his top lip. ‘Too hot. How have you been?’

‘Bored.’

‘Any further incidents?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘That you’re aware of?’

‘Well I don’t know what people are saying behind my back.’

‘There’s not a great deal we can do about what people say.’

‘But social media?’

‘I thought you weren’t on it?’

‘I’m not, but what if they’re talking? Planning something?’

‘I’ll investigate.’ He plucks his notebook from a pocket inside his jacket. ‘It won’t be difficult to check, if it’s the family.’

‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about the family. What if I...’

‘No contact, Frances. Has your solicitor not...’

‘...wrote a letter?’ She perches on an armchair, plucking a thread from its seat.

‘No. Not a good idea. You have to wait and let events take their course.’

‘But they’re not just waiting...’

‘They’re grieving...and we haven’t established who is responsible yet.’

On the way to his next call, Sergeant Khan wonders whether he should have told Frances that he believed the Browns when they denied having anything to do with the eggs, the letters and the rest of it. Is it a coincidence that there have been no further incidents – as far as Frances is aware – since his visit to the bereaved family? Or is it lockdown? He shakes his head: two wrecked households united and divided by one event.

Maggie and Gerry are scrubbing the greenhouse, inside and out. The winter grime is hard to shift; the frames are caked with filth, the glass thin and fragile. Press too hard and a pane will drop out and this is not a time to be replacing broken glass. Along with the annual tomato endeavour, Gerry is experimenting with aubergines, courgettes and chilli peppers. The seedlings are experiencing their first fresh air while the cleaning takes place. He has arranged the tiny pots in rows of four, checking the labels to make sure he hasn’t mixed them up. Maggie throws her gloves to the ground at the faint ring of a telephone. She pushes up from her knees and groans. ‘I’ll get it. It’ll be her,’ she says, straightening her limbs as she hobbles towards the kitchen door.

‘The policeman’s been round.’ Maggie hands a steaming mug to Gerry.

‘Which one?’ he wipes his free hand on his thigh.

‘The one she says is nice, but a bit odd.’

‘Takes one to know one.’

‘Oh Gerry, that’s not fair.’

‘She’s changed.’

‘Of course she’s changed.’

‘She’s gone in on herself.’ He looks at his grimy palm and rubs it against his knee. ‘You’ve seen it too.’

‘What do you expect?’

‘She should hold her head up. Show the world she doesn’t feel guilty.’

‘She does feel guilty.’

‘But she isn’t. She’s a good person. They love her at that school. All of the children. The parents.’

‘They did.’

‘One mistake!’

‘She’s trying to learn to live with it.’

‘We all are.’

‘But she’s on her own in that house.’

Maggie’s friend Mary was known as The Pocket Dynamo when they were at school. ‘That young lady never sits still,’ Maggie’s mother once said as the dust settled after a visit from her daughter’s whirlwind friend. Maggie thinks a dose of Mary might be what Frances needs to move on; and if not move on, get out of the house, which is not so easy during lockdown. When they have finished the greenhouse and after two large gins, Maggie resolves to call Mary.

Six Months Ago

It’s half-term at the end of this week. The children are allowed to wear fancy dress on Friday as a Halloween treat. The problem is, it’s Monday and they are too excited to concentrate. Silent reading is a riot of giggles, not-so-quiet-whispering and arguments about whose costume will be a) the best and b) the scariest. The next person to mention Trick or Treat when they are supposed to be reading or doing their sums will be helping Miss tidy the nature table at playtime. Most of the children in the class would rather help Miss tidy the nature table than freeze outside for fifteen minutes, but this is as far as Frances will go in terms of punishment. Neither pupils nor teacher are surprised when William Parry rises to the challenge:

‘Trick or treat! Trick or treat! Trick or treat!’

‘Didn’t you want to play outside, William?’

‘Not bothered.’ William cups a skate’s egg case in his hands and lowers his eyes.

‘You liked the beach.’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘Do you remember running on the sand?’

‘It got in my shoes.’

‘That’s what happens.’

‘Miss?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did the sand get in your shoes?’

‘The sand got in my shoes.’ She lifts the egg case from William’s hands, wraps it in cotton wool and places it in the box which once housed the shoes that would one day be invaded by grains of sand.

‘Mermaid’s purse,’ says William.

‘Well remembered!’ Frances smiles and tells William he can go out for the last five minutes of playtime. He sprints to the door, upending two chairs on his way out.

Now

Halfway through the afternoon, Mary calls Frances to one side. Does she have time to sit down with Fr. Tom when the session is over? Yes, Mary understands that Frances has lost her faith – a phrase Maggie has used several times of late – but it’s not that kind of meeting. If she wants that kind of meeting, Mary is sure that Fr. Tom...but no, she can see and she does understand that Frances will find her own way. Fr. Tom has a proposition, which Mary admits she is not sure about, but the young priest also has his own way and he is in charge, kind of, after all. When the last of the volunteers have said goodbye and Mary has locked the double doors, Frances sits with the priest at a table she disinfected minutes earlier.

‘Shall we take our masks off?’ He starts to pull at the elastic behind his ears.

‘Best leave them on. Dad is shielding and I’ve got shopping for them.’

‘Sorry, of course. How are they doing?’

‘Okay. Dad’s itching to get out. They’re both worried...’ she watches Mary walk along the racks of food, making notes in the book she uses to check the stock. She is moving at a very un-Mary pace.

‘About you?’

‘And everything else.’

‘But what I wanted to talk to you about, Frances...’ he leans backwards and looks around the empty hall.

‘Yes?’

‘William’s stepfather has been in touch.’

‘Callum Brown?’

‘Yes. He wants to volunteer. He’s furloughed and says he needs to...’

‘Get out of the house?’

‘I knew you’d understand.’

‘Does that mean...’

‘No, I don’t think so. Mary doesn’t think so, do you Mary?’

‘What was that, Father? No, not a problem as far as I’m concerned.’

But it is a problem for Frances, who is not supposed to make contact with the Brown family. Does this count as making contact: behind a table, behind a mask, in a hall full of people? Mary will be on hand, as will the priest; there will be witnesses. Maggie thinks Frances should step aside, but Gerry feels, with equal surety, that the right thing to do is carry on doing the right thing. How could anyone condemn his daughter for volunteering at a food bank? Gerry’s belligerence – his daughter’s inheritance – wins the day. The family has a weekend of worry before the Monday when Callum Brown is due to meet Mary and the rest of the volunteers.

Six Months Ago

Frances watches William bolt through a circle of girls who are singing a pop song. She doesn’t recognise it, but she appreciates the sentiment while hoping that the seven year olds know not of what they sing. There is plenty of time for them to learn the ups and downs of relationships; right now they are learning how boys can come between them, as William is standing in the centre of the circle, singing along in a high-pitched voice and shaking his backside at them, one by one. She lets him have his moment before she opens the classroom door and shouts at him to leave the girls alone. She presses her lips together when he waves at her and complains that they won’t let him join in. Later on, when the children have gone home, she notices William darting around the yard.

‘William!’ She waves at him to come inside.

‘Miss, Mum’s not here.’

‘I’m sure she’s on her way. We can wait together.’

Alice Brown arrives thirty minutes later, a blur of shopping bags, red faced and out of breath.

‘I’m so sorry Miss Salcedo. I had to get the bus into town for his costume.’

‘Did you get it?’ William tugs at one of the bags.

‘Wait until we get home. William! I said wait until we get home.’

‘What are you coming as?’ Frances asks. ‘Don’t tell me you’re coming as a little devil.’

‘It’s a surprise, Miss.’

‘It’ll be that alright. We’ve had tears and tantrums. You know what he’s like.’

Now

For two weeks Frances trudges to the church hall wondering if this will be the day; but Callum Brown does not appear in the group of masked volunteers. It is usual for new starters to be introduced to each worker in person – an ordeal Frances was spared – and Callum’s are not among the hopeful, sad, desperate and determined eyes that Frances meets. In the panoply of face coverings, each volunteer is recognisable by voice, movement – limps, skips and shuffles – hair, headwear and, in the case of Brian and Barry, a particular take on fashion. Introduction or no, Frances would have no trouble recognising Callum; she cannot forget the greyish blue eyes, ringed by red, that stared at her as William lay beside her car.

The days have passed when people went about their business without a care in the world, but Frances, her father’s words ringing in her ears, does her best to busy herself with her responsibilities. She finds herself putting the wrong food in the bags, dropping potatoes, bruising apples and – Brian bears it manfully – lets a can slip her grasp and onto a sandalled foot. Mary tells her not to worry; Fr. Tom asks if she needs some time off; and Barry informs her that Brian has always been a drama queen and she should ignore the limp as there is nothing wrong with his brother’s toe. When it happens; when their paths cross once more, it’s on the street outside the hall. After a frantic Friday session she stays behind to help with the cleaning. In no rush to spend another long and lonely weekend at home, she waits with Mary until there is nothing left to do but say goodbye. She pulls her hood over her head and drifts away, but jumps against a wall when a familiar and uncovered face appears through a car window.

‘Miss Salcedo.’ Same eyes, still bloodshot.

‘S-sorry.’ She walks on.

‘It’s me, Miss. Callum Brown.’ He opens the car door. ‘Wait, please.’

Six Months Ago

Frances is wearing the witch’s costume she embellishes each October with whatever novelty has found its way into the shops. This year it’s a black cat that clamps to her shoulder like Long John Silver’s parrot. It’s corny and impractical, but it will give her an excuse to talk about Treasure Island. She fixes the cat in place and greets the children as they enter the classroom. The zombies, Harry Potters, Draco Malfoys, an Ozzy Osborne and a gang of witches and wizards scream when she operates the remote control in her pocket and the cat’s eyes light up as it issues a threatening hiss. The children love it, as does the teacher, so much so that she fails to spot that one of her little demons is missing. It isn’t until towards the end of the register that she realises William Parry is not in class. None of her motley crew will admit to having seen him, but she detects some sniggering when she turns to face the whiteboard. Has no one seen William, she tries again, but the zombies, Harry Potters, Malfoys, witches and wizards show her their most angelic faces and assure her that William has not been seen.

Now

She pushes back against the wall and looks towards the yard where Mary and Fr. Tom are deep in conversation. She could cry out, but she takes a deep breath and steps forward, thinking of what her dad would do in this situation.

‘Mr. Brown, we’re not supposed...I’m not supposed...’

‘Please call me Callum.’ He is out of the car now, closing the door.

‘I don’t think...’

‘I’ve been sitting here all week, too scared to come in...’

‘Why? You don’t need to be scared.’

‘...but I have to do something.’

‘What?’ She plunges her hand into her pocket and clutches her door key.

‘I can’t stay in the house all day.’

‘I understand.’ She releases her grip on the key and moves towards him.

‘It’s full of him. He’s everywhere.’

‘Oh.’

‘And Alice. She isn’t taking it well. I thought maybe if I gave her some space.’

‘Alice.’ Frances tries to move away, but he looks as though he might collapse.

‘I needed to see you. To explain.’

‘But we can’t meet.’

‘Sergeant Khan said things have been happening.’

Frances stiffens at the memory of scraping and scrubbing the carpet below the letterbox. She should be angry. She has a right not to feel scared. She has done nothing wrong; nothing deliberately wrong. But Callum is hunched as though his torso is too heavy for his legs.

‘I won’t take it any further. I have no intention. I wouldn’t blame you; I don’t blame you. But I want it to stop.’

‘It’s not us. That’s what I wanted to say. I don’t even know where you live. I mean, I could find out, but we haven’t been anywhere near.’

Six Months Ago

Alice Brown appears in the corridor outside the classroom. A zombie shouts ‘Miss! William’s mum is looking through the door.’ Frances instructs the class to read in silence and steps into the corridor. ‘I’ll be listening,’ she tells them. She closes the door and greets Alice and William, who is standing behind his mother in a long coat that Frances has not seen before. Beneath the coat she can see bare shins and blue gel shoes like the ones people wear to go in the sea. She smiles at William, but his eyes are fixed on the shoes.

‘I told him it was a bad idea.’ Alice tries to free her hand from her son’s grip.

‘Don’t you like your costume, William?’

‘He loves it, but he’s worried.’

‘What could William Parry be worried about? It doesn’t matter if it’s not the best.’

‘It is the best.’ William lifts his chin and gazes at Frances.

‘That’s better, and between you and me there are some not so good ones this year. But it’s the taking part that counts, William.’

‘You don’t understand, Miss Salcedo. It’s what he wanted. What the tears were all about. He’s the Little Mermaid.’

William releases his mother’s hand and turns his back. A foam fish tail nestles against his heels.

Now

Frances checks the front of the house and breathes a sigh of relief when she determines that the letterbox has not been tampered with. She enters via the side door and sits at her breakfast bar. Placing a pen and notepad on the counter, she scrolls through her phone until she reaches the contact details for her solicitor. She wriggles out of her coat while waiting for an answer. A recorded message informs her – why has she not been informed in person? – that Jane Thurman has been furloughed. A skeleton staff is available to deal with urgent inquiries. Is there any other kind? And besides, who would make a non-urgent inquiry at a time like this? She ends the call and dials the number she has written on the pad.

‘Baxter and Barton. Jim Long speaking.’

‘Hello. This is Frances Salcedo.’

‘How can I help you, Mrs, Miss..?’

‘Ms. I’m one of Jane Thurman’s...You’re looking after me...’

‘Ah. I’m afraid I’m not yet up to speed with all of Jane’s clients.’

‘My name doesn’t ring a bell?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Is there no way I can speak to Jane?’

‘It’s not permitted.’

Jim Long will not permit himself to offer advice until he is familiar with her case. He does not permit Frances to bring him up to speed, but promises to call her by the end of play on Monday. ‘Sit tight,’ he says, ‘if you have any doubts about what to do.’ So, some advice, Frances thinks, as she places her phone on top of the pad and her pen rolls onto the floor. She considers calling her mother, but opts for Mary. Mary, who is driving and has to be quick, tells her to come in on Monday as usual. ‘We need you,’ she shouts.

Six Months Ago

William shakes off his coat and hangs it on the last of a row of hooks which line the corridor outside the classroom. He reaches for Frances’s hand as she opens the door. He shuffles and stumbles behind her as the mermaid’s tail brushes the floor.

‘William’s Princess Ariel.’

‘He’s got a tail.’

‘Miss, William is wearing a dress.’

‘That’s for girls. William’s a girl.’

He looks back to the door, from where Alice is watching. ‘Be brave, William,’ she mouths,’ her palms pressed against the glass. He falls into his chair, moving his tail to one side and attempting an awkward perch. His classmates are laughing and pointing; some are singing; and others can do no more than stare. Frances claps her hands and calls for silence.

Now

On Monday morning Frances puts on her coat, takes it off, puts it back on and drops into her armchair. She checks her watch and wonders how many of the children have been able to study. What about those who share bedrooms and laptops or tablets with a house or flat full of siblings? There have been near misses at the hall when she has heard a familiar voice or recognised a parent and she has had to hurry into the office or toilet. Would anyone object to her presence? It’s best to stay out of sight.

When she arrives at the hall, Brian and Barry are standing to the side of the entrance used by the volunteers. One tuts and the other raises an eyebrow. She doesn’t know which is which, but the eyebrow, who she suspects is Barry, puts a hand on her elbow.

‘We have a new starter.’ He cocks his head to one side and furrows his brow.

‘New starter.’ The other twin nods.

‘Okay.’ She looks at the hand on her arm. His touch is so light she cannot feel it.

‘You know who,’ says maybe-Barry.

‘Mary asked us to look out for you. Says can you go and wait in the church.’

‘Isn’t it closed?’

‘Fr. Tom is waiting around the back.’

She chooses a bench in a side aisle, opposite a sandstone column that stretches to a vaulted ceiling where saints and angels look down from on high. Nearby, an ancient radiator refuses to give up its heat. The priest has a funeral to arrange, which she supposes might be true. She doesn’t need to cover her face, but she must avoid touching too many surfaces as everything has to be sanitised whenever it has been used. She leans against the bench, the wood as hard and unforgiving as ever, and looks at the door to the side of the bench in front: the confessional. This causes a fit of giggles that soon become sobs. She hears the creak of another door and counts the priest’s footsteps as he dashes up the aisle.

‘I need a moment, Father.’ She waves him away.

‘I’ve got these.’ He steps forward and proffers a box of Kleenex.

‘Don’t be nice to me,’ she says into a tissue.

‘What was that?’

‘I said please don’t be kind.’

‘It’s sort of my job.’ He places the box in front of Frances and retreats to the aisle. He leans against the column and clears his throat.

Six Months Ago

The children scramble for the door as a bell rings for playtime. Frances takes a cloth to the whiteboard, extinguishing a Halloween-inspired spelling test and an attempt to explain fractions with a pumpkin. Pizzas, she reflects, are better than pumpkins, although pumpkin is a great word for a test. She is pleased that some of the class were able to spell nocturnal and impressed that one could provide a definition.

‘I was right, Miss: to do with the night.’

‘Aren’t you going out to play, William?’ She turns to face the mermaid/boy/princess.

‘No one wants to play with me.’ He watches his finger draw shapes on the table.

‘That can’t be true.’

‘Tommy says I’m a girl and the girls say I’m strange.’

‘Why would you listen to Tommy?’

‘Everyone listens to Tommy.’

‘He’s just a big...’

‘Miss?’ William shuffles towards her.

‘Yes?’

‘I like being a princess.’

‘That’s great William, but don’t you think that princesses are better when they smile? Why don’t you go and get some fresh air? Mermaids should not be stuck inside.’

He lifts his face and tries a smile. He pushes out from his chair, but loses his balance and ends up on his back, his tail squirming like a fish out of water. She helps him up and points him towards the yard. Shuffling, hopping and jumping, he reaches the door and turns around.

‘I can do it, Miss.’

Now

Fr. Tom watches Frances walk across the yard towards the hall. She’s a lost soul, he muses, but is her soul lost?

Six Months Ago

William hops from group to group in the playground. Four zombies, arms stretched and legs straight, chase him from one corner to another until they lose interest. He stands behind a gang of witches, one of whom pokes him with a crooked wand until he moves on to a circle of boys. Frances puts a dull silver whistle to her lips as Tommy Jones points a stubby finger at the mermaid. William responds by turning his back and waggling his tail, but Tommy will not be denied. He stomps a heavy foot on the fin and William falls backwards into the circle. Frances opens the door and blows three short blasts on the whistle.

Now

Callum Brown, grey masked, wearing black jeans, white long-sleeved t-shirt and an orange beanie, works alongside Mary at the first trestle. Frances stands close to the crash mats, watching over the children. She holds a bottle of sanitiser in one hand and a roll of paper towels in the other. A little girl calls out ‘Miss?’ but she doesn’t recognise the curls and rosy cheeks. The girl needs help untangling her locks from a badminton racket, but Frances is not supposed to touch the children. She walks along the queue until she finds a thin, drawn man who is kneeling in front of a stroller trying to reason with a screaming toddler.

‘Yes. She’s mine. Can’t you help her? Can’t you see...’

‘We’re not supposed...not allowed to touch the children.’

‘She’s only a child.’

‘It’s the rules. Distancing.’

An orange beanie hat appears at Frances’s side.

‘Dan. It’s me, Callum. You go and sort Milly out. I’ll watch Arthur.’

‘Thank you,’ says Frances, as the harassed father trudges towards the crash mats.

‘No problem.’ Callum waves his hands at the toddler, rolling and twisting his fingers.

Six Months Ago

When what you have been waiting for – if that is appropriate phraseology – happens, Frances is thinking about Christmas. She is making plans for the hectic half-term that lies ahead after the week-long holiday. She loads two cardboard boxes into the boot of her car and slams the lid shut, closing her eyes as the sound bounces from the school car park into the yard. She has been clearing her classroom in readiness for new topics and books and the paintings and poems with which she will line the walls. One more round of Dickens and Dylan Thomas and perhaps something new next year. Getting into the car, she dismisses Hogwarts and Disney as too easy. She presses the starter button and reverses out of her space. She has plenty of room, being the last to leave with the exception of the caretaker, and this might be why she doesn’t feel the need to check her mirror after a quick glance. Perhaps she’ll spend Christmas seeking out stories from other parts of the world.

William has been watching Miss Salcedo – he tries her name out for size, repeating each syllable with relish – pack up the classroom. For the first time since he arrived at school this morning he is not the centre of attention. He isn’t sure if it is his mum or Callum who is late, but he is waiting, again. The fin of the mermaid’s tail dangles from his right hand, flapping in the breeze. Why did Tommy have to stamp so hard and break it off? Why won’t he make friends? He grips the fin as a gust tries to snatch it from his hand, but he can’t keep hold of it in the face of a second, stronger blast of cold air. The fin rises above him and flies towards Miss Salcedo’s car as she rolls along the drive.

Her thoughts have switched from Christmas to the weekend. Frances has been invited to a party with friends from college, but she’s tired and would rather stay at home tomorrow night. Besides, her hair is in a shocking state and needs more colour. She lowers the visor in front of her and swipes the flap to one side to look in the mirror which has been put there for no other reason. For a second – no more, she will later contend – she checks the mirror and lifts a hand to her roots. It must be the hand which blocks her peripheral vision; she spots the strange object blowing in front of the car, but she doesn’t notice the little boy waddling towards it. She will be sure, when questioned, that she is not driving fast, but she does not remember her speed. She will remember the moment she realises that what she sees is the fin snapped off William’s costume by the bully she sent home early. She will never forget the sound of William’s scream as he hits the car, but the noise that will haunt her most is the thud of his head hitting the kerb at an improbable, but fatal angle.

Now

Fr. Tom calls Callum to the table where he is seated with Frances. She has agreed to Callum’s request to talk about William’s last moments. She can tell him that she held his hand; she wants to tell him that William’s eyes were open and the playful glint was still there until it wasn’t; that he had some last words for his mother or stepfather; and that he didn’t suffer long. She wants to – and does – tell him how sorry she is; to explain that she was exhausted after another long and trying day and that is why she hadn’t noticed William waiting in the yard. She could blame the costume, the wind, the little boy who had broken the fin, or William’s determination to save the detached piece of his costume. She could cite the perversion of chance and the arbitrary cruelty of human life. Or she could plead guilty and beg forgiveness.