Don’t Tell Teacher: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist, from the #1 bestselling author
looks behind her. ‘I mean, the house is a mess.’
‘It looks okay. Are the sofas new?’
‘Leather is … easier to clean. But give it a few weeks and Lloyd … he’ll wreck them.’ More rapid nose scratching.
‘Can I come in?’
‘When is Kirsty back?’
‘She probably won’t be coming back.’
‘Another one gone then.’ Leanne walks back into the lounge, her hand going to the sofa arm for support.
I close the front door.
‘Where’s baby Alice?’ I ask.
‘I told you. Sleeping.’
‘Can I see?’
‘This is like a … roundabout,’ says Leanne. ‘“Can I see the bedrooms? How are things with your partner? How are you coping?” I never see the same person twice. No one ever gives me any help.’
‘We don’t like changing staff either, Leanne,’ I say, following her up the pink-carpeted staircase. ‘It’s bad for everyone when people leave. But it’s just the way things are at the moment.’
‘Alice is here,’ says Leanne, lowering her slow voice to a whisper, and showing me a clean, relatively tidy baby room with five large boxes of Pampers stacked in the corner.
Baby Alice is asleep in a white-wood cot with a mobile hanging overhead. The room smells fine – unlike the landing, which has a faint odour of urine.
‘I know it smells,’ says Leanne, as if reading my mind. ‘Joey’s still wetting the bed. The doctor says he’ll grow out of it.’
‘How did this happen?’ I ask, pointing to a hole in a chipboard bedroom door.
Leanne blinks a few times, then responds: ‘Lloyd did that. I’ve told the housing people. They still haven’t been round to repair it.’ She adds, ‘It wasn’t my partner, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Has Lloyd started counselling yet?’ I ask. ‘He should be nearing the top of the waiting list by now.’
‘No.’ Leanne’s face crumples. She looks at me then, brown eyes filled with pain.
I know what she’s saying. I can’t cope. And suddenly I want to hug her.
But we’re not allowed to do that with adults.
‘Lloyd talked with the last social worker about coping strategies,’ I say, following the official line. ‘Boxing at his cousin’s gym? Has he been doing that?’
‘I’m his punch bag,’ Leanne says. ‘He’s getting so big now, I can’t stop him. I’ve asked them to take him into care. No one listens. He’s going to kill me one of these days.’
‘Let’s talk about how you can set boundaries. Look into some parenting classes—’
‘I’ve been to them.’
‘No. They were organised for you, but you didn’t attend.’
‘I couldn’t get there. I don’t have a car.’
‘I’ll set up some more classes for you. Maybe I can look into having someone drive you there. What about your medication? Are you taking it regularly?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m taking it.’ Leanne’s eyes dart to the floor. ‘But I lost some. Can you tell the doctor to give me more?’
‘You’d have to ask him yourself. Let’s talk about your partner. Are you still with him?’
‘Why do people always ask about him? What has he got to do with anything? I’m allowed to have a boyfriend. I’m a grown woman.’
‘He’s living here, isn’t he?’
Leanne thinks for a moment, eyes rolling around. ‘It’s my house,’ she says. ‘Why is it anyone else’s business who lives here? Look, can’t you take Lloyd into care, just for a bit?’
‘I can’t pick up a child and place them in care just like that.’
‘Why not?’
Because they have to be deemed at risk of immediate harm. And Lloyd is more of a risk to others than in danger himself.
‘So how was school?’
Tom is quiet, head down, kicking stones. I squeeze his hand in mine.
We’re walking home along the country path, me shielding my eyes against the low sun.
My little boy seems so small beside me today. It’s funny – when he started school in London, he grew up overnight. But now he seems young again. Vulnerable.
He hasn’t grown much this year, even though he’s nearly nine.
‘It was all right,’ says Tom. His school jumper is inside out, so he must have had sports today. He never has quite got the hang of dressing himself. ‘Were you okay at home?’
I laugh. ‘I was fine, Tom. You’re such a lovely boy for caring. High five?’
Tom slaps my fingers, but doesn’t smile.
‘Do you need me to carry your bag?’ I ask. ‘You look tired.’
He doesn’t reply.
‘Tommo?’
‘What?’ Tom turns to me, eyes dull. He looks … disorientated.
‘Are you okay?’
He nods.
‘You don’t look okay. What’s up, Tommo?’
‘Just tired.’
‘How was school?’
‘I don’t remember.’ Tom’s words are soft now – almost slurred.
My heart races, but I keep my questions calm. ‘Nothing? Not even what you had for lunch? Tom … you don’t look too well. Maybe you should have a lie-down on the sofa when we get home.’
‘Yeah.’ His feet trudge over stones.
I remember chatting with another mum in London once.
Usually, I kept my head down at the school gates, the quiet, downtrodden wife. But this mum sought me out. Forced me into a conversation.
She told me her son, Ewan, never remembered what happened at school. She said it was common.
I’d nodded, feigning agreement. But actually, Tom always remembered his school day. Our walk home was filled with chatter about reading books, school dinners and gold stars.
‘Okay, champ.’ I ruffle Tom’s hair, the words catching. ‘A little rest. And then I think a trip to the doctor’s would be a good idea.’
‘Yeah.’ Tom stumbles a little, his black school shoe turning under itself.
‘Tom?’ I take his arm.
He gives a languid blink. ‘Maybe … maybe I’m getting a cold. Everything looks blue today.’
I stiffen.
When things were especially bad between Olly and me, Tom became fixated on colours. How grass wasn’t really green, but green, yellow and brown. And the teacher’s skirt was ‘turquoise like Daddy’s sweatshirt’.
A sign of stress, the doctor said.
We approach our sleeping house, the curtains drawn. They’re made from thick, heavy velvet, and I hung them the very first day we moved.
Heavy curtains are a necessity