Don’t Tell Teacher: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist, from the #1 bestselling author
over tarmac.
On my way home, I see a dead bird. There’s a lot of blood. I suppose a fox must have got it.
It’s right by the hole in the school fence – the one I saw before, repaired with a bike chain. The hole is very small. Not big enough for an adult to climb through.
There’s probably some logical explanation.
Given my past, it would be strange if I didn’t get twitchy about odd things. But there’s no need to be paranoid.
‘Look, keep still. It’s broken.’
I put my hand on Olly’s knee, which bulges at an eye-watering angle under his padded O’Neill trousers.
He’s lying on thick snow, one ski boot bent back under his snowboard, the other boot snapped open, his socked foot falling out.
Under the bright morning sunshine, Olly’s blue eyes water, tanned skin squeezing and contorting. He has English colouring – sandy hair dusting his ski goggles and an unnatural orange hue to his suntan.
‘I’m pretty lucky to have a nurse here,’ says Olly, after another wince of pain. ‘Have I told you I love you yet today? I do. I love you, Lizzie Nightingale. Remember that, if I die out here on this slope.’
He doesn’t realise how serious this is.
‘I’m not a nurse yet. Don’t try to move.’
Olly, of course, makes a stupid attempt to get up, pushing strong, gloved hands onto the snow. But then his eyes widen, his skin pales and he falls back down. This is just like him. Give him a boundary and his first impulse is to overcome it.
‘Please don’t move,’ I beg. ‘God – this is awful. I can’t bear seeing you hurt.’
Olly reaches up to trail fingers down my cheek. ‘Is it bad that even in all this pain, I still want to do things to you?’
‘You know, there are times for jokes. And this isn’t one of them.’
‘I’m not joking.’ He gives me the soft, blue eyes that make my stomach turn over. ‘We could have sex right here on the snow. The ambulance will take ages.’
‘Olly. You’ve just broken your leg.’
‘I get it. You can’t have sex in public until we’re married.’ He heaves himself onto his elbows and grasps my fingers. ‘So marry me, Lizzie.’
‘I just said this is no time for jokes.’
‘I’m not joking. You’re the one for me, Lizzie Nightingale. I knew it from the moment I saw you stumbling along that icy path in your big purple coat, looking like a little elfin angel thing. I promise I will take care of you for the rest of my life.’ He gives another wince of pain. ‘Even if I never walk again.’
Olly is so impulsive. A risk-taker. I suppose that goes hand in hand with snowboarding. He goes full-pelt into everything. Including love.
In a few short weeks, he’s made me feel so special and adored. Lying in Olly’s chalet bed, wrapped up in his arms, watching snow fall outside, I have never known love like this – utterly consuming, can’t-be-apart love.
He makes me breakfast every morning, constantly tells me how beautiful I am and texts me all day long.
I’m waiting for him to work out who I really am. Just a nobody. And then this holiday romance will come crashing down.
‘Just lie down and rest,’ I say, stroking his forehead. ‘They’ll take you to hospital. I’ll bring you chocolate Pop Tarts.’
Olly loves sugar. He’s a big kid, really. So enthusiastic. And when we’re in bed he’s like that too – just ‘wow!’ at everything. ‘Wow, you look incredible, wow your body is amazing.’
He makes me feel so alive. So adored. So noticed. The exact opposite of how my mother makes me feel.
How did this happen so quickly?
I’m so in love with him.
Olly lies back on the snow, staring up at the sky. ‘I’ll heal. Won’t I? I’ll be able to compete?’
He looks right at me then, blue eyes crystal clear.
‘I don’t know, Olly. Just try to rest. The paramedics will be here soon.’
Olly reaches out a snowy, gloved hand and takes my mitten. ‘You’re an angel, Lizzie Nightingale. You have fabulous dimples, by the way.’
I smile then, without meaning to.
‘You will stay with me, won’t you?’ Olly asks, suddenly serious. ‘Until the stretcher comes?’
‘Of course I will. You fall, I fall. Remember? We’re in this together.’
I sit on the cold snow, my mitten clasped in his glove.
1.45 p.m.
I take deep breaths, lifting knuckles to the door. The red-brick house is identical to its neighbours – except for the large crack in the front door.
Knock, knock.
No answer.
Tessa’s words ring in my ears: Get on to that Tom Kinnock case as soon as possible. He should never have been passed over to us. Get it shut down and off your desk.
I would peer in the window, but the curtains are closed, even though it’s gone lunchtime.
Knock, knock.
I put an ear to the door and hear voices. Someone is home.
Knock, knock, knock.
‘Hello?’ I call. ‘It’s Kate Noble from Children’s Services.’
I knock again, this time with a closed fist.
There are hurried footsteps and a woman opens the door, blonde hair scraped back in a hairband.
‘Keep it down.’ The woman’s eyes swim in their sockets. ‘Alice is sleeping.’
So this is Leanne Neilson. Mother to the infamous Neilson boys.
She wears Beauty and the Beast pyjamas with furry slippers and looks exhausted, huge bags under her eyes. Her grey pallor is a drug-abuse red flag. Unsurprisingly, the files note that Leanne has a problem with prescription medicine.
Behind Leanne is a tidy-ish living room with red leather sofas and a shiny flat-screen over a chrome fireplace. The voices, I realise, were coming from the television.
‘You must be Miss Neilson,’ I say, reaching out my hand. ‘Lloyd, Joey and Pauly’s mum. Can I call you Leanne?’
Leanne Neilson isn’t the person I wanted to see today. I should be at Tom Kinnock’s house, getting his file shut down and letting his mother get on with her new life.
But social services is all about prioritising highest need.
‘All right,’ says Leanne, tilting her head, eyes still rolling around, not taking my hand.
‘So my name is Kate. I’m your new social worker.’
Leanne blinks languidly, grey cheeks slackening. ‘What happened to