Chapter 21
Compton Wells School
Bristol
October 14th
8.06 a.m.
Howie had come into work early. He’d had trouble sleeping, and was up an hour before his alarm was set. Nervous energy consumed him as if something important was going to happen. He had come up with an idea, a simple plan of how to get Markland to help him find out what was happening with James Trafford.
He’d left the house at just after seven, and brought with him the plastic bag of soil he’d scooped from the burial mound. He’d placed the bag on the front passenger seat whilst he drove in. Having part of the burial mound next to him made him nervy. Although it was only a few measures of earth which came from the hill, he was on edge. It seemed wrong to take it from the woods, almost as if he was robbing someone’s grave. He couldn’t take his eye of the bag, as if something was going to happen to it. He didn’t notice when a set of red traffic lights had turned green. He’d been too busy eyeing the bag, and was brought out of his stupor by the angry honking from the driver behind.
He sat in the small caretakers’ office, which was tucked away behind the Avon Building. Between eight and eight thirty he had a bit of time to himself before he opened the school gates. Although, this was not strictly true, as there were lots of things he should be getting on with, but Howie always considered this quiet time of the morning his own.
He’d placed the bag in a drawer in his wooden desk, on which was a stained mug of warm sugary tea. He leaned back in his chair, cleaned his nails with the blade of his pen knife, and thought about his plan. He kicked back in the chair a little further, and rested his foot on the table next to the tea. He continued to pick dirt from beneath his nails when he noticed a faint vibration coming from the top of the table. Howie put his foot back on the floor, cocked his head to one side and listened. He placed his hand next to his tea and felt a very slight tremor, almost like a low level electric current was passing through the table. What was left of the tea in his mug was juddering and a concentric pattern of circles formed in the dregs. He moved his hands around the table and found the vibration to be coming from its centre. He looked beneath, but saw nothing to cause the table to vibrate in such a way. He got to his knees, and crawled under expecting to feel the tremor in the floor, but there was nothing. A faint hum was coming from above his head. He reached up under the table and touched the underside of the drawer.
“Shit, it’s coming from the drawer.”
He stood up quickly, narrowly missing his head on the underside of the table, and pulled open the drawer. The instant it opened the vibration stopped. He grabbed the bag of soil and found that it was warm to the touch.
What the hell is this stuff?
He glanced at his watch. It was time to open the school gates.
At ten thirty, Howie stood at the end of the corridor leading to the staff room and watched the tired and thirsty teachers trudge their way there. He busied himself with a screwdriver, pretending to tighten the fixings holding the staff notice board to the wall.
“Where is he?” muttered Howie beneath his breath.
Eventually, Markland entered the corridor accompanied by Anton Bueller. The two of them took a few minutes to quietly discuss something, before entering the staff room.
Go on, get in there thought Howie, mentally urging Markland into the staff room. Eventually, the two men nodded to each other, as if to signify that they both agreed on whatever it was they were talking about. Anton opened the door and gestured to Markland to go ahead of him into the staff room.
The instant the door shut, Howie scurried along the corridor, and headed to his office behind the Avon Building, grabbed the bag of soil and made his way to Markland’s office. The door was ajar, and Howie nudged it open and looked around the room. Markland shared his office with Dudley Thomas and Sue Blackwell. Howie was relieved when he saw that the room was empty. He stepped in and considered what to do next. He hadn’t given much thought as to how to execute his plan of action.
He noticed a small Yucca plant which was close to Markland’s desk.
Perfect, he thought, brushing past the back of Markland’s chair and making his way to the plant in the corner. He caught the sleeve of Markland’s jacket, which hung from the back of the chair. The jacket fell to the ground in a heap.
“Shit,” cursed Howie. He picked up the jacket and placed it back on the chair. He checked his watch. Time wasn’t doing him any favours. It was ten forty, and the staff coffee break would be over in five minutes. He knelt down by the plant, and was about to empty the soil into the pot when he was struck with a better idea. He rummaged through the pockets of Markland’s jacket. In the two outside pockets where various things including Markland’s wallet, mobile and keys. He slipped his hand into the inside pocket and found three pens. He checked the outside breast pocket and found it to be empty.
“Yes,” he whispered. He darted to the door, looked up and down the corridor and saw that the coast was clear.
He grabbed the bag of soil, and noticed how warm and damp it was. It even smelt damp. He grabbed a handful of soil, and carefully sprinkled it in the breast pocket of Markland’s suit jacket. He checked his watch, and then put another two handfuls of soil into the pocket. He wiped away loose earth on the outside of the jacket, and with his foot he scuffed a few grains of soil which had fallen to the floor, and spread them away from Markland’s chair. He held his breath and stood still, as voices echoed along the corridor.
“Shit,” said Howie, and wondered what to do. He didn’t want to be seen in Markland’s office as he had no excuse for being there. The Scottish voice became louder as Markland approached his office.
Markland entered his office followed by Sue Blackwell to find Howie balanced on the window ledge, whilst fiddling with the top hinge.
“Hello Mr Doyle, I don’t think health and safety would be happy with your maintenance techniques,” said Markland, in a semi-patronising tone.
“Oh, hello Mr Garraway. You’re probably right,” replied Howie, with a nervous laugh.
He climbed down from the window ledge, and wiped his hand in a rag he’d pulled from his trouser pocket.
“I’d had ticket to check out a sticky window in room 1.21b,” added Howie.
“The window’s fine,” replied Sue Blackwell, in an abrupt tone.
Markland strolled out of the room, and looked at the plastic plaque above the door.
“You’ve got the wrong room, this is room 1.15,” said Markland, leaning back and reading the number above the top of the office door.
“Well that would explain why I can’t find anything wrong with the window I guess,” replied Howie, putting the rag back into his pocket.
He brushed past Sue as he went to leave the room.
“Is that yours?” said Sue, pointing to the plastic carrier bag on the table.
“No, it’s not mine,” stuttered Howie.
Markland noticed droplets of perspiration on his forehead.
Sue picked up the bag, looked inside, frowned and then threw it in the waist bin.
“Looks like it must have had a pot plant in it,” said Sue, without giving it another thought. “Perhaps it was Dudley’s. He loves a bit of gardening,” she added.
Howie nodded and left the room. Markland watched him as he disappeared from view.
“Sue, what do you make of Mr Doyle?”
“He’s okay. I mean he’s fine at his job, but he’s not the cleverest of men. The kids love him, they think he’s great.”
Markland nodded thoughtfully and glanced at this watch.
“You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve a meeting at eleven. It’s my first one with parents of an absentee student.”
“Oh, good luck. Who’s the pupil?”
“Victoria Kilby.”
“She’s quite a handful, that girl.”
“So I understand. I’ve been
reading up on her. A repeat offender,” said Markland, whilst thumbing through a wallet of notes.
“I don’t think her parents have a clue about her,” added Sue.
“Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on them.”
He put on his jacket, straightened his tie and left the office shutting the door behind him. He made his way to reception, and was almost knocked sideways by two eleven year olds who were late for class.
“Slow down lads, you’ll cause an accident.” Markland’s words fell upon deaf ears.
He approached the school reception desk which this week was manned by year eight student Bunty Matthews. Markland was making an effort to remember as many pupils’ names as possible, even though it was only his second day at the school.
“Good morning Bunty. I’m expecting two visitors. Mr and Mrs Kilby.”
“They’re outside the main entrance sir, I think they’ve gone out for a smoke.”
Markland rolled his eyes. He abhorred smoking, and hated when it happened around children.
“They looked a bit nervous sir,” added Bunty.
Markland nodded and made his way to the entrance. He saw Victoria Kilby’s parents next to the bicycle parking rack, and both were drawing on a cigarette. He lifted his hand to push the door open, but stopped in his tracks. He felt a twitching in the left hand side of his chest. It was like a trapped nerve. The twitching became more intense and turned into a dull throb. Beads of perspiration formed on his brow. He was overcome by nausea, and had to support himself against the door frame. Within a matter of seconds, the feeling had passed, but left him lightheaded. He ambled back to the reception desk.
“Are you okay Mr Garraway? You look pale.”
“I think so, but would you mind fetching me a glass of water please?”
Bunty jumped out of her seat, hurried to the water fountain, filled a plastic cup and rushed back whilst trying not to spill water. He thanked her and took a few sips. The nausea and light headedness left him and he felt better. He looked up to see Victoria’s parents standing behind him in reception.
“Hello, you must be Mr and Mrs Kilby,” said Markland, with an outstretched hand. Mr Kilby smiled and took his hand.
“If you would like to follow me,” said Markland, making his way to the breakout room which was next door to the headmaster’s office. Markland put a ‘meeting in progress’ sign on the door and let the parents in. Markland decided not to sit behind the desk. Instead, he pulled three chairs together in a huddle.
After exchanging a few pleasantries, and the offer of refreshments, Markland began with a serious tone.
“I’ve called you in today to discuss your daughter’s unauthorised absences,” said Markland, whilst leaning forward with Victoria Kilby’s file in his hand.
“We really had no idea this was happening,” said her mother, in a defensive tone of voice. She sat to Markland’s right and her husband was to his left.
“It’s come as a bit of a shock to us,” added her father.
“I understand my predecessor, Mr Lawford, wrote to you about Victoria’s attendance last term, and according to his notes he didn’t receive any correspondence from you in return.”
“We didn’t receive a letter from anyone. We didn’t know anything about Vicky bunking off until you emailed yesterday,” said Mr Kilby, in a less than convincing voice.
“Okay, well you are here with me now and that’s the main thing.”
Markland opened the file, and as he did he became overwhelmed by another wave of nausea, which was worse than the one he’d experienced earlier.
“Would either of you mind if I opened a window,” said Markland, mopping his brow with a tissue.
He swung it open, letting the nip of the October morning cool his face. With one hand resting on the window ledge, he placed his other over his mouth to fight the urge to be sick. He was relieved when it quickly passed. The throbbing in the left side of his chest returned, and this time it was like a low electrical charge. It wasn’t awful, but it was unsettling. He took a few seconds to compose himself then sat down and thumbed through the file searching for his predecessor’s notes. He was about to speak to Mrs Kilby. Markland gasped and dropped the file to his lap when he saw she was no longer there. In her place was a man in his late twenties. Markland opened his mouth to speak when he noticed that Mr Kilby was also no longer there. In his place was someone who appeared to be a twin of the man sat where Mrs Kilby had been sitting. It took a couple of seconds for Markland to work out who both men were. They were both the person Howie the caretaker had told him about yesterday. He recognised them from the pictures Howie had shown him on his smartphone. Markland was speechless. He tried to stammer a few words, but was unable to spit anything out. He tried to recall the name of the man Howie had told him about. The man who’d gone missing and had reappeared under the strangest of circumstances.
James Trafford, thought Markland, as the name Howie had told him sprung to mind.
The man sitting where Mrs Kilby had been, raised his finger, placed it over his mouth and gestured Markland not to speak.
“Don’t waste your time searching for me. I’m somewhere neither you, nor Howie will find me,” said the man on Markland’s left, who had a contented smile upon his face.
“Don’t listen to him. He’s stolen my life, and my identity. You and Howie need to get me back to where I belong,” said the man sitting to Markland’s left.
The two identical men embarked upon an argument. Their voices faded and everything around Markland became fuzzy. The throbbing in his chest intensified, nausea returned and then everything went black.
The next thing of which Markland was aware was Jodie Standwick, the science teacher, hovering over him. Jodie, was also one of the school’s trained first aid staff.
“He’s coming round, he’s waking up,” she said, in her quiet Bristolian accented voice.
Markland lay on his back, with an upturned chair next to him and Victoria Kilby’s files scattered alongside him. Both Victoria’s parents watched Jodie fuss over him, and adjust a pillow behind his head.
“How are you?” asked Jodie.
Markland groaned, rubbed his forehead and didn’t answer.
He looked up at the parents and tried to recall what had happened.
“You fainted,” said Mrs Kilby.
“I don’t think Mr Garraway is well enough to meet with you today, he’ll have to arrange another appointment,” said Jodie.
Both parents looked relieved. Jodie stood up and opened the door for them. After they’d gone, she knelt alongside Markland.
“A paramedic has been called and is on the way.”
“No, no I don’t need an ambulance, I was just a little off colour, that’s all. I’ll be fine.”
Jodie shook her head, “It’s better to be safe.”
Ten minutes later a paramedic was checking him over. Markland looked pale and confused. He recalled what had happened before he’d passed out.
The paramedic put away the tools of his trade, and clicked shut his case.
“Your blood pressure was a little low, but it’s okay now,” said the paramedic.
“I’m feeling a lot better thank you.”
The paramedic helped him to his feet. He noticed soil had come from the breast pocket of Markland’s jacket and brushed it away with his hand.
Markland looked down at his pocket, pulled it open, squinted his eyes and peered inside.
“How did that get there?”
He took off his jacket, turned it upside down and shook it. Enough soil to fill an egg cup fell from the pocket. He recalled the strange throbbing in the left side of his chest.
“Do you think you should go home?” asked Jodie.
“No thank you, I think I’ll be fine. I’ll take things steady for the rest of the day, but I’m sure I’m okay to be here.”
“I disagree,” said the paramedic. “I think you should go home and rest.”
> Markland raised his hand in the air, and gestured to the paramedic that he was staying at the school.
“Like I said, I’m fine and I’ll take things easy, but if I continue to have any moments of light headedness, I’ll be sure to go home.”
The paramedic shook his head, picked up his medical case and bid Markland and Jodie farewell.
“Miss Standwick, would you happen to know where the caretakers’ office is?”
“It’s behind the Avon Building. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing important. I thought I’d pay Mr Doyle a visit.”
“Why, do you know each other?”
“You could say that,” replied Markland, as he made his way to Doyle’s office.