The Adulterer's Daughter: A Novel Read online

  Bullying: The school nurse has been overwhelmed this week with pupils faking illness to get out of lessons. Suspiciously, many of these children should have been in the same class as Jemima. Worryingly, many of these children are suffering from stress, insomnia and have begun to self-harm. We’re also seeing unprecedented numbers of pupils with anorexia of one form or another.

  Violence: Jemima has been the instigator of three fights during the last fortnight, involving younger pupils. I also suspect her participation in a couple of very nasty assaults carried out by a group – or should I say gang – of older girls.

  Extortion: At least a dozen parents have been in touch with the school to report that their children are coming home starving hungry, having somehow misplaced their dinner money. It’s my belief that your daughter is the ringleader of some sort of protection racket. Kids are handing over cash to avoid being beaten up.

  Drugs: After school last Wednesday, Mr Hilton, acting on an anonymous tip-off, discovered a plastic bag in the cistern of one of the girls’ toilets. The police have informed us today that the bag contained, amongst other things, cannabis, ketamine, MDMA, amphetamines, anabolic steroids, magic mushrooms, LSD and cocaine. Fucking cocaine, Mia! Right here in our school. Initially, I suspected Wayne Smith or one of his many cousins. That was until a girl turned up at my office with blood streaming down her face as a consequence of someone carving the word SNITCH into her forehead with a penknife. In the heat of the moment, I heard her say, ‘I’m going to kill that psycho slag, Jemima.’ Before I had a chance to question the girl, an ambulance arrived, and she was taken to hospital to have her face stitched up. Unfortunately, she hasn’t been back to school yet due to the two smashed kneecaps she subsequently sustained falling down the stairs of her bungalow. Yes, I know bungalows don’t have stairs.

  And, finally, sex: It seems we now have a school pimp. Someone – and I’m ninety-nine percent certain it’s your daughter – has been prostituting some of our more vulnerable pupils for cold hard cash. Sixth Form boys have been buying sex via an intermediary. Look at this. It’s a price list I found on a photocopier in B block.

  Blowjob from Y7 girl (won’t swallow): £5

  Blowjob from Y8 girl (will swallow): £6

  Sex with Y9 girl (minger): £8

  Sex with Y9 girl (not a minger): £10

  Sex with Y10 girl (hot!): £20

  Anal with Y8 boy: £7

  Handjob from Mrs McMahon: 20p (JK!)

  And it goes on like that. It’s disgusting. These kids – the poor victims – are going to be screwed up for life.

  I’m at my wit’s end. I know that Jemima is behind most, if not all, of these horrific incidents. But my problem is, I can’t prove any of it. Eyewitnesses refuse to comment. Victims are too terrified to identify their abuser. Even some teachers are afraid to point the finger in case Jemima decides to get revenge, like she has with poor Maggie Foster. You know as well as anyone, Mia, what a vulnerable position we teachers are all in: open to false, malicious accusations at any time.

  ◆◆◆

  “Well, why didn’t anyone tell me?” said Mia.

  “I think we were all hoping it was a phase that Jemima was going to grow out of, but it’s just getting worse and worse.”

  “If she’s really behind all these awful incidents, I don’t understand why she hasn’t received more punishments. She hardly ever gets detentions.”

  “You know what she’s like, Mia. She smiles that beautiful smile, flutters those beautiful eyelashes, and sticks out that beautiful … sticks out her chest, and all is forgiven. Your daughter is intimidating. Young male staff are flattered when she flirts with them. Old male staff are terrified she’ll accuse them of inappropriate behaviour. All the female staff fear getting on her bad side. This has to end before it becomes a police matter.”

  “I’m so sorry, Joan. We didn’t know about any of this, did we, Ollie? You leave it with us. We’ll sort it all out.”

  Chapter 60

  Thursday 27 November, 2003

  Fairfax living room, 8:59 p.m.

  “Jemima, can you come down here,” Mia shouted up the stairs.

  “I’m busy.”

  “Now!”

  “Jesus! Give me two minutes.”

  Mia walked into the living room. “Let’s sit at the table. Us on one side, her on the other.”

  “Like a police interrogation? Can I be good-cop?”

  “This is serious, Ollie. If just half of those accusations are true, our daughter is in deep shit.”

  “I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding. We’ll get it sorted.”

  “God, I hope so. Where do we even start?”

  “Let’s go through it like Joan did. Begin with the minor issues, like not making enough effort in lessons, and work our way up to the more serious stuff.”

  “Like drug dealing, blackmail, extortion and procuring a minor for prostitution.” Mia put her head in her hands.

  “You’re describing The Sopranos, love. Jemima is not a mobster. She’s just a sweet girl who’s going through a rebellious phase. We shouldn’t rush to judgement before we’ve heard her side of the story.”

  At that point, the door swung open to reveal Jemima – smiling innocently, demurely attired – looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Maybe she had been listening at the door, maybe she hadn’t.

  “Hi, parents. What can I do for you? Ooh, I love that scarf, Mum. Is it new?”

  Beneath the table, Mia dug her fingernails into Ollie’s thigh to prevent him from speaking. It worked.

  “Sit down, Jemima.”

  She sat. “How did you get on at school? Did my teachers say I’m going to get top grades in every subject?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “Several of your teachers expressed their concerns that you are underperforming.”

  Jemima visibly relaxed. She unclenched her fists, and her knee stopped jiggling up and down. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I know what I’m doing. My revision is all planned out for the next few weeks. I don’t want to peak too soon, do I?”

  “Mr Whitworth said you haven’t been doing your homework,” Mia said and prodded Ollie beneath the table.

  “And Mr Hunter said you haven’t read any of the set texts,” Ollie chipped in.

  “I’m telling you, I’ve got it all in hand. Did Mrs Coulson tell you about my Geography coursework? I got forty out of forty.”

  Mia sighed. “Mrs Coulson implied you may have cheated somehow.”

  Jemima snapped. “I don’t know why you’re making such a big fuss about my schoolwork when I’ve just been slapped by a fucking teacher.”

  “But you haven’t, have you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You made it up.”

  “What!”

  “Mrs Foster gave you a detention – which sounds as if it was thoroughly deserved – and you retaliated by accusing her of slapping you.”

  “Oh my God! You don’t believe me. What kind of parents don’t believe their own daughter when she’s been assaulted? This is just typical. It wouldn’t surprise me if my teachers have come up with all sorts of lies to get back at me for snitching on Fatty Foster.”

  “It’s not just your schoolwork. Mrs Rawlings made some very serious …”

  “I don’t give a shit what any of them said about me because none of it is true.”

  “But Mrs Rawlings …”

  Jemima burst into tears. “GCSEs are hard, you know,” she sobbed. “I’m really stressed at the moment.” She sniffed. “And now you two start having a go at me,” she wailed. “God, I hate my life. What did I ever do to make you despise me like this? I bet you’d be happier if I just killed myself.” She threw herself dramatically onto the carpet and bawled like a baby.

  Ollie raised his eyebrows and gave Mia a look which said, ‘Here we go again. Our poor little princess is diverting our attention away from her poor behaviour
by threatening suicide. She’s been doing this for years. Why don’t we call her bluff this time and see what happens? Or would that be bad parenting?’

  Mia responded with a look of her own which said, ‘Damn, your eyebrows are expressive. And yes, it would be bad parenting.’

  Mia got down on her hands and knees, and put her arm around Jemima. “Of course we don’t hate you, darling. We love you to bits. Unconditionally. We’re just worried about you, that’s all.”

  Ollie joined them on the floor and stroked his daughter’s long red hair the way she had liked when she was a little girl.

  Once the sobbing had subsided somewhat, Mia said, “Can you please answer a few questions to put our minds at rest?”

  Jemima made an ambiguous grunt which Mia took for assent.

  “Do you smoke?”

  “Mumble, mumble.”

  “I can’t make out what you’re saying, love. Can you sit up?”

  She sat up. “No, it’s a disgusting habit.”

  “Do you drink?”

  “Only when Dad lets me.”

  “Do you take drugs?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What!”

  “If I have a headache, I might take a couple of painkillers.”

  “No, I meant illegal drugs.”

  “Me? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Have you had sex?”

  “Mum! How could you ask me that? I’m only fifteen and I haven’t even got a steady boyfriend.”

  “Sorry. I had to ask.”

  “No you didn’t. You could have decided to mind your own business instead. I’m sick of you spying on me all the time. Why can’t you respect my privacy?”

  And, with that, Jemima jumped to her feet and fled out of the room and up the stairs.

  “You see,” said Ollie. “I told you this was all just a big misunderstanding.”

  “Is that really your takeaway from our little chat?”

  “Don’t you think it’s possible that some of Jemima’s teachers might have exaggerated her misbehaviour out of spite?”

  “Why would they be spiteful?”

  “Because she accused one of their colleagues of assault. Don’t all you teachers stick together?”

  “No. We behave like professionals. I suspect that many of the allegations we heard this evening are true.”

  Ollie shook his head. “She’s clearly being lazy at the moment. Maybe a bit naughty. But there’s no proof she’s involved in any of the more serious allegations.”

  “Just because there’s no proof, doesn’t mean she’s not involved.”

  “This isn’t like you,” said Ollie. “You normally defend Jemima to the hilt. What’s changed?”

  “Remember that girl I told you about who claimed she was being bullied at school?”

  “No, but carry on.”

  “She finally gave me a name last week, but I didn’t believe it at the time.”

  “Why not?”

  “She said it was Jemima.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “She was adamant that Jemima and her friends have been threatening her, beating her, and stealing her money. Someone’s even been putting dead animals in her locker.”

  “That can’t be true. This girl must be delusional.”

  “Well, she came across as believable. She was shaking like a leaf, and I could see clear evidence she’d been self-harming. She had cuts all over her wrists, poor kid.”

  Ollie put his arms around Mia and held her close to him. “What are we going to do?”

  “Hopefully, now this is all out in the open, Jemima will turn over a new leaf and go back to being the sweet girl she always used to be.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Chapter 61

  Monday 1 December, 2003

  Molly Shultz’s house, 10:45 a.m.

  “Here, Grandma?”

  “Wherever you like, Amber.”

  The little girl reached up as high as she could and hung the sparkly silver bauble onto the end of a branch.

  “Like that?”

  “Yes, that’s perfect. Now do another one.”

  “Do I have to do all of them?”

  “Of course. Today is the first of December: the day you get to open the number one window on your advent calendar. That means, in just twenty-four more days, Father Christmas is going to come down this chimney to put presents underneath the tree. I expect he’ll be very tired because he has to visit every house in the whole world. So he will probably pause here for a rest – to drink the whiskey we’ll leave for him and eat the mince pie. And while he’s getting his strength back, he’ll look up and say to himself, ‘Wow! That’s the best-decorated tree I’ve ever seen. I think I’m going to leave a special present for Amber as a prize.’”

  “Does he know my name?”

  “Oh, yes. He knows the names of all the children. The nice ones and the naughty ones.”

  “Which am I?”

  “You’re a very nice one.”

  Amber beamed. “I’m thirsty.”

  “Okay, I’ll get you some squash. You stay here and keep hanging these baubles on the tree.”

  When Grandma – AKA Molly Shultz (53), AKA Mrs Shhhh! (the village librarian) – returned with orange squash for Amber and a cup of tea for herself, the lower decorations were coming along nicely; the higher ones, not so much.

  “That’s a super Christmas tree you have there.”

  Molly spun around to see a man – dressed all in black and wearing a balaclava – sprawled over the armchair in the corner of the room. She gasped. “What are you doing in my house?”

  “You left the back door unlocked. I assumed that was an invitation for me to come in and share this precious moment with you and your lovely granddaughter.”

  “What?”

  “I can help you. You’re going to need someone tall to put the little angel on top of the tree. Not this little angel.” He pointed at Amber and chuckled. “I meant the little angel in the box over there.”

  “Who’s this man, Grandma?”

  “I don’t know, precious.” But she did know. She knew from the moment she saw the balaclava that this was going to be the worst day of her life.

  “Why is he holding that big knife?”

  “All the better to stab you with, my dear,” snarled the intruder with an evil grin.

  “Grandma?” said Amber, confused.

  “Please don’t hurt her. I’ll do whatever you ask.”

  “I know.”

  “There’s money in my purse.”

  “Why do people always think they can buy me off with money? I’ve got a mission to carry out. I need to fulfil my destiny.” He laughed malevolently. “Mwa-ha-ha-ha!”

  “You’re mad.” Molly looked at the knife. Then she looked at her granddaughter. Then she looked back at the knife. For a second she thought, I’m going to run out into the garden and scream my head off. Surely someone will hear and come to help us. But she realised she couldn’t risk it. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if anything happened to Amber.

  “You’re overweight. This is a fun game. It’s your turn.”

  Molly sighed, resigned to her fate. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I haven’t really decided yet. I prefer to just play it by ear. Are you any good at blowjobs?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Oral sex. I haven’t been sucked off for months. Are you up for it?”

  “Will that get you out of my house?”

  “It might.”

  What choice did she have? “Okay.”

  “Where are you going to put the kid?”

  “Put her? What do you mean?”

  “Surely you don’t want her to watch her grandmother gobbling a handsome intruder. She’d be scarred for life, much like Sir Robert Featherstonehaugh III, the husband of my previous victim.”

  “She can stay down here. I’ll put the telly on. We can go upstairs.”

  “That’s an excellent suggestion, S
erena.”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me.”

  “My name’s not Serena, it’s Molly.”

  The intruder laughed. “Well, that’s weird. Did I really call you ‘Serena’?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder what my shrink would make of that.” He chuckled again. “Come on, then. Let’s go upstairs and do this thing.”

  ◆◆◆

  When Dennis Shultz (53) returned home from work, he found his granddaughter in the living room – happily watching The Powerpuff Girls on TV – and his wife in their bedroom – unconsciously bleeding all over the bed. One glance was enough to tell him that she had sustained what are euphemistically known as life-changing injuries.

  Chapter 62

  Sunday 7 December, 2003

  Ava’s bedroom, 10:51 p.m.

  Ava was just dropping off to sleep when her phone beeped twice. She opened her eyes. It was a text message.

  Unknown number: Hi!

  She looked at the clock. 22:51. It was late. She had a Chemistry test in the morning. But she was intrigued.

  Ava: Who is this?

  Unknown number: Guess

  Ava: I haven’t got time to play games

  Unknown number: I’ll give you a clue. I’m in your year at school and I’m very handsome!

  Ava’s heart went into overdrive. She allowed herself to hope, but she played it cool.

  Ava: Text me in the morning, Kenton. I’m sleepy

  Unknown number: Kenton!!! Kenton Giscombe? I said I’m VERY HANDSOME. Kenton Giscombe has a face like a horse. An ugly horse. An ugly horse who has run headfirst into a tree at high speed!

  Giggling, Ava texted back, wide awake now.

  Ava: Chad?

  Unknown number: Chad with the National Health glasses and no lips? No. VERY HANDSOME!