The Drowning Pool. Syd Moore

it can be just like a bad trip.’

      Having had a few early forays into recreational drugs during my twenties this made sense. Once, in the bath, coming down from something or other, I was convinced I could hear voices in the water pipes begging me to release them from their watery prison. By the time Josh found me I’d scratched the paintwork off the u-bend and was searching for a hammer.

      I entertained the idea of a flashback. The incident by the French doors had been, it was fair to say, rather trippy. And with regard to the mobile, there was a possibility that I could have sent the message to myself while I was half asleep or sleepwalking. Though it seemed unlikely.

      In the afternoon I summoned the courage to listen to the message again and tried dialling into it but it was gone. I wasn’t sure if I had failed to save it or perhaps Martha may have deleted it in a well-meaning attempt to help. That would be just like her. The possibility rather put me out – I hadn’t given her permission to tamper with my phone. I would certainly speak to her about it when I next saw her. It was frustrating. Now I only had my memory of it to go from and it was becoming hazier the more I tried to concentrate on its recall.

      By evening I had a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach and by nightfall I was edgy as hell. I didn’t want to admit it at the time, but I was getting scared. I think part of me knew what was going to happen.

      The dreary sameness of Monday morning felt like something of a reprieve. In fact I’d go as far as to say that I was almost pleased to be going into St John’s. The students were gone and we had a week of administrative duties to sort before we were allowed to bugger off on summer leave.

      As I turned into the drive and clocked the grey steel girders of the new music block extension with its vaulted see-through roof, the absolute soullnessness of the place suddenly heartened me. There’s a first time for everything. Nothing organic stirred here. Thank God.

      A break from restless spirits was required.

      I needed to get in and get my head down. Work would absorb me and for a while I could feel almost normal.

      The last thing I wanted to do was talk it over again. So when John fired up I told him just that. But the silly sod wouldn’t leave me alone.

      ‘Sarah? ARE YOU OK?’

      I locked the door of the car and picked up my bag and started marching to the entrance. It had rained the previous night and the air was damp and verdant.

      ‘I’m not really sure if I am OK, to be honest. If I told you what happened, you’d just think I’m mad and to be honest, I’m starting to wonder about that myself.’

      He nipped ahead and turned to face me, blocking my path. ‘Hey, slow down. Do you want to talk about it? I’m going to go into the research room and do some marking, if you want somewhere private to chat.’

      ‘Actually, I don’t, John. I’m sorry about calling you on Saturday night. I had a bit of a fright – a missed call from some woman asking for help. I thought it might be Sue? What with the pregnancy and everything. Is she OK?’

      John nodded. ‘I just saw her in the staff room. She’s fine. Everyone’s fine. Are you fine?’

      ‘Please forget it.’

      He was scuttling alongside me. ‘Was it another cockleshell?’

      I shook my head and scowled knowing that I would appear either rude or irritable or probably both.

      ‘Thank God for that. Solitary female hysteria.’ My eyes met his, which crinkled warmly. ‘Joke,’ he added.

      But I wasn’t in the mood. ‘I’m going to the staff room.’

      ‘Well, come and find me if you’re bored. You sure you’re OK? Don’t worry about drinking too much, if that’s what you’re thinking. An early death might save you from the horrors of new education models.’ And he bounced off.

      I turned into the staff room and made for the coffee machine. I was being too hard on him I ruminated, now regretful, as I set my load down on the side. He was just trying to help.

      I fumbled in my bag for my purse, finally scooping out a handful of coins, which promptly scattered across the ledge that the machine perched on.

      I cursed and picked up a twenty-pence piece. It went into the coin slot and straight out of the return. ‘Fuck.’

      ‘Having one of those days are we?’

      McBastard stood beside me. A half smile curled his lips, suggestive of glee at my blinding incompetence.

      As there were no students present in school that week, we were permitted to wear jeans. McBastard’s grey chinos had been swapped for dark denim that caught across the hips and tailored down over his long legs, fleshing him out for a change. To my surprise I saw he was wearing a t-shirt with a logo of a cool band that I had once publicized. Was the robot becoming human?

      ‘Let’s say I’ve had better mornings.’ Struggling with the coin slot, I glanced at him in time to see his volcano eyes fix on me. He looked away immediately, embarrassed to be caught staring. Could he tell something strange was happening to me? Was I dragging around an aura of weirdness?

      The coins returned once more. I was starting to feel self-conscious.

      McBastard coughed. ‘Here, let me.’ He retrieved the money and this time, his efforts produced a coffee. His fingertips brushed against my palm as he handed over my change.

      Without thanking him I scrambled my stuff together hastily and made towards the desks at the far side of the room.

      ‘Sarah!’ he called after me. I turned and met his stare. The openness of his face had melted away. ‘I need your course review. Tomorrow at the latest, please.’

      I answered him with a grunt and sat down, spreading my papers over the wooden top, noting with bewilderment that my hand was tingling where he had touched me.

      At lunch John found me in the canteen mauling a stale beef sandwich and trying to put the horrors of the weekend out of my mind.

      He wedged his butt along the pine bench next to mine. ‘Have you seen Sue?’ He was trying to make conversation.

      I informed him she had an ante-natal appointment at the hospital but didn’t expand. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

      John poked a dried-up triangle of something pizza-like on his plate. The food, which was below average at the best of times, was virtually inedible once the students, sorry customers, had departed.

      He forced himself to bite the cheesy triangle and winced. ‘Good night on Friday, wasn’t it?’ he said, through a mouthful of dried bread.

      My mind went straight to the phone call, the haunting watery words, the strangulated tone of the woman. With some effort, I focused on the Red Lion hours.

      ‘I was quite drunk. Any gossip?’ I did my best to engage.

      ‘One of Finance got chucked out for doing coke in the loo.’

      ‘Oh, who?’

      ‘Tina Worten.’

      John took another bite and we munched in silence until he put down his crust and said, ‘You’re a bit pissed off with me, aren’t you? What is it? The hysterical woman reference? I was being silly. I thought we had that kind of relationship. I’m sorry. Is that why you phoned me Saturday night? To be hysterical? I was only concerned because I didn’t realize you were joking.’

      I stared at him blankly. I had phoned him when I was upset Saturday night, hoping he might be up. But when the call went to his voicemail I left some garbled message for him to call me. It hadn’t occurred to me that he would assume the call was a prank, although part of me was mighty relieved that he might.

      ‘Now you’re pissed off with me for not getting it. I understand. But can we just go back to being normal? I won’t mention it again.’

      I