She thought about her mum sitting at the kitchen table, writing a suicide note.

Monsters in the wood.

Feeling sick, Heather picked up her mobile, her thumb hovering over Nikki’s number. She felt cold, and untethered somehow, but she also couldn’t help noticing a certain tension inside her, a kind of delirious excitement that was oddly familiar; it was a little like the feeling she got when an enormous story landed in her lap. Biting her lip, she pressed the number. When her friend’s voice came on the line, it was suddenly difficult to say anything, but she forced the words out.

‘Nikki, can I come over? I need to talk to someone.’

6

Putting the marking aside finally, Fiona smiled at the little pile of cards and presents on her desk. Her A-level girls had been working on old exam questions, and she was half convinced that their sudden interest in her birthday was all a way of buttering her up, but there were worse things to find on your desk at the end of the day – plenty of teachers had horror stories about that. Besides, Fiona was in a generous mood and willing to forgive a bit of outright bribery; she had about as much interest in reading essays on ‘Opportunities for and the Effects of Leading a Healthy and Active Lifestyle’ as they had in writing them.

Next to her, the radiator ticked on, and she shuffled her chair a little closer to it. No doubt it would be warmer at home, and the cat would be annoyed that she was taking her time, but the girls would be disappointed if she didn’t have all the cards opened on her desk first thing in the morning.

She made her way through the pile, smiling faintly at ‘Happy Birthday Miss Graham’ and ‘Have a great one, Red!!!’ Having any sort of distinguishing characteristic as a teacher could be disastrous – a facial mole, a lisp, bushy eyebrows – but Fiona felt like she’d got off lightly with red hair. There had been a few less than pleasing nicknames, such as ‘ginger minge’, a gift from a group of especially charmless year eights, but the more grown-up ones seemed to consider it a feature to be admired. Not surprising since they were all in the habit of dyeing their hair a different colour every week.

The presents were small things: little boxes of chocolates, a set of flavoured lip balms. One girl, Sarah, had given her a Boots voucher, of all things.

‘When I was a kid, teachers were lucky to get an apple,’ she murmured to the empty classroom.

One of the presents didn’t have a gift tag on it and wasn’t attached to any of the cards. The wrapping paper was curious: a slightly old-fashioned paisley print, like the lavender-scented paper from her nan’s wardrobe, and there were two wilted pink flowers set on top of it.