On Tuesday afternoon I park the Volvo outside a house made of weathered stone with a slate roof. The small square front garden is divided by strips of grass between flowerbeds where gerberas are pushing through the loam searching for sunlight.
Grabbing my overcoat from the passenger seat, I walk up the front path and give the doorbell a short ring, putting on my friendliest professional demeanour. Nobody answers. Ringing the bell again, I press my ear to the wooden door. Canned TV laughter leaks from inside.
Retreating down the steps to the front window, I try to peer through a gap in the curtains into the murky twilight of a living room. The TV is a flickering square. I can just make out a blurred outline of someone sitting on the sofa. Perhaps they didn’t hear the doorbell.
This time I knock loudly and listen for footfalls or muffled voices or the sound of someone breathing on the other side of the door.
Nothing.
I’m about to leave when I hear a voice from the rear garden. Gordon Ellis appears from the side of the house. He’s dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a Harlequins rugby shirt. A fringe of chestnut hair falls across his forehead. He brushes it aside.
‘Hello.’
‘Hi. Were you waiting long? I was out back.’
‘No, not long.’
He looks at me closely. ‘Have we met?’
‘I’m Charlie O’Loughlin’s father.’
‘Of course you are.’ He offers his hand: a killer grip. ‘Call me Gordon.’
‘Joe.’
He’s carrying a hoe, which he rests against his shoulder. ‘Charlie is a great kid.’
‘Thank you.’
I glance at the front door. ‘I don’t want to interrupt . . . if you have a visitor.’
‘Nope, it’s just me. Natasha has gone shopping. I was just doing some chores. Almost finished. Do you mind if we talk out back?’
I follow him along the side path where a rusting bicycle is propped against the fence, alongside recycling bins. The long narrow garden has a sandbox with toys, a vegetable patch and a small greenhouse. At the far end there is an old stable block, now a garage, which backs on to a rear lane.
Through an open side door I notice a silver BMW convertible. Ellis follows my gaze.
‘You’re wondering how a teacher can afford a car like that?’
‘It did cross my mind.’
‘Natasha’s family is loaded. You could say I married well.’ He looks a little embarrassed. ‘We met at school. I didn’t know she was rich. Honest.’
He laughs and begins turning soil in the vegetable garden, swinging the hoe over his shoulder and driving the blade into the compacted earth.
‘I’m running late with this. I should have planted a month ago.’
Glancing at the house, it looks less welcoming from this angle with small, mean windows. From somewhere on the street-side I hear a door close. Ellis hears it too. His eyes meet mine.
‘What can I do for you, Joe?’
‘I want to ask you about Sienna Hegarty.’
He swings the hoe again. ‘A terrible business!’
‘You were close?’
‘She’s one of my students. She’s in the musical.’
‘I saw the dress rehearsal last Tuesday. You were very hard on her.’
‘Sienna was distracted. She forgot her lines. Her timing was off. I know what she’s capable of.’ He pauses and wipes his forearm across his forehead. ‘You didn’t come here to discuss the musical.’
‘No.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘I’m trying to help Sienna. I’m a psychologist. I’ve been asked to prepare a psych report for the court.’
‘How can I help?’
‘I talked to Sienna a few days ago. I asked her about school - general questions about her favourite subjects and teachers. When she listed her teachers she left you out.’
‘You make it sound like she failed an exam.’
‘She grew agitated when I mentioned your name. She didn’t want to talk about you. Can you think of a reason?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing occurs to you?’
The hoe is poised above his head with his fists gripping the handle. ‘Why are you really here, Mr O’Loughlin?’
First names have been dropped.
‘Miss Robinson the school counsellor said it was you who encouraged Sienna to come and see her. Did Sienna tell you what was troubling her?’
Ellis relaxes a little. He takes a small packet of tissues from his pocket and wipes the corner of his lips. Gazes past me at the treetops.
‘Sometimes you can tell when a child is struggling. Sienna was quiet. Anxious.’
‘You saw this?’
‘It was a day last summer. We’d just started back at school after the holidays. It was hot and nobody was wearing a sweater except Sienna, which I thought was odd. Then I noticed a smear of blood on her palms, which had run down from her wrist. She kept her arms folded so nobody would see. She’d cut herself and was still bleeding.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘No. And she wouldn’t go to the infirmary. So I collected some bandages and slipped them into her schoolbag. She didn’t say anything, but I think she knew it was me.’
‘Did you report the incident?’
‘No, but after that I kept an eye on her. She joined the drama club. Over time she grew to trust me. We talked.’
‘What about?’
‘She was having problems at home with her father.’
‘What sort of problems?’
‘Do I have to spell it out, Mr O’Loughlin? I encouraged Sienna to see the counsellor. And when she didn’t want to see a therapist, I helped convince her.’
‘She trusted you?’
‘I guess.’
‘Why was that?’
He blinks, suddenly angry. ‘Maybe I was willing to listen.’
‘Did she tell you she was being abused?’
‘No. I just knew it. You teach for long enough and you learn to recognise the signs.’
Resting the hoe against the fence, he picks up a rake and begins smoothing the soil, breaking up the larger clods and creating channels for drainage. Across the fence, a neighbour is pegging her washing, the whites, sheets and towels.
Gordon returns her wave.
‘Sienna needed my help. I wish I could have done more.’ The words seem to catch in his throat.
‘Did you know that Sienna was pregnant?’
Ellis pauses for a moment, the rake suspended in mid-air. Tension ripples across his shoulders. Then he exhales and shakes his head.
‘I know she had a boyfriend.’
The neighbour has finished with her washing and is calling her dog. ‘Here, Jake, c’mon boy. C’mon, Jake.’
Ellis is staring at me now, resting the rake handle on his shoulder.
‘Did Sienna have a crush on you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You admit it?’
‘It happens.’
‘It doesn’t worry you?’
‘On the contrary - I take it as a compliment. It’s a sign that I’m doing my job pretty damn well.’
‘Doing it well?’
‘You’ve got to understand the process of teaching. If I do my job properly I can change the way a student thinks about himself or herself. It’s a process of seduction, but it’s not about sexual conquest. It’s about creating an interest and a passion where none previously existed. It’s about getting students to want something they didn’t know they wanted.’
‘You make them fall in love with the subject?’
‘I make them feel excited, energised, provoked and challenged.’
‘So you encourage crushes?’
‘Yes, but not to feed my ego. Instead I turn the focus back on the student. I encourage them to use their new-found curiosity and passion, to run with it, indulge it, let it take them places . . .’
‘And what happens when a student sexualises their crush?’
‘I take a step back. Let them down gently. Sienna didn’t get a crush on me because she wanted to be with me but because she wanted to be like me. I brought out her best. I made her feel special. This has nothing to do with physical attractiveness. It’s a meeting of minds.’
He makes it sound so obvious that nobody could dispute his logic. He’s a passionate teacher, possibly a brilliant one, but what adolescent girl knows the difference between seduction and persuasion, love and infatuation?
‘Did you know Ray Hegarty?’
‘We met once or twice.’
Ellis looks at the garden with a weary smile. ‘If I don’t get these planted soon, we won’t have vegetables for the summer.’
A sharp gust of wind scatters his words.
‘How is Sienna?’
‘She’s traumatised.’
‘Is the baby . . . ?’
‘She miscarried.’
He nods sadly and raises his eyes to the pearl-grey sky. ‘That may have been for the best.’
Something rises in my stomach. Burns. I swallow hard and find myself saying goodbye, retracing my steps across the lawn to the side path.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice the garage again and the sports car.
‘What sort of car does your wife drive?’ I ask, turning to Ellis.
He gives me a wry smile. ‘Natasha’s not really interested in cars. They just have to get her from A to B.’
‘So what does she drive?’
‘A Ford Focus.’