As the mid-morning sun streamed over his shoulder, Adam Rifkind pulled a hand through his tinted blond hair to move it away from his face and show his handsome features to best advantage. The thirty-five-year-old lecturer eyed the handful of bored-looking A-level students scattered around Derby College’s Media Suite, slumping in their chairs, exhausted from having to drag themselves out of bed at eleven o’clock in the morning for a seminar.
Few returned eye-contact. Some stared glassy-eyed into space, while others nodded their heads to iPods and texted friends they would see in an hour — assuming they weren’t already in the same room.
Though he prided himself on his youthful appearance and outlook, Rifkind experienced an unexpected stab of yearning for his own carefree youth. He knew most of his students would deny it, but they didn’t have a care in the world. No work, no marriage, no mortgage and no self-loathing — the bright futures they imagined for themselves were not yet behind them.
Rifkind looked at his watch and stifled a yawn. It had been a tough academic year, and finding time for his novel was getting harder. Late nights didn’t help. At least that was one problem he’d finally solved.
He surveyed the apathy before him — Derby’s finest preparing themselves for the outside world with a gentle snooze in Media Studies, the course which always attracted the oddest blend of students. Half of the group were padding out a vocational timetable of bricklaying and construction with the easiest-sounding course they could find and, unfortunately, no matter how much the prospectus emphasised the opposite, Media Studies would always appeal to those who thought it consisted entirely of watching films and TV.
The bear-like Wilson Woodrow and his cronies were part of that crowd. Derby’s future builders, bricklayers and jobbing gardeners sat together on a row, riffing about whose parents had splashed out the most money for their offspring’s phone.
But it wasn’t all doom and gloom. The brightest members of his English Literature set made up the numbers and raised the level of debate whenever the need arose to discuss or, God forbid, write about what they had discovered during a particular unit of study.
Russell Thomson — Rusty, for obvious reasons — was one. A bright boy, he sat alone and seemed in no need of the distractions of his peers as he looked saucer-eyed at the blank screen dominating a whole wall of the media suite. He was relatively new to the area and had moved with his mother from Wales, for what reason Rifkind didn’t know — though he had heard a rumour about bullying at his previous college. He wasn’t surprised. Rusty was a strange and introverted boy who seemed to have very few social skills and held the majority of his conversations with himself.
Tall for his age but thin and stooping, his eyes were either gazing off into space or fixed on the ground as though he’d lost something. Rusty rarely looked people in the eye and this social failing was reinforced by a more tangible barrier — the ever-present digital camcorder which was always strapped to his hand, and invariably raised in front of his face on the rare occasions he lifted his head.
Strangely, he seemed to possess the intellectual skills of a more mature person when producing written work, and had an encyclopaedic knowledge of films which he unveiled at the most inappropriate times. On a recent careers evening, he’d informed Rifkind that his ambition was to work in the cinema, and the lecturer had been unable to stifle the unworthy thought that Rusty would indeed make an ideal usher. Naturally Rifkind hadn’t voiced this opinion. At least not in front of Rusty’s gorgeous young single mum — a MILF indeed.
In front of Rusty now sat the strikingly pretty Becky Blake conversing with Fern Stretton, her best friend. The pair chatted as though alone in the universe, about everything from boys to their annual X Factor applications. Becky was fixated on fame and fortune and she certainly had the looks, though her in-your-face attractions had never been a draw for Rifkind. Until recently her superficial charms had been twinned with that air of unabashed expectation that clung to so many of her peers — a serenity derived from unbroken dreams.
But Rifkind had the sense that something had shifted within her. He often noticed it with students around this age. For a couple of years in their teens the most promising carried that galling conviction that they owned the world, believing their lives would proceed exactly as they wished. Then, one day, an unforeseen setback would rouse them from their slumber and they were forced to face a future of hard graft and disappointment.
Well, Rifkind was convinced that reality had sunk its teeth into Becky recently because she carried with her now that slight bruise of knowledge that her life would not be quite as predicted, as though something in her carefully gilded future had been stepped on.
Rifkind looked at his watch again and fired up his laptop to register those present. Jake McKenzie hadn’t yet put in an appearance. McKenzie was a blue-eyed, dark-haired Adonis, as talented academically and athletically as he was handsome, and Rifkind had heard that every girl in the college had thrown herself at him at one time or another. And yet he seemed to be a thinker, rising above the petty obsessions of teenage life, absorbing himself in his studies and his sport, at which he excelled.
Rifkind didn’t mark him absent yet. Jake was in such demand that he was often late from some practice or other.
Kyle Kennedy, the other boy from his Literature Group, couldn’t have been more different from Jake. He was slim with delicate expressive hands, lightly built with feminine, stubblefree features, large doe eyes and long lashes. Despite being very shy he was a popular confidant of some of the girls and this, above all, made him the butt of most of the gay banter flying around. But academically, Kyle had a fierce and probing intelligence and was well on the way to an A* in Literature. Predictably, this only added to the resentment from the less talented.
Rifkind took a breath as Adele Watson walked through the double doors. He hadn’t expected to see her and she hurried to a chair, steadfastly ignoring his gaze. She was a talented, if naive writer and very beautiful. Next year she’d be studying English Literature at Cambridge — thanks in part to his own inspirational teachings.
He examined what he could see of her face. She’d been crying, he could tell, but the thought caused him no guilt. In fact, the idea that he could still arouse such feeling in the opposite sex was a rush. She’d get over it. At Cambridge, she’d blossom into a woman with many attentive admirers and she’d learn soon enough that he’d been right to end their relationship. They’d had fun. They’d had great, sometimes passionate sex — and what could be better than that? But now it was time to move on. She had her whole life in front of her. And Rifkind had bigger fish to fry.
‘Well, folks,’ opened Rifkind. ‘Half-term is looming and next Thursday’s Media Studies will be our last day.’
Russell Thomson looked up briefly. Last Day. A quasireligious ceremony from the film Logan’s Run, starring Michael York and Jenny Agutter. On Last Day, inhabitants of this dystopian future world reached thirty years of age and were put to death. .
‘The end of another unit of hard work,’ continued Rifkind, ‘at least for the staff.’ He grinned at the dozing amphitheatre and permitted himself the merest glance at Adele’s dark-eyed beauty. ‘And, of course, Adele.’ At the mention of her name, her dark sleep-deprived eyes locked on to Rifkind for a second and she blushed.
Next to her, Becky Blake turned to give her a significant stare — you’re in there, girl — then pouted back at Rifkind to get some of that life-affirming attention for herself. Every man in Becky’s presence noticed her, she knew that much. But it wasn’t enough. Since her mother’s death from cancer, Becky had been at the centre of her father’s universe and had grown accustomed to total devotion; she demanded no less from all men. They had to be in orbit around her and she knew all the moves to make that happen. At school, she’d learned from a young age that she could separate any couple, with her shock of long blond hair, mouth-watering figure and the best clothes an indulgent parent could provide. And although Rifkind was a bit too smarmy for her, she saw no reason to change the habits of her short life and glowered suggestively at him.
But Adam Rifkind only had eyes for Adele so, with a disdainful sniff, Becky muttered under her breath, ‘You know he’s married, Ade.’
Adele, unable to look at her, reddened. ‘You don’t say.’
Becky missed the hushed sarcasm and expressed her surprise. ‘Didn’t you know, girlfriend? Yeah, he’s a sly fucker though. He takes off his wedding ring; you can see the line round the finger. And Mrs Sly Fucker is not much older than us, apparently.’ She rolled her eyes lasciviously at Adele then turned back to Rifkind to give him an appreciative onceover. ‘I would though,’ she grinned, and Fern on her other side broke into a fit of giggles. A moment later they returned their attention to their iPhones, not seeing Adele gulping back her emotions.
‘I see a good portion of the group are already exhausted and have decided to skip the last two Thursdays,’ said Rifkind. ‘No matter.’ At that moment the double doors swung open and Jake McKenzie strode into the suite. He looked around for an available chair.
‘Ah, Jake. Decided to favour us with your presence today. Hurry up and sit, please; the group are ravenous for knowledge to start.’
Jake smiled and hesitated. There were no chairs left except the one next to Kyle Kennedy.
‘There’s a seat next to Gay Boy,’ chuckled Wilson Woodrow, the overweight eighteen year old with the zigzag haircut and buzzing earphones. ‘If you don’t mind catching AIDS.’
‘That’s enough of that,’ admonished Rifkind as mildly as he could. He prided himself on his good relationships with students and didn’t like to play the authority figure.
To avoid Wilson’s confrontational leer, Kyle stared down at the floor through his John Lennon spectacles and buried his long delicate hands between tightly crossed legs. He wore the blank expression of the diplomatically deaf.
Jake made for the seat next to Kyle and sat down. Kyle looked up at him in greeting and then just as quickly returned his gaze to the floor.
‘Today and next week we’re going to be watching and critiquing a film so this morning we can sit back and chillax.’ Rifkind paused to make sure his comfort with the patois of youth had registered. ‘Today’s film. .’
Wilson produced a DVD case from his baggy clothing and held it under Rifkind’s nose without having the courtesy to look at him.
The lecturer stared at the top of the boy’s head and ignored the offering. ‘Today we are-’As Rifkind clearly hadn’t noticed the DVD, Wilson waggled it in front of his face again.
In the end, the lecturer accepted it with a sigh. ‘Thank you, Wilson.’
‘Will,’ replied the boy gruffly, again without looking up from his iPod.
‘Oh, you managed to hear that over the Death Metal? Funny how I have to repeat things three times when I want your attention.’
Wilson gazed up at Rifkind, a pearl of wisdom on the end of his tongue. ‘My dad says sarcasm is the lowest form of something.’
‘Ignorance perhaps,’ replied Rifkind, looking at the cover of the DVD with a sinking heart.
‘No, it’s not that,’ answered Wilson, thinking hard.
‘Saw 4 — interesting choice.’
‘It’s brilliant,’ agreed Wilson, as though revealing a great secret to which only he was privy.
‘Is it as brilliant as Saws 1, 2 and 3, dare I ask?’
‘Saw 2 is my best film ever. But Saw 4 is even better.’
Rifkind looked around the room to garner support for his upcoming putdown, but only Kyle Kennedy’s brow furrowed in amusement so he thought better of it.
‘Thank you, Wilson.’
‘Will!’ the teenager retorted, with a touch more aggression.
‘I’m afraid we won’t be watching Saw 4, Will. Rusty has-’
‘What? Why not?’
Rifkind made sure to speak slowly because he didn’t want to repeat it. ‘Because, as you’ll remember, at the start of the academic year, we agreed to have a rota for people to choose the end-of-term film, and I’m afraid you’ve had your turn.’
‘Yeah, my turn is the Saw films. You have to see them all for it to make sense. They’re a series.’
‘I don’t care if it’s a series, Wilson,’ he said, taking pleasure in repeating the boy’s hated name.
‘It’s Will!’ shouted Wilson, this time. ‘And we’re watching Saw 4.’ He turned round to the gathering. ‘Everybody else wants to watch it, don’t you?’ Wilson eyeballed the group. Only Jake and Becky returned eye-contact.
‘It doesn’t matter what everybody wants.’
‘That’s not very democratic.’
Rifkind smiled at him, beginning to enjoy the little power he had over the boy. ‘Nor is bullying people into doing what you want.’
‘I’m not bullying anyone. You want to watch Saw 4, don’t you, Kylie?’ he said to Kyle Kennedy, who bridled at the sudden attention. ‘I’m talking to you, Faggot.’
‘That’s enough of that language,’ said Rifkind.
‘What language? English?’ Wilson sneered. ‘It’s a crime to speak your own language now, is it? I was just asking Faggot-’
‘I said that’s enough,’ countered Rifkind, attempting a show of strength that he knew he couldn’t back up. ‘We’re wasting time. Rusty has chosen today’s film. End of.’
‘Geek Boy wasn’t even here at the start of the year, so how can he be on the rota?’ snarled Wilson.
‘Give it a rest, Will,’ said Becky. ‘I couldn’t be arsed. He’s taking my slot.’
Rifkind grinned at Woodrow’s tubby face. ‘Happy now that democracy has been served?’
Wilson stared angrily at the carpet, urgently searching for another compelling reason to have his way.
‘Rusty?’ Rifkind looked expectantly at Russell’s pale face as he handed over a DVD case.
‘Picnic at Hanging Rock,’ said Rifkind. He beamed approvingly. ‘Interesting choice.’
‘Who’s in it?’ growled Wilson.
Rusty cleared his throat and in a timid voice said, ‘Nobody famous, but it was Peter Weir’s breakthrough film, made in 1975. Weir, you may remember, directed Gallipoli and Witness, starring Harrison Ford.’
There was silence as everyone stared at him. In the six months since he’d been enrolled at Derby College, he’d barely spoken to anyone and certainly hadn’t dared to speak in front of classmates. He seemed to spend most of his time sitting in the refectory drinking Coca Cola and pointing his camcorder at everyone who passed.
‘Nineteen seventy-five?’ howled Wilson. ‘Is it in colour?’
‘Beautiful colour, Will,’ nodded Rusty, warming to his theme. ‘The cameraman was Russell Boyd and his use of vibrant-’
‘Sounds shit. What’s it about?’
‘It’s about an Australian girls’ school in 1900,’ interjected Rifkind, in case Rusty began to buckle under Wilson’s interrogation.
‘You’re shittin’ me. I’m not watching that shit. It sounds shit.’
‘That is your democratic choice, Will,’ replied Rifkind, hopeful that the bully might be about to leave. But instead he waggled his own DVD in Rifkind’s face again.
‘Here. We’re watching Saw 4. Rusty don’t mind.’ Wilson grinned over at him. ‘Don’t worry, Geek Boy. You’re not going to get battered. Your mum’s a MILF,’ he hissed at him with a leer.
Rifkind shook his head. ‘Well, I mind. We’re watching Picnic at Hanging Rock. In Media Studies, Wilson, we have to open ourselves up to a variety of genres, aimed at different audiences . .’
‘My name is WILL!’
There was silence for a moment but Rifkind refused to be fazed. He was smarter than Wilson and wasn’t about to back off until he’d proved it. He sniffed coldly. ‘You should enjoy this film, Will. If you’d been born two hundred years ago, Australia is where you would have ended up.’
‘What does that mean?’ A smattering of the students sniggered their understanding and Wilson rounded on them angrily. ‘What the fuck are you laughing at?’ His eye caught Kyle Kennedy smiling and he stood to confront him. ‘Something funny, Gay Boy?’
Kyle’s smile disappeared. ‘I . . no, I mean-’
‘Wilson. Either sit down or get out!’ shouted Rifkind, finally losing his temper.
‘Gay boys don’t laugh at me,’ bellowed Wilson, wading through chairs towards Kyle.
Jake McKenzie jumped hurriedly between the two. ‘Back off, Wilson,’ he said calmly. He held a hand up to Wilson’s chest, keeping him at bay with ease. ‘You’ve had your say. Sit down or fuck off.’ He flexed his neck. Jake was not just sporty but also a fitness fanatic and built like a middleweight. And as the object of lust for female students, he was naturally well respected by the male students.
Wilson looked him in the eye. A second later the pressure on Jake’s hand eased. Wilson smiled and put his hands peacefully in the air. ‘Sure, Jakey. Whatever you say,’ he said softly. He turned back towards Kyle. ‘We’ll talk later, Faggot,’ he added menacingly.
‘No, you won’t,’ said Jake. ‘You won’t go near him.’
‘Why are you defending the little bumder?’ Wilson leered towards Jake, a further insult bubbling to the surface. ‘Are you his boyfriend, Jake? You potting the brown with that little-’
Jake threw a hand to Wilson’s throat and gripped it hard. ‘What did you say to me, Fatso?’ Wilson was choking and pawing at Jake’s hand as he was pushed back over his chair. ‘What did you say?’
‘Get him off me,’ gasped Wilson, trying to loosen Jake’s grip but to no avail. Rifkind, Kyle, Becky and a few others grabbed Jake’s shoulders and tried to pull him away.
‘He’s not worth it, Jake,’ shouted Kyle, forcing himself into eye-contact. ‘Jake, he’s not worth it.’
Jake glared at Kyle then relaxed his grip on Wilson. He turned away to confirm his pacification and Wilson got to his feet, rubbing his throat.
‘That’s assault, that is!’ Wilson screamed at Rifkind. ‘And you let it happen.’
‘You provoked that situation, Mr Woodrow, despite my asking you repeatedly to avoid confrontation. Now sit down.’
Presented with a direct instruction, Wilson said the only thing he could to regain face. ‘No.’
Rifkind tried not to smile. The teenage God of No. He knew the script from here and Wilson was too stupid to resist.
‘Wilson, I order you to sit down because there’s no way you’re leaving.’
Wilson looked back triumphantly, seeing his path to victory. ‘You wanna bet? Just watch me.’ He turned to leave, throwing an angry look at Kyle, whose eyes were now glued to the floor.
‘You can’t leave and you’d better attend next week or else,’ shouted Rifkind, at the retreating Wilson, laying down his final ace.
‘Or else what? You won’t see me for shit.’
Rifkind faked a look of annoyance but broke into a big grin as Wilson turned and snatched up his Saw DVD, storming towards the doors.
Wilson looked over at Kyle. ‘Oi, Faggot.’ He stuck his tongue out and pulled a finger across his throat.
Kyle looked up from the floor, gathering his courage. His look of terror gave way to a mocking smile and he blew Wilson a big kiss. The assembled students laughed and jeered as the fuming Wilson kicked open the double doors and stalked away, a couple of sympathetic friends trailing in his wake.
‘Respeck, Kylie,’ said Becky, holding her hand up for Kyle to high five. ‘That asshole butt-munch got well and truly parred and merked.’
Kyle basked in a couple of backslaps until the worry reinfected his face. I shouldn’t have done that. He looked gratefully up at his saviour but Jake looked away at once.
‘Why do those with the fewest brain cells always have the loudest voices?’ said Adele Watson to no one in particular.
Becky turned and poured her body back into her chair, looking over at Russell who had his camcorder in front of his face. ‘Look at Steven Spielberg here. I hope that’s going on YouTube, Geek Boy,’ she said, striking a pose for him.
‘Maybe.’ Thomson pointed his camcorder in her direction. He lowered the camera and smiled at her briefly but her stony expression killed his pleasure and he blushed.
‘Just start the film, Geek,’ ordered Becky.
Nearly two hours later, the credits rolled in the darkness. Rifkind and most of the other students had gone to lunch an hour ago but Adele, Becky, Fern, Kyle and Russell had continued watching through the bulk of the lunchbreak and even sat in silence as the cast of characters scrolled down the screen.
‘Wow,’ said Kyle, standing and stretching his slender frame in the gloom. ‘Sick film.’
‘Hard to believe a film about a girls’ school could be that good,’ agreed Becky.
When the inert screen ensured total blackness, Becky edged towards the large curtain and pulled it aside. Bright sunshine streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Media Suite and she and Fern immediately bent to check their phones. Adele remained seated, unable to move. She stared straight ahead. There were tears on her cheeks.
Back in his office at St Mary’s Wharf, Brook got his mouth around his second cup of tea and closed his eyes to savour its soothing heat while his computer loaded. He logged on then registered his dismay at the volume of internal emails in his inbox.
‘Thirty-six emails — in one day,’ he sighed. ‘The tyranny of faceless communication.’ Brook scrolled down the list checking for his personal buzzwords. Any email containing the words Committee, Budget, Target or Liaison in the subject line was deleted without being opened. Happily this was most of them and Brook was left with five relevant messages about open cases and upcoming trials.
After dealing with them, he rifled through the drawers of his desk for an A-Z he knew he had somewhere. He was both pleased and appalled to find his desk bereft of cigarettes. He remembered wistfully the pack in his locker given to Noble earlier that morning, as a demonstration of his willpower.
Brook flicked through the pages of the A-Z and stared at the sparse countryside to the south and east of Borrowash, taking in the minor roads accessing Elvaston Castle and Thulston. He didn’t know the area well but it seemed very flat and he knew from his trips along the A50 to the M1 or East Midlands Airport, that the land on either side of the carriageway was prone to flooding. Indeed, even without flooding there was sufficient water around the confluence of the Rivers Trent and Derwent to merit a marina at Shardlow for the nautically minded.
Brook pulled the Yellow Pages from another drawer. His eye glimpsed a mangled, half-smoked cigarette butt behind some old papers, covered in dust and fluff. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked it out of the drawer and brushed it clean like an old soldier polishing his campaign medals. He stared lovingly at the butt for longer than necessary then threw it resolutely in the bin, chuckling noiselessly at the absurd sense of achievement that followed.
Noble walked in, holding papers. ‘We’ve got more uniform searching up and down the river, just to be thorough. Nothing yet. On the plus side, DS Gadd’s organised a door-to-door on Station Road and, apparently, someone leaving early for London on Tuesday did see the road was closed. Every other resident says the road was open later that morning so it looks like you were right. Our perpetrator faked the closure while he dumped the body.’
‘When was this?’
‘Two days ago.’ Noble consulted a scribbled note. ‘A Mr Hargreaves left his house at three thirty in the morning to drive to London. He couldn’t cross the bridges and had to take the A52 instead.’
‘Three thirty,’ Brook said thoughtfully. ‘So we’re unlikely to get witnesses walking the dog.’
‘What about anglers? They get up at all hours to bag the best spots.’
‘Get uniform to speak to every angler on that stretch. And maybe run off some notices to post near the bridges. Any chance of decent forensics?’ ventured Brook, though he already knew the answer.
Noble shook his head. ‘SOCO weren’t confident, not at the scene anyway.’
Brook nodded. ‘Water washes away many sins, John — though I prefer malt.’
‘They did find a large piece of cloth in the river nearby. They’ve bagged it for tests but we don’t even know if it connects with our John Doe.’
‘What about the bridge?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Let’s hope the body gives us an ID. What’s that?’ asked Brook, looking at the sheaf of papers.
‘Statement taken from the lads who spotted the victim in the river.’ Noble handed the report to Brook, who skimmed it briefly.
‘Let’s call him the deceased until we’re told it’s murder, John.’ Brook yawned heavily and tossed the papers on to the desk. ‘Decent lads?’
‘Solid kids from good families. No juvey-juvenile cautions,’ Noble corrected himself before Brook caught his eye. ‘And those CCTV cameras near the bridge were dummies.’
‘Any other cameras locally?’ asked Brook.
‘In Borrowash? Hardly. The only excitement round there seems to be the odd broken wing mirror.’
Brook put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. ‘All this careful planning suggests our man’s a murderer.’
‘Man? So you’ve definitely ruled out multiple suspects.’
‘I think so. Statistically we’re looking for a male, especially as our John Doe may have needed lifting. And, whether he has accomplices or not, he was on his own when he dumped the body.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The traffic cones,’ replied Brook, looking up at Noble to see if he wanted to take the reins.
Noble lifted his shoulders in a gesture of defeat. ‘What about them?’
‘He couldn’t carry the cones as well as a Road Closed sign. Two people could have done it. After he dumps the body, he’s in a hurry so he picks up his sign . .’
‘. . and leaves the cones stacked on the pavement thinking no one would notice,’ finished Noble. ‘Presumably he blocked off the road from the other side as well — somewhere out of sight of the bridges.’
‘I think so.’
‘We should-’
‘I already looked, John. There’s nothing to see though I’ve got a picture of an impression in the road that could have been from a line of cones — all fairly pointless.’
‘We might get a fingerprint from the cones he left behind.’
Brook wrinkled up his nose. ‘Doubtful.’
‘At least we know he must have driven off south, towards Elvaston Castle, because if he parked on the river bridge to dump the body, he must have run the hundred yards back up to Station Road for his sign.’ Noble looked at the ceiling, thinking it through. ‘But when he drove away, he pulled up to his other road-block so it was easier to put the sign and the cones in his car.’
Brook smiled approvingly at his DS. ‘There you go. Though if he’s transporting a body, some kind of van is more likely.’ He pushed the A-Z towards Noble. ‘All of which gets us to here, the junction of the B5010, where he turns right towards the A6 and A50, maybe heading for the M1 or back into Derby.’
‘Or left towards Shardlow — assuming he’s not from Thulston.’
Brook sighed. ‘You’re right. We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s wait for Forensics and the post mortem to find out exactly what we’re dealing with.’
The middle-aged man in a crumpled white chef’s uniform stared in disbelief as Rusty spoke to him. He then turned and glared over at Kyle and the others, giving them a lingering look up and down. Finally he shrugged and a moment later followed Rusty to their table and set a tray of soft drinks down, before distributing them to the students. He wore an ID badge with the name Lee and the archaic title Refectory Manager.
Adele smiled for the first time that day. The uniform and the title seemed incongruous to her, since the pinnacle of culinary sophistication in the college cafe was cheese on toast. Nevertheless she added the word ‘Refectory’ to her mental list of arcane words for future use. Just in case.
Rusty smiled. ‘Thanks,’ he said, talking to the table.
‘Aye. Well, don’t get used to it,’ said Lee. ‘I’m not a fucking waiter.’
Rusty placed a pound coin on to the empty tray without looking up.
The Refectory Manager looked down at it in surprise, if not gratitude. ‘Blimey. Think I’ll have it framed.’ He nodded his appreciation before trudging back to his till.
‘Waiter service, eh?’ teased Kyle.
‘Hark at Simon Cowell over here,’ added Becky.
Rusty was embarrassed. ‘My mum was a waitress for a while, and they earn a pittance, so I try to leave a tip if I can.’
Adele beamed at him. He squirmed under her gaze. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Rusty.’
‘Yeah, thanks for the drink, bruv,’ said Kyle, taking a swig of Coke.
Rusty examined the camcorder strapped to his right wrist. ‘No probs.’
‘I can’t imagine your mum as a waitress, Rusty,’ said Adele. ‘She’s so pretty.’
‘It wasn’t for long. And there was nothing else she could get in Chester.’
‘Don’t they need models in Wales then?’ asked Fern, turning to grin at Becky. To her surprise, Becky looked away, unsmiling.
‘She must be raking it in now though, if you’re such a moneybags,’ said Kyle.
‘Not really,’ said Rusty. ‘But it was my eighteenth last week so Mum’s spoiling me.’
There was an uncomfortable silence round the table from all except Fern. ‘Happy Birthday,’ she said gaily, missing the sudden mood-change. ‘Did you have a party?’
Becky and Adele rolled their eyes at Fern until she became vaguely aware she’d said the wrong thing.
Rusty smiled at the table, equally unaware of her faux pas. ‘No. But my mum bought me this new camcorder.’ He brandished it proudly. ‘And a cake.’
‘Your mum sounds nice,’ said Kyle warmly. He nodded sadly at the others. Poor Rusty. Nobody knew. Eighteenth birthdays were a big deal in a life so short of landmarks. They were an excuse for wild partying and drunken revelry with friends, extravagant presents from parents and maybe even a cruise round Derby, hanging from a Stretch. Assuming you had friends, of course. He looked at Rusty and realised he knew very little about him.
Suddenly Rusty looked up into his eyes. ‘What’s a MILF?’ The others darted their eyes around the table in panic. ‘That is what Wilson called my mum, isn’t it?’
It was difficult for the others to keep a straight face in the ensuing silence. Fortunately the writer among them came to the rescue. ‘It stands for Mums I Like Fine,’ said Adele, with a quick glance at Fern to discourage giggling.
‘That’s right,’ agreed Becky. ‘And Wilson’s such a good judge of personality.’ She stared at the top of Rusty’s head, then open-mouthed at Fern and Adele. Was this guy for real? Social skills zero, street patter zero. She sneaked a glance at Fern, who was starting to snigger, and Adele who was mouthing at her to stop.
Rusty looked up again and smiled. ‘Funny, I had Wilson down as a bit of a knobhead but he’s right. Mum’s the best. It’s been very difficult for her, having to move again.’ He looked away again, embarrassed, and no one pressed him to finish. They’d all heard the rumours of bullying.
‘It’s my eighteenth tomorrow,’ said Kyle, changing the subject. He looked round at his fellow students with an apologetic smile. This time even Fern was on message and looked intently at her drink. ‘Don’t worry,’ he continued. ‘You don’t need to waste your weekend on me. I’m not having a party either. Things are tight at the moment. There’s just me and Mum. Daddy Warbucks offered to pay but Mum doesn’t. .’ Kyle’s voice became more halting and he began to wish he’d said nothing. ‘Well,’ he finished tamely.
‘I couldn’t come anyway,’ said Fern, trying to hide her relief. ‘My parents are taking me Bournemouth for the weekend. Lame or what?’
Adele laid a hand across Kyle’s and fixed him in her gaze. ‘You should celebrate.’
Kyle looked at her with his doleful eyes. ‘Should I?’ He emitted a half-laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, I think so. You only get one eighteenth. And on a Friday too.’ She smiled but felt a stab of pain. Friday was always her special night with Adam. The first time they’d made love was on a Friday, last summer at his cottage.
‘He doesn’t have to celebrate if he doesn’t want to,’ said Becky.
‘Celebration implies happiness,’ said Rusty almost to himself.
‘Rusty’s right. There’ll be other times,’ said Kyle. ‘When I’ve. .’ He hesitated, then smiled sadly. ‘But thanks, Ade.’
Adele’s face hardened. ‘Suit yourself,’ she replied. ‘You can sit in the corner fondling your Morrissey posters and feeling sorry for yourself. But I’m coming round at seven with your present and you damn well better be there, Faggot.’
Kyle’s mouth fell open and there was shock and surprise around the table. Adele raised an eyebrow and glared at Kyle and he glared back. A second later Kyle’s mouth curved into a huge grin as Adele started to chuckle. ‘You saucy bitch,’ he screamed at her in his campest voice. ‘You’re so un-PC, girlfriend.’
‘That’s a date then.’ Adele laughed and everyone joined in. Even Rusty managed a thin smile.
Kyle looked around the table. ‘And you guys are all invited.’
‘Going Bournemouth,’ repeated Fern.
Becky looked at her sternly. ‘Yeah, leave me dangling, ho — that’s dread.’ She turned reluctantly to face Kyle. ‘I normally wouldn’t waste a Friday on you, Faggot, I want that understood, but if Fern’s dumping me then I’m sure I can find an hour for you — as long as we’re not listening to the fucking Smiths all night.’
Kyle smiled at her. ‘Great. I’ll lay on some booze. Uncle Len can afford it. What about you, Geek Boy? You gonna come?’
Rusty looked at him, puzzled. ‘Me?’
‘Yes, you.’ Kyle nodded.
Rusty was still confused. ‘You mean come to your party? As a guest?’
‘No, as a waiter, you sherm. Yes, as a guest.’
It took him a little time for the penny to drop. Then his face lit up. ‘I could film it for you,’ he said. ‘You’ll be the stars. And I promise I won’t get in the way.’
‘We’ll let you know if you do.’
‘And I could bring another DVD,’ he said excitedly. ‘Have you seen Badlands?’
‘Is it as good as Picnic at Hanging Rock?’ asked Adele.
‘You liked that?’ asked Rusty.
‘It was wicked,’ said Kyle. ‘Wondrous.’
‘Pretty good,’ conceded Becky.
Fern looked less certain but nodded in agreement. If Becks liked it, she liked it.
Rusty managed to lift his head towards Adele. Her eyes were still red from the tears. ‘What about you? Ade?’
Adele stared off into the distance. ‘Haunting,’ she said finally.
Rusty smiled and looked briefly at each in turn, before returning his eyes to the floor.
Becky held her hands open. ‘Just one thing, Geek Boy. What happened to the three girls in the film?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, where did they go?’
‘They disappeared. They walked up Hanging Rock and were never seen again.’
Becky pulled a face. ‘I know that. But it’s a film — what happened to them in real life?’
‘You’re missing the point, Becks,’ said Kyle.
‘I’m missing the point? Cheeky fucker.’
‘But you are,’ said Kyle. ‘See, it doesn’t matter what happened to them.’
‘It matters to me.’
‘Kyle’s right,’ said Adele. ‘What matters is they left of their own accord, on their own terms.’ She looked over at Kyle, who held her gaze for a second.
‘Oh, is that what matters?’ said Becky. ‘Well, that’s not what matters to me, Ade. I want to know if they really died. I mean, they must have found out what happened. Three girls can’t just vanish like that, can they?’
‘One of them was found a week later, remember,’ said Rusty. ‘But she had no memory of what had happened.’
‘D’uh!’ said Becky. ‘I’m not a mong. I saw the film.’
‘Yes, you did. And you should already know the most important thing,’ said Kyle. ‘They left their pain behind them for everyone else to bear.’
‘Yeah, okay, they left their pain behind. Boo hoo! But what actually happened to them?’ she insisted. ‘I can’t write a five-hundred-word review on just that. Three girls climb a rock and disappear. End of.’
‘It’s a mystery,’ said Rusty, risking another smile.
‘Stop grinning at me, Geek Boy, or you’ll be wearing your teeth as a necklace.’
‘He fancies you.’ Fern laughed, leering at her friend. Rusty looked away, suddenly flushed.
Becky sidled round to him and put a hand up to stroke his cleanshaven cheek. ‘Course he does. He’s got eyes, hasn’t he?’ She remembered a line from the film. “Am I your Botticelli Angel?” ’ She giggled at Fern then turned back to Rusty and kissed him on the same cheek. ‘Mmm, you’ve got quite the manly stubble, haven’t you, Geek Boy?’ She laughed.
‘Don’t be dread, Becks,’ said Adele.
‘What?’ Becky held her hands open to underscore her innocence.
Rusty didn’t move, a faint smile fixed on his face. He pulled the camcorder up to hide his reddening features and began filming her.
Becky’s expression betrayed an objection but she didn’t voice it. ‘Stop hiding behind that thing, Geek Boy. Tell me.’ Rusty kept filming so Becky gave in and pouted at the lens, fluffing up her curly blond hair with her hands and striking several poses. ‘I mean, if it’s based on a true story, where did they go?’ she said as she looked at the camera with a startled expression.
‘Here’s a theory even somebody shallow and superficial can understand,’ said Adele, an icy edge to her voice. Becky narrowed her eyes. ‘Without doing a day’s work in their lives, those girls became famous. They were frozen in beauty and time forever and here we are talking about them over a hundred years later. Jealous?’
Rusty put the camcorder down and smiled hesitantly at Adele. ‘That’s very clever, Ade.’
‘Jealous? Me?’ sneered Becky. ‘You mental bitch.’
‘When I go that’s what I want,’ said Fern. ‘People everywhere talking about me, missing me. It’ll be so sad. Like Romeo + Juliet.’
‘Kylie’s the jealous one,’ continued Becky. ‘He’d have loved going to a girls’ school, wouldn’t you, sweetie?’ She directed her laughter towards Fern, who cackled her approval.
‘All those gorgeous dresses to wear,’ Fern answered.
Kyle managed a good-humoured middle finger.
‘Never mind, Geek, I can guess what happened,’ replied Becky, sitting back down. ‘I’ll bet those blokes raped and murdered them. Only sensible solution. Men are only interested in one thing. Isn’t that right, Kyle?’
Kyle squirmed under her accusing gaze but this time didn’t react. The limelight shifted quicker that way.
‘No answer from Faggot.’ Becky downed her drink and stood to leave. Fern followed suit. ‘Well, I’ll see you all at Sad Bastard Central tomorrow night. And you better not tell any cool people I’m coming to your party, Kylie.’
‘I don’t know any,’ quipped Kyle.
Becky glared at him but decided not to challenge. She stalked away as if on a catwalk, Fern trailing in her wake.
Rusty stood to film them as they walked away. ‘Poor Becky.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Kyle.
Rusty stared at the table. ‘To be so ugly inside.’
Adele gazed at him, a thin smile forming around her mouth. ‘Maybe it’s a cry for help, Rusty.’
Rusty turned the camera on Adele but lowered it when she became uneasy. He looked into her dark eyes briefly.
‘Do they really not know what happened to those girls on the Hanging Rock?’ asked Kyle.
‘No, though there are lots of theories,’ said Rusty, finishing his drink. ‘The favourite is that they were buried under a rock fall somewhere near the summit. Me? I prefer not to know. That way they do live forever.’
‘Live forever.’ Adele nodded at him. ‘Like angels.’
‘Or gods,’ chipped in Kyle.
‘And poor Sara who flew to her death from the roof of the school — did she really kill herself? For real, I mean.’
‘Sara?’
‘The orphan — the girl who wasn’t allowed to go on the picnic because her school fees hadn’t been paid. She lost her best friend on Hanging Rock and later jumped off the roof of the school.’
Rusty shook his head. ‘I don’t really know. Most people concentrate on the girls who disappeared.’ He looked at her, pleased, and then a moment later said, ‘She had to content herself with being mortal.’
Adele nodded at him, her dark sad eyes mesmerising. ‘And alone.’
At that moment Rifkind entered the refectory and glanced across at Adele. She darted a quick peek in his direction then looked away.
‘You okay?’ asked Kyle.
She raised her dark eyes to him and smiled. ‘I will be.’