Tick tock, p.3
Tick Tock, page 3
He opened his laptop, uploaded the essays from his Year Twelves and Thirteens, read one, poured some wine, then googled ‘objective tinnitus’.
He woke, frozen, just after 3 a.m.
Rose was asleep, in her room.
Lilly was asleep, in her room.
Three days earlier
5.10 a.m.
LILLY SLATER’S FIRST waking thought was Kit. That hadn’t happened before. She made a mental note – that had to be significant, didn’t it? It wasn’t her newly buried father. It wasn’t the pile of work she’d need to dive into as soon as she got to her office. It was of Kit Chaplin. Her daughter’s English teacher. It had been seventeen months but was just starting to feel normal.
She had five minutes before she needed to be in the shower. She reached for her phone, texted him. He’d get it when he woke up. She knew he never took his phone to bed so there was no danger of waking him.
Sorry didn’t call. Grim day. Talk later?
She added an X then deleted it. Unnecessary. Too much.
She was showered and dressed by five thirty. Blue-and-white block-print dress, black tights, boxy cardigan. One black coffee from the machine, one slice of toast with a no-peel marmalade, one banana. She loaded the dishwasher, added all Jess’s take-out containers, swore briefly. She’d noticed the state of the kitchen when she got in late last night, but she had been too tired to clean anything. The only thing she had checked, apart from the window locks, was that Jess didn’t have company. If you leave your teenage daughter on her own for a day and a half, it was all to be expected. They’d exchanged texts last night and Jess seemed to understand what was happening. She’d never met her grandfather – knew almost nothing about him – but understood the process her mother was obliged to follow. She got process. Lilly left a box of porridge and an orange on the table. Just in case.
She checked the charge on her laptop and phone, then zipped them both into her bag. Dogtooth wool coat, charcoal-grey scarf, and she was by the front door before six. She ignored the mirror. Patted her coat pockets for keys and gloves. Her Tube pass was in her top pocket, her work accreditation for GSL, Global Shield Labs, in an inside pocket.
She was ready to leave, but she hesitated by the door. Dropped her hand from the deadlock. Took a breath.
‘What am I doing?’ she whispered. She rested her head against the door. The red matte paint was cold against her skin. She closed her eyes. ‘What am I actually doing?’ Take the day off. Take the week off. That’s what she’d been told, but here she was, dressed and on her way to work. As though nothing had happened. As though her father hadn’t just been cremated. As though she didn’t really care very much. ‘Well?’ she asked herself, as if there were a clock running. If she stayed, she would see Jess, could tell her what had happened. If she left, she would be able to collate the new test results. Her indecision surprised and annoyed her. Kit would say she was in shock, but she doubted that. The work was important. Her role was important. The final thirty tests had been filed and she needed to finish her analysis. No one else would do it. No one else would go near it. Lilly exhaled heavily, briefly fogging the paint. She would take a half-day. She would see Jess later. Maybe make her supper. Problem solved.
Lilly patted her pockets again then left the house. She pulled the door shut quietly behind her and headed for the station.
Kit was getting dressed.
Rose was getting ready to leave the house.
7.40 a.m.
Rose was early, but not early enough to get a seat. She leaned against one of the bus’s metal support poles, angling her weight to avoid the red ‘Stop’ button. Rucksack between her feet. DMs, black tights, black pleated skirt, hooded parka over her grey MCS sweatshirt. Hood over headphones. The inside of the bus was only a few degrees warmer than the freezing streets outside; her hood stayed up.
There were two stops before Harriet, three before Millie. She texted both. Harriet was waiting. Nothing from Millie. She pocketed her phone and tried to look through the window. The streetlights were on, the sky still dark. The bus window was a clouded mirror reflecting huddled ghosts. Rose turned away.
At each stop the overcrowded bus somehow absorbed more passengers. Rose clung to her post, positioned her legs around her rucksack. The stop before Harriet, she retrieved her phone. Watched the clicking video of Harriet one more time. Its soundtrack in her headphones made her laugh out loud. This time the sound coming from Harriet’s on-screen ear sounded more like a pop. Like a tiny bubble bursting. Followed by more bubbles, more bursting.
The bus slowed and Rose looked up. Montreal Road. Harriet’s stop. On this bus you entered at the front, exited midway, just where she was standing. Rose grabbed hold of her bag as departing passengers squeezed past. She turned her head to avoid contact with a flushed and sweating woman in an ancient stretched-to-bursting tracksuit. The woman was finding it difficult to exit the bus but she sucked in her lips and pushed until the scrum gave way. She coughed twice as she passed, her hip brushing Rose’s back. Rose shivered. Harriet appeared, as if in the coughing woman’s slipstream.
‘Hey,’ said Rose. She smiled.
‘Hey,’ said Harriet. She tried to smile.
‘What’s up?’ said Rose.
Her friend’s face was almost lost under a thick blue hood, only a few strands of her yellow-blonde hair escaping its fur trim. She grabbed the metal pole, stood at right angles to Rose. Identical height; both five foot two. Their eyes met only briefly, just long enough for Rose to clock the tears. Harriet looked away, stared at the floor. Said nothing.
‘Harri.’ Rose dipped to catch her eye then reached a hand into her friend’s hood. Lifted one ear of her headphones. ‘Harri, what is it?’ Harriet whispered something, but Rose missed it.
‘What?’
‘Put it back, Rose,’ said Harriet, more clearly now. ‘Please.’ Rose dropped the headphones to her ear.
Harriet turned to face the window, her back to Rose. They rode for a minute like that; Rose behind Harriet, both with a hand on the pole. When Harriet’s shoulders started to tremble, Rose slid her hand over hers. Harriet let it stay there.
As the bus slowed then stopped Rose shifted as much as she could to accommodate the passengers lining up to exit, pushing her closer to Harriet. This was Millie’s stop. In front of her the exit doors fizzed open; another icy blast from the street. Rose turned to scan the new arrivals; Harriet didn’t move. Rose checked her phone again. No message. No Millie. She messaged Harriet, standing just in front of her, instead.
Talk/not talk?
Two seconds later, Harriet hauled her phone from an inside pocket, checked the screen, typed a reply. Rose’s phone buzzed. A one-word reply:
Scared.
The bus’s entrance and exit doors were still open, the last of the new passengers climbing aboard, swiping their passes. Rose grabbed Harriet’s arm, pushed her down the steps, off the bus. As they stepped on to the pavement the bus doors closed. Harriet turned to Rose, her pale blue eyes wide with astonishment, her mouth open. She pulled off her large pink headphones. Rose cut across whatever it was she had been about to say.
‘We’ll walk from here.’ She linked arms with Harriet and they set off. There were black railings running along the narrow path, scrappy grassland running to tarmac on the other side. The traffic was busy both ways but downhill to the city was jammed already. Nose to tail, as far as they could see. Hardworking car-heating systems fought their iced and steamed-up windows. Diesel and petrol fumes hung in the air.
After twenty paces of silence, Harriet took a deep breath.
‘I’m a freak, Rose.’
‘You what?’
‘My brother said it as I left just now. He heard the clicking and started laughing.’
‘You’re still clicking?’ Rose glanced at Harriet, who bit her lip then nodded.
‘Carl’s like, “Put her in a circus! She’s an actual freak.”’
‘Yeah, well, Carl is a dick,’ said Rose. ‘You’ve said so yourself. And anyway, he’s basically a fifteen-year-old child. He doesn’t know shit.’
Harriet snorted then wiped her nose with her hand. ‘You got that right. You’ve always been right about Carl.’ She gave a little tug on Rose’s arm. ‘But he’s correct this time, Rose. My head’s making noises. Listen.’ The two girls put their heads together as they walked.
‘Same as yesterday then,’ said Rose. ‘But you saw those clips I sent you? You’re not a freak at all, Harri. Seems like loads of people are clicking.’
‘Then we’re all freaks,’ said Harriet.
Two buses passed. Harriet glanced at them.
‘We’ll be late,’ she said.
‘We will,’ said Rose. It was a statement of fact, delivered flatly. An expression of comradeship. Ten more paces in silence. Harriet pulled Rose closer.
‘I’m so scared, Rose.’
‘Did you tell your mum?’
Harriet nodded. ‘She said she’d get me an appointment at the doctor’s. But I’m scared now, Rose. I don’t want to wait ten days, or however long it’ll take.’ They crossed a five-way junction, running to catch the lights. The sky was brightening at last, but most of the light here came from the street’s coffee bars and sandwich shops. The pavement was flooded with a warm glow and the smells of breakfast. The queues snaked out of the doors.
Rose swapped sides, threading her other arm through Harri’s. ‘In which case,’ she said, ‘when we get to school, we go straight to Nurse Mac.’
‘You always say she’s useless,’ protested Harriet.
Rose smiled. ‘I do, and she is. But we might get lucky this time. And we get to miss English.’
Rose and Harriet walked on. They were forty-five minutes from school.
Lilly was at her desk.
Kit was walking into the staffroom.
8.05 a.m.
Kit was old enough to remember smoke-filled staffrooms. In his first year of teaching he had provided a lot of it, his ten roll-ups a day adding – so he thought – swagger to his bookish, scholarly image. When the asthma appeared he had, eventually, ditched his beloved tobacco tins, though with considerable reluctance. Now he realized he had been an imbecile, but every time he pushed open a staffroom door he still thought of lighting up. Even now, with the hangover he had feared and the sure knowledge it would make him wheeze all day, he felt the familiar nicotine tug.
The MCS staffroom had been the school dining hall until the 1960s, when it had been repurposed by the then headmaster. It still felt like a refectory to Kit, with four long dining-style tables placed two and two, with plastic chairs of all colours tucked haphazardly around them. Laptops and piles of exercise books indicated places in use or reserved. Beaten-up old armchairs were scattered around the periphery, most of them occupied. Of the thirty-one staff, Kit was still one of the newest. Turnover was lower than average for a London state school. The ‘Outstanding’ grade in the last Ofsted report was certainly part of the explanation. The nearby John Lewis store’s generous teacher discount explained the rest.
Kit dropped his bag on the first table, made for the coffee tray. It was vile stuff, but it was there and it was free. He took a brimming paper cup back to his chair. He needed at least half of it before he could be sociable. He felt the scorching liquid all the way down to his stomach. Now he could look up. He nodded as members of staff caught his eye.
‘Hi, Aisha. G’morning, George,’ he managed eventually. Behind him in the easy chairs were head of science and deputy head Aisha Khatri and George Hall, Games. Or ‘Athletics’, as he would have it. Both were slumped under a hardworking noticeboard. Kit was sure they were having an affair, but they were both married, just, and had three kids between them, so he didn’t pry. He dragged his chair around to face them. It was Aisha he had been hoping to see. He was about to jump straight in with it but instead forced out some pleasantries.
‘You guys OK?’ he said, then wondered if that sounded like he assumed they were a couple. He winced and stumbled on. ‘If I remember, Aisha, you’re not a fan of Tuesdays.’ Now it was her turn to wince.
‘You remember correctly,’ she said. Late thirties, loose-fitting crimson dress, black woollen cardigan, long black hair piled high on her head and tied with an elaborate black cord. She closed her eyes. ‘My two worst classes back to back. Destroys me every time.’ George’s phone rang and he hauled himself out of his chair.
‘Scuse me,’ he said. ‘Better take this.’ He shuffled off towards the coffee station, trainers squeaking on the wooden floor. Kit heard him say, ‘Hi, darling,’ then the rest was lost. Kit leaned in.
‘So, Aisha. Question for you. Have you heard of objective tinnitus?’ He said the words with a peculiar emphasis, as if they were in an unfamiliar foreign language. She pursed her lips.
‘Tinnitus I know,’ she said. ‘Objective tinnitus I do not. That implies there is a subjective tinnitus …’
‘It does,’ said Kit. ‘And if I’ve read it right, there is. That’s the normal ringing-in-the-ear stuff. Headphones too loud, Metallica, Earls Court, 2003, you know.’
‘Okaaay.’ Aisha managed to frown and look amused at the same time.
‘I know,’ he said, hands in the air, palms towards her. ‘Maybe not what you’d expect from the English department first thing. But look at this. My daughter recorded it last night. It’s her mate on the bus home.’ He took out his phone and played Rose’s video of Harriet’s noisy ear. Aisha’s expression changed.
‘This is for real?’ she said.
‘Wait,’ he said, then he played three more videos, finishing with the American one.
Aisha shook her head. ‘Nope. No idea,’ she said. ‘Never seen it before. But when my Year Eights are kicking off, asking about the human reproductive system again, I’ll think of them with strange noises coming out of their ears. Maybe it’ll help.’ She strode to the door. Kit and George, who had finished his call, watched her go.
Kit mixed up another coffee. He sipped it slowly and read his Tennessee Williams notes until the bell went.
Lilly was studying germ manipulation.
Rose was knocking at Nurse McKay’s door.
8.50 a.m.
Rose and Harriet had hung their coats up, stowed their bags under their desks and walked the length of the building to get to ‘the San’. It was just a room at the end of a corridor with medical equipment and a nurse, but it said ‘Sanatorium’ on the door, so ‘the San’ it was. The girls were side by side on a low bench, backs to the San wall. It was in a far corner of the building usually referred to as ‘Old School’, as it was, by some measure, the most dilapidated. The heating system had been installed many decades ago, the windows and doors were warped and draughty, and the painted walls Rose and Harriet were staring at were chipped and scuffed. Aisha Khatri’s biology lab had the misfortune to be the closest classroom to the Old School. It gave the corridor its distinctive, never-fading rotten-fish smell. Harriet was impatient, her fingers tapping her phone screen.
‘This is crazy, Rose,’ she said, her voice hushed. ‘What am I going to say to her anyway? She’ll think I’m mad.’
‘You say you’re scared. And you tell her why.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. It’s what she’s here for.’
‘Or not here for,’ said Harriet. ‘When does she get in?’
Rose shrugged. ‘Presumably now?’
‘We could come back at break?’ suggested Harriet.
‘No,’ said Rose. ‘We’re late for English because we’re at the San. No one will argue. We could be here for anything.’
Harriet nodded. She stopped tapping. ‘Shit,’ she said.
‘What?’ said Rose, head snapping right.
Harriet had gone pale. ‘It’s faster, Rose. The noise. It just got faster.’ Her voice tailed off, the last word barely a breath. Rose leaned closer, their heads touching. She frowned as if struggling to hear, then her eyes widened.
‘OK. Got it,’ she said. Nodded. ‘Faster is right.’ She held her friend’s hand.
Harriet squeezed hers back. ‘OK, now I do want to see Nurse Mac.’
‘Just ’cos it’s faster, it doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t mean it’s worse.’ Rose didn’t sound convinced.
Harriet noticed. Her grip tightened. ‘What do I do, Rose?’ Small staccato sobs interrupted her speech.
Rose checked her phone. ‘We’ll give Mac two minutes,’ she said, ‘then we go to Whitlock.’
‘Really?’ Harriet turned to Rose, wiped her eyes with a sleeve.
‘Really.’
‘So you do think it’s worse.’
A beat.
‘I suppose. Yeah.’
There was a bustling sound from beyond the dog-leg turn in the corridor. A running, tripping woman in a tracksuit and with wild ginger hair came bowling towards them.
‘What a state,’ muttered Rose.
Joanne McKay bellowed as she ran. ‘Sorry, girls! Just give me a moment, will you?’ She flew past them, unlocked her door. ‘One minute,’ she called, pushing the door closed with her foot. The girls exchanged glances.
‘Is this even worth it?’ said Harriet. ‘Maybe go straight to Whitlock?’ The San door flew open again. Nurse Mac was now, somehow, dressed in a white tunic and black stockings. Like a real nurse.
‘Come in!’ she said, all smiles. The girls entered the San, both of them noticing the pair of tracksuit bottoms that had been kicked into a corner. ‘Sit down then.’ She gestured at two chairs against an unadorned cream wall, then sat behind an old school desk. ‘Er, Rose Chaplin, I know. And …’ She raised her eyebrows at Harriet.
