I pick up my shattered phone from the floor, experiencing a new rush of fury at the thought of how many hours my mother worked, how many weeks she saved to top-up my earnings so I could afford the nicer model.
All that effort and now it’s ruined.
When Zane hands me the teacher’s phone, it’s locked. I walk back to where he’s lying on the floor, giving him a kick. “What’s your passcode?”
“Fuck off.” His eyes open to narrow slits and he glares over my shoulder at Zane. “You’re going to prison for this.”
“Nice. Then you’ll have company.”
The man closes his eyes again and I stamp his chest, holding the screen in front of him for when they flick open again. Thephone clicks, unlocking to the home screen and I step away, grinning with satisfaction.
Then I take a photo.
In his contacts list, I find his wife and type out a quick note.
“What are you doing?” Zane asks, kicking the teacher onto his front and securing his hands with the charging cord. He stands, wiping blood against his jeans and I scan him quickly, looking for signs of damage.
None of the blood appears to be his.
“I’m sending a text to his wife. He said she didn’t understand him, so I’m giving her enough information that she will.”
“Bitch.”
Zane kicks him and once I press send, I put aside the phone to grab the masking tape from the stationery shelf, pulling off a strip to cover Mr Simmons’ foul mouth.
By the time I finish, the phone has locked again and won’t open to his taped face.
“We need to keep it,” I tell Zane when he tries to take it from my shaking hands. “There are pictures on here.”
I want to explain about the student Mr Simmons talked about, but tears overwhelm me. By the time I sniff them back, I settle for, “I think he’s done this before.”
The moment I say the words, my limbs tremble until I stuff the phone in my pocket to avoid it slipping from my loose fingers. The realisation of how much worse things could be, what he could have done if Zane hadn’t arrived when he did, fills my mind, swamping the relief with a dozen nightmares.
My shoulders shake, voice disappearing as I experience the fear of those few minutes again. When my attempt to save myself had failed and I didn’t think anyone else would arrive in time.
But a rescuer was on his way.
“Thank you for coming to save me.”
His arms are around me again, letting me sob against his chest. With the trembling aftermath of fear, yes, but also with the knowledge he sacrificed himself for me without a thought.
Flying here to save me, though the breach of conditions could land him in prison.
It’s the confirmation I crave.
Proof that his affection might once have been twisted around a surge of self-interest but is now genuine. Free of that murky beginning.
It’s a patch rather than a full repair but I indulge in the emotion of that revelation, crying against the solidity of his chest for a full minute, before pulling myself back together. “You should go before you get in more trouble. I’ll call the police and tell them…”
But my mind is blank.
There’s no way I can explain this or pretend it was me.
Even if I could have got the better of Mr Simmons, no one will believe my unblemished hands damaged his face to this extent.
But I don’t want Zane to pay the price for my rescue. That’s as unfair as me paying for his recklessness.
He chuckles, pulling me back against him like he needs the constant reassurance of my touch. “I’m not leaving here without you.”
