Concern cracks through me. ‘Are you OK? You look like shit.’
‘I’m…’ He drags his hands through his hair as he looks at the photo. ‘Just knackered. Didn’t sleep.’
Spence sleeps like the dead. I frown. ‘Do you want to talk about it? Whatever it is keeping you up?’
He hesitates, looks to the clock then lets out a long breath, passing the photo back.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ I take in the bags under his eyes.
‘What’s wrong? You never have trouble sleeping.’
‘It’s nothing.’ He leans back, nodding to the photo. ‘So, what did he say?’
I want to press, but it’s clear Spence doesn’t want to talk about what’s bothering him.
‘He talks about the night he painted me on the wall…’ Spence’s eyebrows lift. ‘Her,’ I correct. I reach over and take a crisp out of his open packet. ‘Tut, tut, Mr Campbell – are you allowed food in the classroom?’
He ignores me but moves the crisps into his drawer. ‘Al, do you seriously think…?’
I stop mid-chew, the crisp digging into my throat as I try to swallow it down.
‘I don’t know what to think.’
Spence rubs his forehead.
I soften my voice. ‘Spence… what’s going on?’
He takes off his glasses and cleans them with the corner of his shirt. ‘Georgia’s school called this morning and?—’
My pulse quickens. ‘Why? Is she OK?’
He scratches the back of his neck. ‘She’s not handling things well…’
Things?
I know him well enough to know there is something else he wants to say on the tip of his tongue. ‘What things?’
‘It’s complicated. Now’s not the time.’
‘Spence? What’s?—’
The moment is interrupted by the bell going off in the hallway. Doors swing open further down the corridor, with the loud cacophony of teens pouring out between lessons. ‘Shit.’ Spence looks up at the clock as if it’s personally assaulted him.
‘Come over for dinner after work?’ I suggest. ‘I’ll cook. Bring George and I can see if I can find out what’s going on. It’s probably just girl stuff.’
He hesitates.
‘Unless you’ve got another hot date with your mystery woman?’ I wiggle my eyebrows, trying to lighten the mood. He shakes his head and lets out a long breath. ‘Sure. But for the love of God, Al, don’t cook. I can’t afford to take any time off sick.’
‘Ha, ha.’
I get up off the desk, making my way towards the door.
‘Al?’
‘Hmmmm?’ He looks up, pen already in hand. ‘Try the electoral roll… If he’s a working-class man from Yorkshire, you can bet he’ll be voting.’
‘Good idea. See you later, then?’
