Page 28

He rises from his seat, swooping down to pick up his bag, shoving his paperwork into it before throwing the strap over his shoulder. He pauses for a moment, then hands me the flask of coffee and puts a banana next to it. Then he leaves without saying another word.

I have fifteen minutes until the end of lunch and the start of my afternoon lessons. I force myself to take another deep breath, trying to summon enough strength to get through the rest of the day, praying I’ll keep my fears about Duncan under control.

I remind myself how long I have until I’m free. Counting down to peace. Counting down to when I’ll finally feel safe.

***

The high street is quiet as I sit on the wall that forms the barrier between the road and the shops. My heavy bag rests by my feet as I roll my neck slightly to get rid of the knots I feel in my body.

One day, this will all be a distant memory. I hope I’ll never look back on these days and remember the stress, the heaviness in my bones, and the weight of the world on my shoulders. Jennifer often talks about the power of manifesting, and occasionally I’ll indulge her thinking. In the relative silence of the road, I think about the future I want.

A place to call my own. A roof over my head where I know I can build and retain peace. Maybe a little shop, a place where I can capitalise on my skills in the classroom for sewing. Room for my own sewing machine and overlockers, cabinets filled with fabrics and potential. Nights of fun with Felix. More importantly, peace, contentment, safety.

Sometimes it feels so out of reach. Days like today, where everything gets shaken up, where the security I think I built turns out to be an illusion.

Before I can get too carried away with my thinking and worrying, a car pulls up to a stop in the little parking section behind me. Instinct makes me turn around to look as I hear the car. Maybe one day I should manifest that every sound won’t make me check for threats and danger.

Instead of a stranger, it’s Joseph in the car. His car looks far more expensive than I would expect from a student teacher—a penniless university student at that—but it isn’t completely outrageous. Mid-sized, sleek, black body with slightly tinted windows. I shift off the wall, pick up my bag, and walk towards his car as he lowers his window.

“Still trust me?” he asks.

“Slightly less now that I’ve had time to think since lunch,” I admit.

“You should have been thinking about your lessons,” he says, flashing me a grin. It doesn’t stay on his face long, like he’s decided this is not an ideal time for making jokes or teasing.

“What can I say? My other teachers aren’t as interesting as the one I have for history,” I quip.

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel the blush on my face. Where did that come from? I want to rewind time and take it back, because the last thing I want is for the man who seems to keep rescuing me from various situations to think I’m flirting with him.

He gives a low chuckle and then gestures towards the passenger side of the car by cocking his head slightly.

“Getting in?”

I nod and walk around to open the back door, throwing my bag into the footwell. It lands with a loud thud. When I get into the front of the car beside him, he gives me a wry smile.

“What is that look for?” I ask.

“Just wondering what you have in your bag that makes it sound like rocks,” he comments.

“Well, let’s see. My phone. My purse. A change of clothes for tomorrow and an outfit suitable for a club—should I need one. Toothbrush. Make-up bag. Hairbrush. Then every folder and file I need for the week at school,” I reel off.

“So basically everything you need to make a quick getaway,” he murmurs.

“A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do,” I retort.

“Except you shouldn’t have to do it. It’s dangerous, Dee. Everything you tell me sounds like you need to get out of this situation.”

“I do, and I will. I just have a few more months to get through,” I argue.

“You could—”

“I could just walk home,” I point out. I reach for the door handle, but he shakes his head.

“Whereabouts is your house?” he asks.

“Manor Court,” I reply.

He nods, and I’m surprised he seems to know where I’m talking about. It’s on the opposite side of town to where his place is situated, and I’m fairly sure he didn’t grow up around here. Maybe the area where I live is something he’s heard about as a warning—most people avoid it. It’s not the worst part of town, but it certainly isn’t nice. Historically, it was a council estate, a place where councils placed families who had nowhere else to go. A few homes have been purchased, and the owners have tried to make their small area look pretty and neat, but most are still owned by the council with several tenants who clearly don’t give a shit about what things look like.