Dying Fall by Judith Cutler Page A

reach a decision while he did it.
    â€˜That friend of yours is hiding something,’ he said at last.
    â€˜Tony? Never!’
    â€˜Bloody cagey.’
    â€˜His mother was an oyster, his father a clam. And being a manager’s made him worse.’
    â€˜Shouldn’t stop him reporting incidents like that.’
    â€˜â€™Course it shouldn’t. Look, I must go in. I’m desperate for a loo.’
    â€˜OK. I’ll phone you.’
    He let me get out and only then got out himself. He followed me slowly.
    There was a dull thud. His hand shot out, as if to pull me back. Then he pointed. Aggie’s bin. A fox had knocked it over and was worrying the lid.
    We started to laugh.
    He touched my arm. ‘Good night, then, Sophie. You will be careful, won’t you?’
    I couldn’t understand why he sounded so earnest. ‘Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.’
    But he was still watching and waiting when I shut my front door.

Chapter Nine
    Friday is the day of my favourite class, that Access group, but today I had the business of Manjit to attend to before I could start teaching. She presented herself outside the staff room at nine sharp, wan, a bruise on her face where the red mark had been. She was far from apologetic, however. True, she presented me with a note, torn off her lined A4 notepad, apologising for using bad language, but when I tried to ask her about the circumstances she repeated that it was none of my business and I ought to back off.
    I unlocked a classroom and gestured her inside.
    â€˜Sit down and listen,’ I said.
    She did as she was told. But every line of her body expressed resentment and something else – fear? I returned to the door and locked it, so we wouldn’t be interrupted.
    â€˜Manjit, I’m trying to help you. You were very upset last Friday, upset enough to interrupt my class, and I know you’re too responsible to do that without good reason. I haven’t told a single soul about our conversation. OK?’
    She nodded. Her face was still sullen but she glanced up briefly.
    â€˜There’s something wrong. We both know that. When you said it was none of my business you weren’t quite right. Anything that makes a student as unhappy as you were – and still seem to be – is the business of people who care about her. And I care about you. Right?’
    She nodded, and she tried to smile. But her eyes were filling with tears.
    â€˜Maybe you don’t want to talk about what’s upset you. Maybe you’re afraid to.’
    She flinched.
    â€˜If you can’t talk to me, couldn’t you talk to one of the college counsellors?’
    She shook her head. ‘And I don’t want you to, either, miss. Things get around.’
    â€˜Not from our counsellors. Everything you tell them is confidential. You know that.’
    She shook her head stubbornly.
    â€˜How about I talk to them in general terms? Find out –’
    â€˜I don’t want you to find out nothing. Oh, miss –’
    â€˜OK. Manjit. I won’t do anything without your say-so. I want you to know I’ll always listen if you want to talk to me. Right? And I want you to write down this – it’s my home telephone number.’
    She looked me straight in the eyes. ‘Thanks, miss. Miss, promise me you won’t tell anyone – anyone. Please.’
    I hesitated.
    â€˜Miss, I daren’t be late in case anyone – you know –’
    But although I nodded kindly, I wasn’t quite sure that I did.
    I was out of my depth. I knew I ought to be doing something but I’d promised to do nothing, in particular not to talk to those very colleagues whom I’d have trusted with my life. I worried my way round the situation for the rest of the day. There was a meeting across the lunch hour I had to go to, but I might not have been there for all the contribution I made to the new College Development Plan.