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‘It’s not baby brain,’ she says quickly, justifying herself, hating herself for doing it even in the moment. ‘Emily’s an easy baby and I’m not overtired. Last week Peter even checked the folder with me.’ She bites her lip. Now she’s adding Peter as a kind of ballast. The weight of a man’s word, heavier than her own; she can see it in the clearing of Harry’s face. It’s 2018, for God’s sake; are women not to be believed? ‘And then two weeks ago,’ she continues, ‘I bumped into one of my students on my street. Sean Worth. He suffers from anxiety but he’s harmless, or at least I think he is. But then last week I thought I saw him outside again, watching the house.’
‘Watching the house?’ Harry’s eyes widen. ‘Are you sure it was him?’
She shakes her head. ‘It’d be unfair to Sean to say I was sure. But the week before, yes, it was. Last week it looked like him, but he had his hood up, it was dark and I was in the bedroom. I couldn’t see him clearly. And by the time I made it onto the street, he’d gone.’
Harry rubs his chin a moment. He looks so much older than Peter, she thinks, considering they were at school together. He is overweight, his cord jacket is too big for him, his hair almost white. ‘And you say no one has claimed the poems?’
‘I only asked once. Peter said to ignore it. We were hoping whoever it was would get bored. I thought they had, but then last week … We actually called the police. They took a statement and told us to be vigilant. They’ve got it on record now, at least.’
‘So you’ve already called the police,’ he mutters. ‘And you’re pretty sure one or two of the poems … or pieces or whatever … were planted in your house, possibly by this student?’
‘No, not pretty sure. I’m pretty sure he was outside my house, but that doesn’t mean he broke in. I intend to ask him today. I don’t want to frighten him, so I’m going to handle it myself when I find the right moment. I guess he could simply have followed me home or something. Or been in the area for a completely different reason. I haven’t seen anyone outside the house all week, so I wonder if he saw the police car. He’s … a little odd. Kind of lingers and tells me all sorts of stuff, as if he just wants to talk, you know? But I’d say he’s harmless. Lonely, maybe.’
‘He might have a bit of a crush. It happens, especially with tutors as … erm … well, especially with the more youthful and attractive, shall we say?’ He coughs, clearly embarrassed. ‘But even so, he can’t go following you home.’ Again, he rubs his chin, checks his watch. ‘Right, tell you what. I’ll note it on the system. See how it goes today, and in the meantime, I’ll try and free myself up and wander along before – two, is it, your class finishes?’
She nods.
‘Right. I’ll try and pop down, stand at the back for the last ten minutes, how about that? And we’ll take it from there.’
‘Thank you. Yeah, thanks. That’d be great.’
There is some relief in having spoken to Harry, and to have him take her seriously, if only to know she is not alone at work. But on her way to class, her stomach clenches. The whole thing is going round on a loop, and loops are a classic sign of stress; she knows that from dealing with her mother after her father left – on and on she went, over and over the same ground, expecting to come out with a different conclusion when the only conclusion was the painful truth: she had lost everything.
As for Peter, she has to stop thinking badly of him. He was at work, and apart from anything else, it doesn’t make sense that he wrote the poems. Unless … but there she goes again, round and round.Stop it, Sam, just bloody stop it. What she needs is to get on with her job, focus on other people besides herself.
As she rounds the corner, she sees a figure she recognises standing near reception. Sean. Her chest tightens.
‘Sean,’ she says. ‘How are you?’
‘Hello, Miss,’ he says. Unusually for him, he adds nothing.
They walk on, through to the cafeteria. Lana is sitting at one of the tables, on her own, drinking hot chocolate and scribbling in a notebook, and at the sight, Samantha feels her insides flip.
Sean is still at her elbow. Sod it, she thinks.
‘Sean, what brought you to my road the week before last?’ She glances at him, sees his eyes dart towards the canteen exit.
‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘I … I was meeting a friend. But she didn’t come.’
‘A friend?’
He nods. ‘But she didn’t come.’
‘Sean, can I ask you something?’ She stops, faces him.
‘Yes, Miss.’ He stops too, looks down at his tatty trainers.
‘Sean, it’s not a problem and I’m not cross or anything, but were you outside my house again last week? In the evening, around seven?’
He breathes through his nose, rapidly. His hand flies to the zip of his anorak. He works it up and down, up and down.
‘I was just checking you were OK.’ He glances up at her through his upper eyelashes. His eyes are blue and sad and she doesn’t know what to think.
‘Why wouldn’t I be OK?’
He shrugs. Still not looking up.
‘Sean? Why wouldn’t I be OK?’ Nothing. ‘Sean, can I ask you, have you been in my house?’
