The Head Teacher: A BRAND NEW completely chilling psychological thriller from H.M. Lynn

PROLOGUE

When the curtains catch alight, it’s instant. The flames engulf the fabric. They rise towards the ceiling before spreading out sideways and meeting in the centre of the window. It’s a perfectly framed border of flames and, for a split second, I pray that the fire is going to stay there; contained and controlled enough for me to get out of the house and call the emergency services. But my home stank of whisky from the moment I stepped inside. Now I understand why. It was planned to the last detail. A trail catches light down the side of the wall, leading straight towards the sofa. If that goes up, the entire wall behind it will be gone too, and I’ll be trapped. We both will. I need to move fast, only I don’t know if I have enough strength. Not to get both of us out.

I stand there. The smoke stinging my eyes and burning my lungs. This can’t be where it ends. It just can’t…

1

Every morning, I wake up four minutes before my alarm. Exactly four minutes, every bloody morning. And I hate it. If I wanted to wake up earlier, I would set my alarm earlier, but I don’t. Instead, I wake up, lying there in my bed, wishing I had hours left to sleep, but knowing instead that any second, my silence is going to be shattered by a high-pitch squealing and I’m going to be thrust into the real world. Dealing with entitled and angry parents and upset children and teachers who don’t have enough time to do their job because I don’t have enough money to fund their department. I know that every mistake I make is going to be lauded over me, while every achievement is instantly forgotten. I’ll admit, when I first got the job, I didn’t imagine I would take it all so personally. I thought I’d be able to compartmentalise a little more. But it’s harder than I’d expected.

So, for those first four minutes of the day, when I lie there with no one expecting or demanding anything from me, I dream of what it would be like to have a job where there’s no responsibility, no pressure, no infringement on my family time or mental health. But then I remind myself that I’m the one who wanted this. I’m the one who wanted the bigger mortgage, not to mention the accolades that go with the title of head teacher. I’m the one that wanted to be making the rules, rather than having to abide by them. That’s why, when the alarm pierces through my skull, I roll out of bed and walk automatically over to the shower, ready to start another day as head teacher of a prestigious Catholic school.

It doesn’t matter what time of year it is, that moment when I turn off the main road and first see St Anne’s in the morning light, at the end of the long, meandering driveway, always takes my breath away.

The grounds of St Anne’s are unlike any other school I’ve worked or trained at. The main house is the type of thing you see in a period drama, complete with large bay windows and carved reliefs in the brickwork. It had been a private home until the 1940s, after which the owner died and the house passed – much to his relatives’ distress – to the Church, who promptly turned it into a school. Since then, it has gone through countless renovations. In fact, it always seems like it’s going through some work or another. It’s a disadvantage with being in an older building, with hand-carved brickwork and solid wood flooring laid over a hundred years ago. Not that there aren’t plenty of advantages to it. My office, which looks out across the sports field, has a working fireplace, and double doors that open fully onto a first-floor balcony. With genuine oil paintings on the wall, and original Turkish rugs that probably cost over a month’s salary, it’s a long way from some of the state schools I worked at early in my career. It doesn’t even look like an office. It looks like a very posh living room. Or a drawing room, maybe? Is that what rich people call rooms where they have sofas and desks? I don’t know, but, either way, with its powder-blue armchairs and marble mantlepiece, it’s my sanctuary. The one place I get to control what goes on. But to get there, I have to make my way from the car park through the rest of the building.

‘Morning, Liz.’

‘Morning, Angela.’

‘Good morning, Mrs Croft.’

‘Morning, Darren.’

‘Good morning, Liz.’

‘Morning, Chris.’

By the time I reach my office, the breakfast of toast and black coffee I wolfed down with my husband and daughter only thirty minutes before feels like a distant memory. I’ve normally greeted close to thirty people by this point, and I know it’s just the start of it. But it’s even worse than normal today because this is the first day of a new school term. There’s going to be so much smiling, my cheeks are going to burn. I’ll get through it, though.

I won’t deny my upbringing played a role in me getting this job at St Anne’s. The governors would have never given it to someone who hadn’t been through Catholic education themselves.

They don’t need to know how much I despised it.

From the age of four to eighteen, I played the role of the perfect, doting Catholic girl. I attended every mass, memorised every prayer. Never missed a deadline for school or a choir practice or even considered rolling up my skirt so it was more in line with fashion.

It was easier that way.

Though it was all a lie.

I knew before I’d even hit my teens that this wasn’t me. I couldn’t bear listening to teachers preaching the values of virtue, while you knew from the school grapevine they’d spend Friday night out in town, getting so drunk, they could barely stand. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t judge them for drinking. It was the hypocrisy I judged them for. As I sat there in sixth form, listening to lectures on how it was my duty to God to save myself until marriage, I promised myself that once I left that school – and my hometown – I would never call myself religious again. And I stuck with it. For years and years, I rebelled against my upbringing and did a lot of things that were not in keeping with the values the school tried so hard to impress upon me. A lot of things that would definitely have stopped me getting this job if they were ever made public. But it’s not like that’s ever going to happen; after all, it was before camera phones captured our every movement, and we posted our entire lives on social media, thank God.

So, for the longest part of my life, I ignored my religious upbringing altogether. That was until the job came up at St Anne’s. One of the best schools in the entire district, with a proven track record and a position that was so perfect for me, I could have written it myself. But, as I scanned the application, I saw a preference in the criteria, clear as day. Catholic. Guess who’s the hypocrite now?

As the thought rises in my mind, I try to negate it with justifications.

St Anne’s is a long way from my convent school upbringing. Our aim here is to raise well-rounded, compassionate young people who can go out into the world and make a positive contribution to society in whatever manner they see fit. That’s what the school manifesto says, and that’s what I’m sticking to.

2

For some reason, this school year starts on 31 August, which has pissed the staff off no end. There’s this unwritten rule in teaching that August is officially a holiday month. And most years, it is. It’s just, now and then, the calendar has to be shifted because of some religious event we’ve got to pay homage to, and we’re back here before the start of September.

As soon as I step into the staffroom, and face a sea of overly tanned, overly talkative teachers, it’s clear I’m going to have a battle on my hands. At least until we all get into the swing of things. As soon as the children arrive on Wednesday and they’re back in the classrooms, teaching the subjects they love, it’ll all be fine. But I’ve got two days of uphill battles to get through before then.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, I hope you’ve all had a wonderfully relaxing holiday and are ready to hit the ground running. We’ve got a busy term ahead of us.’

I position myself just to the left of the door so I can get out as quickly as possible once I’m done. I’ve got so many emails to respond to, I want to get started on them straight away. So I fix my face in a smile, and clear my throat loud enough for everyone in the room to know this meeting has officially started and that they should be paying attention to me, not chatting or scrolling through their phones.

‘I want to keep this meeting short, as I know you have a lot of work you want to get done before your classes arrive on Wednesday,’ I say. ‘So if I can have your full attention please, that would be appreciated.’

As I speak, the last couple of heads roll towards me. Not to mention a fair few eyes. It would be the same anywhere, I remind myself. You are always going to have people who think they don’t need to listen to you, no matter how far down the ranks they are. Besides, it is the end of the holiday. I’ve no idea what people have gone through during the previous month. I make a note to remind myself of that when I talk to people. After all, I always promised myself that, when I ran a school, it would be with a carrot, not a stick.

Trying to adopt a softer smile, I carry on with my notices.

‘We’ve got a few big dates coming up in the next couple of weeks,’ I say, ‘so can everyone make sure you’ve got your calendars up to date? If you have any problem syncing them online with the whole school calendar, then please ask tech support for help. Digital calendars went wide last year, so there’s really no excuse for anyone not using them now. It will help you in the long run, believe me. And I was as sceptical as the worst of you before I embraced them.’

My eyes instinctively dart across to Alice, who’s sitting on one of the Chesterfield armchairs to the right of me. She’s always my go-to when I worry about sounding overbearing. Or rather bossy. That’s probably what I should say. That’s the word us women get, right? I’m sure if the previous head had tried to introduce something like this, the old boys’ club would have said how innovative and inspirational he was. It’s ridiculous how many people didn’t see the extent of his inability. There are still so many here who think he was God’s gift to the school and I’m the tyrannical usurper. Last year, particularly during my first term as head, I woke up nearly every morning in cold sweats, which were always at least half to do with the school. Every new idea I tried to introduce, half the staff rebelled against it just out of principle. Or perhaps because they thought I was making extra work for them all, although that’s exactly the opposite of what I was trying to do. Either way, I ended up folding half of my ideas before they’d even had a chance to take off. It’s getting better now. Most of the staff have learned I’m only doing what I think is best for them and the children. There’s still a core who don’t want me in that office, though. Some of them are misogynistic pricks who just don’t like having to answer to a woman. Others thought the sun shone out of the old head’s arse. But, quite frankly, I’m now at a place where I just think, screw the lot of them.

I look at Alice and she presses her lips tightly together, offering the most minuscule of nods. It’s a sign that I’m doing okay, but not to push it any further.

Reading the message loud and clear, I flash a smile and carry on.

‘So, dates. We had a full week of insets at the start of last year, but that is not the case this time. Children arrive Wednesday and they know that. Any absences need to be recorded as unauthorised unless admin has told you otherwise. We are not accepting parents not reading newsletters and bulletins as a reason for their child not being in school. We have Year 7 and new parents’ evening on Thursday next week. Now I know you probably won’t know half the new children’s names by then, but, please, try to give it a go. It makes all the difference. Print off a class photo list to help you in those first couple of lessons. Use seating plans if you need. Whatever works for you; we just want to make the best possible impression. We want to show the parents they were right in selecting St Anne’s for their children, right?’

The moment the question hangs in the air is the second I realised I pitched it wrong. I went too peppy. Too ‘go get ’em’.

Hurriedly, I try to reel it back in.

‘So, more dates… we’ve got twilight training on three Mondays before half-term, the dates of which are all on the online calendar. These are looking at the changes in exam systems for next term and so are compulsory for everyone, even those not currently teaching exam classes. While we’re on the subject of exams, Year 11 mocks begin on Friday next week. I know it’s an awkward day to start, but it’s what we have to do to fit everything in with the timetabling. Letters and emails were sent home at the end of last term, so please don’t believe the students or parents when they say they didn’t know. We are not changing the dates because we need the auditorium to start rehearsals for the autumn-term play as soon as they finish. Year 11 tutors, if you have any issues, please let me know. Talking about the school play, I’m assuming there will be emails sent home about auditions soon? Alice?’

I give her a look that tells her it’s time to speak. Flashing me a smile, she stands up.

The pair of us have been friends for over twenty years, which nowadays officially counts as forever. We met when we were doing our teacher training, in what was undoubtedly the wildest phase of my life. The day I graduated from my degree was the same day my boyfriend of two years told me things were over, and I wasted no time making up for all the adventures I’d missed while I’d naively been playing a doting wife. Alice had been single a few months longer, and we were each other’s wing woman. When that bell rang on a Friday, we were down the pub before we’d even taken our pencil skirts off, drinking into the early hours of Saturday morning, then sleeping for the rest of the day – normally on one another’s sofas – so we could spend Sunday planning and prepping all our lessons for the upcoming week. Were we the greatest role models for young minds? Possibly not. Did we have fun? Absolutely. And now she’s the Head of Drama, single again, after an unusually swift divorce a year ago, during which her husband simply upped and moved to another part of the country. Despite her daughter leaving for university at exactly the same time, Alice has never been better. She’s putting on whole-school productions left, right and centre, while she manages a team of young, enthusiastic teachers who don’t mind giving up their weekends to learn all the choreography for Willy Wonka or whatever else she has in store for them.

‘Yes, so this year’s school production is Sweeney Todd,’ Alice says, turning slightly as she speaks so she can address the entire staff room. Her drama training means she’s far better at talking to large groups than I am. She’s probably better at charming the parents and sweet-talking the governors too, but she’s climbed as far up the ladder as she wants to go. Still, I’m always a tiny bit jealous when I see her speak like this, without the slightest hint of nerves. ‘As always, the production is open to all the senior school children,’ she carries on flawlessly, ‘but we would encourage our exam years to think carefully before auditioning. It takes a lot of time and, with exams looming, they really should be focusing on their academics. I’ll send the audition pieces and times after this in an email, and if tutors can pass the information on, that would be amazing.’ She looks at me and flashes another smile. ‘That’s me done.’

‘Great,’ I say, taking back the reins. ‘Now, I know we’ve all got departmental meetings to get to, but are there any other quick notices people want to share?’

You can tell it’s the beginning of term when more than three hands spring up into the air. Later on in the year, everyone will just want to get out of the place as quickly as possible, regardless of what information they should be sharing.

The first two people to talk are both PE staff, who tell us about their different teams, try-outs, away fixtures and ask for staff volunteers to help drive the minibus. I add some brief line about community spirit while trying to work out which weekends will be best for me to help. In some ways, I’ve done my dues. When I was newly trained, I gave up every other weekend running trips here, there and everywhere. But things change when you’ve got a family, and now it’s a careful balance to make sure I do enough that no one thinks I’m slacking, but not too much that Jamie and Sasha get annoyed with all the time I’m away from home.

After PE, it’s a notice about lost property, after which June, the history teacher, raises her hand. June’s the same age as me, give or take a couple of years, but she looks at least a decade older. She’s one of those who believe the old head could do no wrong and that he was pushed out unfairly, but our lack of friendship goes further back than that. The moment I came to work here, there was an immediate mutual dislike. I thought she was old fashioned – which she was and still is. She thought I was brash and trying to work my way up the ladder. Which I was and have. Fifteen years on, not much has changed except I’m as far up the ladder as I can get – here at least. I’ll admit, though, beneath all her fuddy-duddy-ness, she’s a pretty spectacular teacher. That’s why she’s an assistant head and the person in charge of the school’s teacher-training programme.

‘I just want to remind people we will have our trainee teachers arriving at the school tomorrow,’ she says, in a voice that’s so soft, it sounds fake. ‘It’ll give them a chance to see the place before the students arrive. They’ll be with us for twelve weeks before moving on to their new placement. Please try to make them feel as welcome as possible. I will send out details to the teachers it affects over the next twenty-four hours, so keep your eyes out for that.’

She offers me a tight smile that could be an attempt at genuine human connection but could also be trapped wind.

I offer her a similar gaze before addressing the rest of the room.

‘Okay, guys, that sounds great. So, if there’s nothing else…’

The moment I speak, I hear his throat clear and my stomach sinks. I should have known he wouldn’t raise his hand with the rest of the staff the way general etiquette dictates, because that way, I might have asked him to give his notice earlier on. And he wouldn’t like that. Not one bit. Because Nathan Coles always has to have the last word.

3

At thirty-five, Nathan Coles is nearly a full decade younger than me, and has been hankering for the headship since the moment he swaggered into the school four years ago. And, believe me, he swaggers. He’s charming and moderately competent, but it’s the fact he slicks his hair back and wears shirts tight enough to see his abs that has all the female staff and parents eating out of the palm of his hand. I’m not denying he’s a good enough teacher – but he’s not on June’s level, or mine for that matter – and the kids like him, but he needs to earn his stripes in this job. St Anne’s is a walk in the park compared to some schools I’ve worked in and he wouldn’t last a day in one of those. No, I’d like to see how he’d handle those parents as they swore at him and threatened him and made his life a living hell. I doubt his tight shirts would help him then. Unfortunately, he’s my other assistant head, but, unlike June, he still wants to climb the ladder to the top.

Obviously, when the headteacher’s job was advertised, Nathan applied for it too, and he’s been waiting on the sidelines for me to fail ever since. At the beginning of last year, when things were so tough, both here and at home, his smug face was one of the reasons I didn’t quit. I just couldn’t give him the satisfaction.

‘Nathan,’ I say, my cheeks aching as I force my lips to curl upwards. ‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there. You have a notice?’

He flashes a smile, and it really is a flash. Like a camera going off, his teeth are so damn bright. I can’t imagine how long he spends whitening them, but it doesn’t look natural at all.

‘Yes, thank you, Liz.’ He takes a step forward so that he’s standing in front of me. Blocking me out from my entire staff.

‘I know it’s the beginning of the year, but I hope you are all feeling refreshed and ready for a great start to the term…’

I frown. I’m pretty sure that’s how I just started my speech. As the head. So he’s starting the term making it clear he still wants my job. I could spit I’m so angry, but that wouldn’t be a good look. Still, my fingers twitch at my side. All eyes are on him as he carries on.

‘…but the last thing I want is for us to get complacent about our mental health. Burnout is more prevalent than ever in our profession. Which is why I am going to be offering group mindfulness sessions three times a week. Tuesday and Wednesday at 7 a.m. and Thursdays after school. If you can’t make any of those, then please drop me an email and I’ll see if I can slip in a couple of one-on-ones. Remember, you’re the cogs that keep this place turning. If you stop working, the whole machine falls apart.’

Arsehole, I think. It’s not a great managerial thought to have, but it’s deserved. Nathan knows that any clubs or activities offered to the staff or children must pass through me for timetabling. Just to make sure we’re not cramming too much into the week. Now he’s announced that he’s using not just one, but three of our slots, and I can’t even call him out about it, because they’re focused on wellbeing. If I try to cancel any of them, it’s going to look like I’m a bitch who doesn’t care about my staff, which is absolutely not true. If anything, his stunt now means I’m going to have to put meetings on Monday or Friday. People’s least favourite days for staying late. But, of course, he knows that. It’s all planned.

‘Well, that’s great,’ I say, my back teeth grinding together with annoyance. ‘Well, ladies and gents, I know you’ve all got year group and departmental meetings to get to, so I’ll let you go. And, don’t forget, my door is always open.’

They don’t need telling twice. Immediately, the double doors swing open and people disappear outside, off to their classrooms. Only a couple of old staff hang about, heading to the kettle to fix their third coffee of the day. I consider grabbing myself a drink too, just so I can try to shake off the bad mood Nathan has put me in before I head back to my office, but, before I can move, Sandra is standing in front of me.

Sandra is my PA and firmly in June’s camp of wishing I hadn’t got the job. She’s made no qualms about saying she thought Nathan would have been a better fit, although the only thing he has over me is a Y chromosome. Unfortunately, she’s one of these old-school women who acts like feminism is a dirty word, because why would she want equal rights to her husband? She’s infuriating, and everything I don’t want at St Anne’s, but I can’t get rid of her until she screws up. Annoyingly, she’s highly efficient. She knows every single thing about every member of staff, and what she doesn’t know she makes it her business to find out. And not just the staff, but their family, too. Of course, part of that isn’t efficiency; she’s just a damn nosey old gossip. It’s like she has a thousand spies, placed across the county, who filter all their knowledge to her. She knew I’d applied for a place for Sasha to move schools before I’d mentioned it to anyone here. Thankfully, that was where her knowledge on the matter ended, not that she didn’t try to dig a little.

‘Elizabeth,’ she says, because she can’t possibly call me Liz like everyone else. ‘You need to come down to reception. There’s something you have to see.’

Being summoned to reception is never a good thing. Not even for the head. And as we’re walking down the stairs, I rack my mind, trying to work out what could have happened that would require my attention before there are even any students at school. It can’t be a fight – not that we have many of those here – or a parental complaint this early on. Issues with timetables could be something, but Nathan handles teaching allocations, so they would normally ask him about that.

I’m still trying to work out what it could be when I step into reception. A loud laugh escapes my lungs.

‘He did not?’ I say.

Jo, who is sitting behind the reception desk, is the antithesis of Sandra. The spry thirty-something with bleached blonde hair doesn’t attend staff meetings, but stays put by the phone to take any calls while we’re busy. Several times I’ve debated if there was some way I could exchange their roles and have Jo working directly with me, rather than Sandra, but I’m not sure how I could do it without it simply looking like I don’t want Sandra near me.

‘He did.’ Jo grins back.

Sandra, on the other hand, is not grinning. There’s not even a hint of a smile on her face.

‘I don’t think it’s appropriate,’ she says snootily. ‘Personal declarations like this are for the home, not the workplace.’

Both Jo and I ignore her.

There on