Without their laughter, the constant tugging at my trousers or the hearing of my name, the world seems an empty place. There’s plenty to sort. Wet paintings hang from a string tied from wall to wall like brightly coloured washing. There’s play-dough to put away and worksheets and photographs to be stuck into folders. On my desk is the pile of letters about after-school clubs I was supposed to give the kids before they left. I can’t think where to start. With a smoke is my answer. Then I see her head bobbing up the path. She walks in with her shiny polished boots and large, leather bag hanging at her shoulder, looking like she might be taking care of professional duties. It’s a surprise when she speaks. Her hushed voice sounds full of panic. “He knows.” “Christ. How the hell...” “Well, I think he knows.”
