Let Me In by Claire McGowan

Author:Claire McGowan [McGowan, Claire]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2023-06-19T16:00:00+00:00

I was unsettled by the encounter, so much so that I did what I’d promised myself to swear off, and called into the pub on my way home from school. It was barely five, so quiet enough, football showing on the television, a few old soaks sitting in corners. Martin was behind the counter, doing a crossword. He looked up when he saw me.

‘Distant objects formerly spent. Nine letters.’

I thought about it for a moment, hopping on to a stool. ‘Far things. Farthings.’

‘You’re too good at this.’ He inked the letters in, and I watched his hands, strong and shapely, freckles on the backs from being out in the sun. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Oh, just orange juice.’ I’ve never been a big drinker. You can’t, when you’re sensitive to things.

He set the juice down and waved away payment.

‘You’ll never stay in business like that,’ I joked. ‘Giving out drinks to all and sundry.’

‘You’re hardly that,’ he said shortly, not meeting my eyes.

‘No Morag today?’ I asked, trying to sound light. His wife was usually somewhere in the back.

‘Ach no, she’s . . . not feeling well.’ I knew what that meant. Against my will, I knew her cycle as well as my own. ‘So what brings you in?’ he asked.

‘Oh, it’s the school. Have you met this new teacher yet? The head?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Pretty boy. Oh, he’s been in alright. Introducing himself to everyone, even Alan.’ Alan was an ancient fisherman who had never knowingly spoken to anyone in the pub, despite being in there every night of his life.

‘You didn’t like him?’

Martin was a good judge of character. He had something of it, the understanding. The sensitivity. It was usually more blunted in men. He’d told me about his grandmother from the Western Isles, who had ‘the sight’.

He shrugged. ‘Not my type of person. You’ve clashed with him already?’

He knew me too well. ‘Oh, I was a bit late today and he made a fuss. Then he took down all my decorations. From the ceiling, you know. And he was singing. To the kids.’

‘Did you call the police?’ He raised his eyebrows.

‘Ha ha. It’s hard to explain, it was . . . something about him makes me uncomfortable. I can’t say what it is. I just don’t trust him.’

‘You’re usually right about these things, Janna.’

I was, and that was the problem. When you know something bad is going to happen but not how or why, what can you do about it? It was like being Cassandra, cursed to see the future come crashing down, and powerless to stop it. Animals are better at this than us. They don’t ignore their bad feelings, the raised hairs on the back of the neck, the intuition we can easily explain not as witchy powers, but simply older senses we have forgotten about or don’t quite understand. Senses that kept us alive in the wild, now dulled by civilisation. ‘Yeah. But everyone else seems to love him. The kids, the teachers, even Nancy’s under his spell.

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