Death of a Teacher by Lis Howell

round, Liz Rudder thought as she went to check that John was tucked out of sight in the little room where he slept. The carers had been, and he was in bed at eight o’clock. Back in the living room, Liz relaxed in her favourite armchair with a glass of Rioja at her side. She picked up the headphones connected to the laptop on the sideboard. Putting them on, she heard the relaxing voice, full of promise, saying ‘ Bu-en-os di-as .’ The Spanish lessons had started partly as a way of getting out of the house, away from John and his squeaks and smells. But a few months ago, like an epiphany, Liz had suddenly envisaged herself living in Spain as soon as she could. Why not? 
    If John died, this would be easy-peasy. Even if he stayed alive, he could eventually be put in a cheaper type of nursing home. No one would blame her. That way, she could afford something very attractive near Marbella when she retired. Of course she would need her full pension from St Mungo’s and the money from the sale of the house. She’d hoped at first that her oldest friend Brenda might come with her and purchase a neighbouring apartment, but practicality ruled that out. Now that Brenda’s brother had come back to Pelliter to live in their parents’ house, Brenda only had the little terraced house near the council estate. Property prices at that end of the market had tumbled far more than for the big villas in High Pelliter. There was no way Brenda could afford the sort of place in Spain Liz had in mind.
    And recently Liz had realized that Brenda was so tedious. All those silly little secrets she made so much of! Who cared? Liz recognized that she and Brenda had been friends for forty years, but increasingly she felt that Brenda hadn’t been a confidante so much as a parasite, feeding from Liz and John’s precarious relationship.
    But it wasn’t precarious any more. With John in his wheelchair, unable to move, it was just about as settled as any relationship could be. John’s roving eye couldn’t rove any further than the ceiling.
    And there was a satisfactory element about being able to ditch boring Brenda. The Hodgsons had always been so snooty, with their son the vicar and their posh house. But now Peter Hodgson was back in Pelliter under some sort of cloud, and it was Brenda who had the mean little terraced house near the Pelliter Valley estate while Liz was contemplating an off-plan apartment in Andalusia. How things had changed!
    Liz clamped the headphones securely over both ears so she could hear nothing but the sound of Spain. She could almost feel the sun, and hear the gentle waves on the shore under her balcony.

Chapter Seven
    Save me, O God: … I sink in deep mire where there is no standing.
    Psalm 69:1-2. Folio 153r. Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry
    ‘H ello, home,’ PCSO Ro Watson said on Saturday evening, as her car lurched on to the track which led down to the Burnside cottages. Although her weekend shift meant Ben was with his grandparents overnight, she never felt alone here. It was always a real delight to come back to Burnside. She wasn’t concerned about the fall in house prices, because she was never going to sell. There was recession here too, of course, but the rugged countryside and the matching doggedness of the locals offered her the security she badly needed. She had no illusions, either. Pretty scenery didn’t necessarily make for pretty behaviour – as you could see any Saturday night in Norbridge. But the area was still beautiful and she loved it.
    Ro dumped her bag on the sofa and clattered downstairs to the kitchen. She filled the kettle and sat down at the table; then she looked out of the window and let the scenery do its work. It never failed to calm her. The sun was dropping over the other side of the valley, so the peachy colours of evening were already tinting the fells to the east, though it was barely six o’clock. It would be light until eight. The back of the house was sheltered,