Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (always you kirsty moseley .txt) 📗

in contact with Robbins. Has she warned him after our informative little chat at the party last night? But, as soon as I stroll into the classroom, I know he knows. The guilt and shame are furrowed in his glistening forehead and fill the beads of sweat trickling down his temple. Everyone else probably thinks it’s the heat of the day, but they don’t know what I know. His shoulders are sagging from the punishment of his crime. I stifle a giggle. They will be sagging a lot more by the end of this session.

‘OK, everyone. Today is our last…’ He drops his pen. He bends to pick it up, catching my smirk like another kick in his oversized incisors. I do wonder what Chelsea sees in him.

Robbins continues. ‘As agreed last week, we’ll cover the remaining topic of quadratics before going on to review the answers of the 2015 paper. Listen up.’ He usually speaks with such fluidity, gracefully even, as if numbers and equations flow without him having to think. Today, however, his words keep getting stuck in his dry mouth, emerging with a nervous croak. I’m dying to laugh, but come on, Luke, you need to keep it professional. This will be a business transaction, after all.

He goes to write on the board, his clammy hands twitching, ruining his usually impeccable writing and the perfectly formed curves of his graphs. Oh, what fun it is to see them both squirm. Robbins keeps twisting from side to side, his head twitching, as he writes on the whiteboard and Chelsea fidgets and wriggles in her seat. The pair of slimy snakes.

It’s such a shame. He was my favourite teacher until I discovered his involvement in Chelsea’s extra-curricular activities. Not only my favourite, but he was also the best, and I’ve always held him in such high regard. He even manages to make mind-bending differential equations and 3D vectors a stroll through the playground. He’s one of those motivating teachers too. He tells each cohort at the start of every September, ‘Set yourself high standards, people. I’m all about creating a culture of self-efficacy. You can do this. You just need to believe you can. Then all that’s left is the hard work.’ And he begins each sacred lesson with the words, ‘Listen up, lovely people. It’s a great day to solve mathematical problems.’

Halfway through today’s two-hour lesson, he rewards us all with a break. ‘Refuel those brain cells, team. Be sure to be back in ten minutes. Luke, would you mind staying behind.’

Not at all, Robbins. Not at all.

I kick out a foot, breaking Chelsea’s dash from the classroom. ‘You too, Chel,’ I say, gripping her arm way too tightly. Carefully does it, Luke. You’ll bruise her skin. There’s no point in attracting unnecessary attention to yourself.

With everyone out of the room, Robbins speaks, his voice a feeble echo of the confident man he usually portrays. ‘Chelsea told me about your little conversation last night.’

Little? I don’t think so. You’ve got your calculations wrong this time, sir. There’s a pause which I refuse to fill. I’m not the one who has to explain myself.

‘She told me about the videos.’

Carry on, sir, please do. I need to see him squirm some more before I show him what I know he wants to see with his own eyes. I’ve got the videos ready. No use wasting time. I always have been given full credit for my organisational and planning skills.

‘Do you care to show me?’

‘You’re forgetting your manners, sir,’ I say, my scornful voice teeming with the contempt he deserves.

His lips purse to the side. Chelsea is clenching her jaw, flaring her nostrils. Not a sight that suits her; I should tell her so, but can’t be bothered.

‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t quite hear you.’

‘Pleeeeeease,’ he seethes through gritted teeth.

I leisurely remove my phone from my pocket and slowly tap in my passcode, unable to restrain myself from smirking. I press play on one of the many appropriate videos and turn the screen to face him.

For at least thirty seconds, his eyes don’t blink as he stares at Chelsea straddling him with her school tie and shirt half-undone. Talk about breaching a position of trust. In the small store cupboard which houses books and stuff needed for different parts of the younger kids’ syllabuses, of all the places.

‘I hate you, Luke Walker.’ Chelsea’s voice is barely a whisper above Robbins’ grunts of pleasure from the video. I turn the sound up. Chelsea Clark, eh? Who would have guessed? Months of letting everyone think she’s the teacher’s pet when in actual fact she’s been the teacher’s whore.

He tries to grab the phone, his hands trembling like a user without sight of his next fix. ‘What’re your plans for that?’ he asks.

I arrange my most charming of smiles. ‘That all depends on the two of you.’

‘Us?’ they say in unison, exchanging glances of helpless despair.

I tell them that if they play by my rules, I’ll reward their good behaviour and delete this and all such similar filth.

‘Stop the games, Luke,’ Chelsea says. ‘What do you want from us?’

‘Ten grand. Each. By Tuesday.’ I delve into my jeans pocket and hand them each a Post-it note detailing where to send their funds.

Robbins gasps painfully like someone taking their last breath. ‘I can’t get hold of that kind of money.’

‘And how do you expect me to?’ Chelsea starts to cry. Poor little love.

I point at Robbins. ‘You can get a loan,’ I say, then jab a finger at Chelsea. ‘And you can get down to the bank and make a transfer from that generous savings account Daddy set up for his precious pampered princess on her eighteenth birthday.’ I tut several times. ‘You really shouldn’t boast about these things, Chelsea.’

‘And if we don’t?’ Robbins asks.

I take great pleasure in delivering my reply. Great pleasure indeed. That at nine o’clock on Tuesday night, the five videos in my possession are set to circle around social media channels