The Runaway by Lesley Thomson

door.
    â€˜Promise me you’ll give it some thought,’ he said, but really he wanted her to give it no thought, just to leave. ‘I’ll be there next Saturday at Stamford Brook. At three. You won’t regret it!’
    â€˜Darling, don’t—’
    He cut across her: ‘You owe it to yourself. We only have one life – let’s make the most of it! When we’re settled, we can get the kid. One step at a time. Your life now is like living in a coffin, you said so yourself!’
    He went towards her, but she blew a kiss and turned away. The bottom door shrieked when she opened it. He watched until she reached the caged staircase, and then he returned to their room.
    Without her the magic had gone; it was a just cold concrete tank. He stuffed everything into the holdall, anxious to follow her, to see her when she wasn’t with him. She had left him the Brie, not out of generosity, but because she wouldn’t want to explain how come she had it.
    Footsteps. She was coming back. He grew excited and regretted packing up the sleeping bags. ‘Hon, you came back. I knew you would!’
    There was a deafening report.
    The tank door had shut, he stared disbelieving at the grey metal. Beware the jokes of those with no sense of humour. The lack of handle wasn’t sexy now. She was on the other side of the double cladding, daring him to lose his nerve.
    â€˜Good game!’ His temples thudded from the alcohol and he needed a pee. This was her revenge for his ultimatum. ‘Joke over!’
    Wind fluted through vents near the ceiling – she was right about the storm. Daylight no longer drifted in; the street lights didn’t reach so high. Bloody stupid to have said leave the boy, he liked him. The walls emanated chill.
    â€˜He’s a good kid, I’ll treat him like my own son.’ His voice bounced off the concrete.
    There was a distant vibration – the bottom door slamming. There was no keyhole this side; his key was useless.
    â€˜Maddie!’
    In the dark, the man wondered if, after all, it was not a joke.

Stella’s School Reports
    Handover report: by Mrs Dorothy Myers (on her retirement) to Miss Lorraine Radford
    Pupil: Stella Darnell, aged six years and three-quarters.
    Date: 8 th May 1973.
    Stella Darnell is a sullen, unimaginative girl, unwilling to contribute to the class. Only when I point to her, to answer a question, will she give the answer, (invariably correct). For reasons of her own, she hasn’t elected to share it with her peers.
    Stella’s reading age matches her years, however she reads little. During ‘Story Time’ when I read to the children, I have twice noted Stella tidying her pencil case instead of listening and on another occasion caught her cleaning marks off her table with an Inner London Education Authority rubber. I had to throw the rubber away.
    Here are two incidents that occurred in the last month.
    1.  Class Three’s homework was to write a story about a girl who has an adventure. Stella described the shooting in 1966 of three policemen in disturbing detail. I told her I thought she had copied her story from a newspaper adding in the girl (who catches the killer, Harry Roberts, in a forest) to fit the requirement. Stella denied this. Concerned, I asked to see her parents. Only her mother came. Mrs Darnell refused to believe that Stella had cheated.
    2.  A lovely girl (Jane Masters) who has tried to be Stella’s friend, asked Stella what she would like to be when she grows up. Stella told Jane that she would catch murderers. Naturally Jane was upset and I had trouble calming her. Stella said ‘sorry’, but five decades of teaching has taught me to know a perfunctory apology when I hear one. Mr Darnell is in the Metropolitan Police; his wife hinted that his daughter is in his thrall.
    Summary:
    While not an actual troublemaker, Stella’s behaviour hinders her and threatens