The Girl With Nine Lives, The Girl Who Bit Back, The Girl With Ten Claws 3 Book Boxset (The Adventures of Benedict and Blackwell Series) Read online

  A manic and nervous energy hummed in the room- too much caffeine and too many papers. The walls were covered in timetables, equality and diversity posters and to do lists. The calendar of hunks was a window of optimistic hope in the corner. I found my eyes lingering on it.

  I went to the manager, Jeff, who had hinted at further opportunities for answers. In all honesty, I was a positive thinker- and it was the hope of achieving something more that made me stay at the U.C.W. But I knew my needs were unimportant to the place. I was as easily replaceable as a coaster on a coffee table. He had made me hopeful, as a few months back I had had an interview with him about teaching English Functional Skills. I was still waiting to start this, but I didn’t want to push too much in case I pissed him off.

  “Maggie’s great,” he said, his grey suit immaculate. He was new at the college, probably around mid-fifties and I could tell the strain was getting to him. The college was very disorganised, and I could tell he had a lot to deal with. A part of me felt sorry for him, wishing that I already knew the answer so I wouldn’t have to bother anyone. I hated feeling like a burden. It made me feel incapable.

  I nodded, not getting the information I needed. I returned after that several times, asking for help about the course, asking for information.

  “I was wondering how do I know how to mark their work?” I asked the woman who had heaped the load on me, Sandra. She was busy, I could tell and didn’t have much energy to help a flustered trainee teacher.

  “You can find it online,” she said dismissively.

  “Ok...” I said slowly. “I was wondering as well, that job Jeff gave me for English Functional Skills, do you know when I’ll start doing it?”

  She looked confused, and I had no idea why- she had been there in the interview with Jeff. “This is it,” she said, pointing to the I.T folder clutched in my arms.

  “What?”

  “The job you’re doing now- that’s the job you applied for.”

  “I applied for English Functional Skills,” I said, my grip hardening on those hated papers, my fake smile slipping.

  “Oh, that’s gone now. There aren’t any jobs.”

  My heart sank harder and I felt panic start to rise. I returned to the Student Support Office to sign out, her words repeating in my head. I felt duped. Stupid. A fool.

  “How are you, Ellie?” the manager Janet asked absently as I returned some student forms to a file cabinet.

  “Fine, thank you,” I replied, because it was expected. I plastered a fake smile to my face, matching her own. “I was wondering if there were any hours available for me at all?”

  Janet wanted to talk to me somewhere private then.

  “To be honest,” she said, motioning for me to sit down, “we’re reluctant to give you any more hours in case you start doing more teaching.”

  I tried not to frown. “Right...”

  “So I’m sorry but there’s not much I can do.”

  That faint bubbling of panic started to rise up in my chest again. “But I don’t think I’ll be doing anymore teaching,” I said, “It’s a lot at the moment-”

  “Sorry,” Janet interrupted. “There’s nothing I can do.”

  I returned home, miserable and set on marking English work. When I had finished that, I fed Ben, cleaned the house and then started preparing for the next I.T lesson, researching Excel and Access, trying to come up with interesting lesson plans that would appeal to business students.

  A week later, I snapped. I was crying every day and had started to think darkly. How easy it would be to simply veer off the road when I was driving? How easy it would be to fall down the stairs. I could escape that way.

  The thoughts scared me. I was more upset at the thought that I could even think of doing that to my family, imagining their faces, their reactions. How selfish I would be to even think of it.

  It was a cold that made me call in sick for work. My body was wracked with guilt that I was letting my students down, but a relief seeped into my bloodstream that I had a full 24 hours to be away from the place that made me feel so badly.

  I went to the doctors simply to get more of my pill. Seeing my aunt’s car in the car park (she worked as the manager there) I popped into the office whilst I waited for the nurse.

  She looked concerned as soon as I walked in. I can remember everything about that heavy feeling inside my gut- a sensation that I was floating almost and that the only way I could physically get out of work if something terrible happened to me- then it wouldn’t be my fault. I wouldn’t be weak. It would be an accident, unavoidable- they couldn’t make me go back then and I wouldn’t be able to make myself go back.

  “You’ve lost weight,” she said, her head cocked to the side with a smile that said ‘I’m concerned about you’.

  I eased into conversation about work, and then it happened. I broke down. I started crying and told her everything, feeling so god damn weak, weak, weak.

  There was a hot feeling in my face that said even though I had drenched my shirt in tears, there was still a tidal wave to come. My chest heaved in a silent and uncontrollable wracking sob that wouldn’t seem to stop.

  The next thing I knew, I was sitting in front of a doctor, feeling foolish and uncomfortable.

  “I’m sorry,” was the first thing I said to him.

  In his face was a kindness that saved me.

  When he told me I was suffering with anxiety and depression, a strange sensation washed over me. This was something I had heard other people suffer from- not me. Surely this was just real life? Wasn’t this how everyone felt?

  He wanted to sign me off for six weeks. It seemed obscene. He was adamant and so was I. I had students, deadlines, managers to prove something to and other co-workers to compete with. I couldn’t stay away that long.

  I held that sick note in my hand, seeing the six weeks wrote there in black ink and then crossed out reluctantly, an amendment of ‘3 weeks’ below instead.

  My aunt held my hand afterwards.

  “You can’t go back,” she said. “Stack shelves, Ellena, be a waitress-anything. Don’t do this. It’ll kill you.”

  But I had focused my entire education towards this job. How could I no longer want it? I was scared to call my work. But I was even more terrified to go back.

  I got back to my flat and stood at the window, the radiator burning my legs. I dialled the number before I could think about it, the sick note clutched in my sweating hand.

  Thoughts plagued my mind. I would be giving up all of that hard work… I would come across as someone who was weak…

  Incompetent.

  Incompetent.

  Incompetent.

  It was a relief to finally have people on my side. For all what the University College of Warwickshire was like, the HR Department were brilliant. They sorted everything out whilst I was crying on the phone, apologising, explaining, and apologising some more.

  I didn’t go into work for three weeks.

  It was too much. My hours being slashed. The job I applied for not existing. Being given a position, not because it was something I applied for, but because another teacher didn’t want to do it. I felt lied to, taken for granted- a scapegoat for the contracted tutors and other staff to dump their workload on- get rid of the problems that they didn’t want to deal with. Not being supported. But I was the one feeling guilty. Was this what teaching was all about? Was it truly like this? I had dreamed of being a teacher for years, and I felt now I had gotten what I wanted, I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t handle the real world. Why wasn’t I coping?

  I felt ashamed to say I was off work from depression and anxiety. I wanted to lock myself in my house and tell no one. Just vanish for a while. I was worried about telling my family, telling my sister. I was scared she wouldn’t want me around the baby when he was born. Worried that my dad would think I was being silly.

  Most of all, I was worried about the sick note running out.

  The doctor gave me pills, but I didn�
��t want to take them. They stayed in my cupboard collecting dust as I sat at home, Ben curled up on my lap as I applied for other jobs.

  Whatever thoughts I had about my family, I was wrong. They were so supportive of me. But when I went over to my sister’s to see my mother, freshly returned from Australia to be there for the birth of the baby, I could see the worry in her eyes.

  Three weeks passed and I spent the time refilling my batteries by doing the things I enjoyed. I read, I ate, I saw family and I did a couple of open mic nights. Crowds were a difficulty. Panic would rise in my chest as soon as too many people surrounded me. People’s faces who I knew were no longer friendly. Glances were taken as dirty looks. Environments I used to feel safe in became dark abysses I wanted to escape from.

  But I improved. I became happy again and determined to prove everything wrong- I was cured. I was fine.

  Just fine.

  The three weeks went and my doctor wanted me to take more time off.

  “I’m ok,” I said, an urgency in me rising to get back to work- get back to my career. I could make it work. I could.

  “You must be careful,” he said slowly, “not to go back before you are ready. Many people go back too soon.”

  Of course I knew more than this highly educated man that had potentially saved my life.

  I argued with him and we finally compromised me to go back on a phased return. He agreed to write my health note, making me promise him to return if it didn’t work out.

  I had a meeting with Jeff. He promised me support. He promised me a learning mentor to help me with the course. He promised me some hours teaching English at the other campus. I was happy, agreeing, apologising and feeling hopeful.

  I returned to work, ready to get help on Excel.

  “Hiya,” I said coming into the Foundation Learning Office. My anxiety pricked up immediately.

  “Hi Ellie,” said Sandra spotting me. But she seemed to say my name for too long. Her eyes knowing what had happened. I felt like she was talking to me like I was an unstable student. Someone weak. Or maybe I was just paranoid. “You ok?”

  Again, her words were drawn out too long. Youuuu ooookkkkkaaayyy?

  “Yes thank you,” I said, unable to hold eye contact any longer. I was relieved when she left. “Erm,” I said to the remaining women, noticing one who had been pointed out as Maggie, “I was wondering if someone could help me with Excel.”

  Maggie’s green eyes peered at me from a tanned face. Dark curls were cut into a sharp bob with a thick Asian print scarf wrapped around her shoulders. Paranoia slammed into my brain. She didn’t like me. She didn’t think anything of me. She thought I was just a young woman coming in to an office that she had ruled in for so long, daring to ask for help. She wanted to make an example of me. Wanted to make me feel inadequate.

  She knew.

  She knew.

  She knew.

  My chest heaved, my brain working in overdrive. Suddenly everyone knew everything about me. Knew how weak I was. How I was crumbling. They knew I couldn’t survive. I was a nobody.

  They knew.

  They knew.

  They knew.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “I need some excel papers for my students in IT Functional Skills,” I said unsteadily. I knew Jeff had spoken to her. Told her the situation. I knew she knew who I was.

  “What sort of papers?” she asked again, her own stack in front of her. Lesson plans, marking and schedules were scattered in front of her, pens overflowing and claustrophobic in their pot. A half-eaten sandwich was in front of her, a cup of tea gone cold, a skin already floating on top.

  “I need…” I swallowed, my mouth and throat unbelievably dry. I tried again. “Just some papers to introduce excel to them,” I said.

  “They’re over there,” she said, gesturing to an entire wall of filing cabinets with a book still in her hand.

  I stood there awkwardly, staring at the wall of metal drawers. I couldn’t bring myself to step forward.

  Please help me.

  “Which drawer?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

  “Top one.”

  I let out a tense breath and opened the first drawer I came to. Thousands of papers sat there, suffocating with plastic wallets and paper folders.

  I didn’t know where to start. For a moment, all I could see was paper. My hands started running through them, my brain panicking.

  I don’t know what I’m looking for, I don’t know what I’m looking for!

  “Can you help me?” I asked her, the words costing me more breath I needed to keep my heart pumping.

  “Well what do you need?” she asked, looking as though she would rather be doing anything else than talking to a useless girl.

  Useless.

  Useless.

  Useless.

  “I don’t know.” I put a hand over my face then, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “I have never taught excel, the students have never done it, I just need someone to help me pick some papers.”

  “Well they’re all in there.”

  I can’t do this.

  “Ok, I’ll be back in a moment.” I knew then, I had seconds to get out of that hated office before I started to cry.

  She said something else, but I was out of the door.

  I’ll do it on my own, I thought. I’ll just do it on my own. It’ll be easier.

  When I got home, I fed Ben and cried. He watched me as I bawled my eyes out and licked the salt from my hands occasionally, stinking of tuna.

  I called HR and told them I wasn’t going to teach IT anymore. That I was promised support and I wasn’t getting it. That the students deserved a tutor who knew what they were doing and that I was sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

  I started to have panic attacks and stayed away from the few friends I had. Soon, it was as if I was forgotten. I didn’t want to socialise, I didn’t want to eat, and I didn’t want to leave the house.

  That was when it happened.

  My best friends were Ben and Captain Morgan. I was sitting on the sofa, crying at Beauty and the Beast, wrapped in a blanket with empty packets of chocolate around me.

  “Oh for the love of God!” exclaimed a voice. “Will you desist from making that horrible noise?!”

  The voice was coming from my lap.

  I looked down, a malteser falling from my mouth.

  “Yes, that’s right, I said it- and I’ll say it again!” Ben hissed. “Stop stuffing your face with chocolate, stop crying and will you switch off this God awful film?!”

  “Ben?!”

  He sniffed. “Actually, my name is Benedict.”

  “Wha-?”

  I stood, unceremoniously tipping him from my lap. I looked at the glass of rum and coke in my hand and then back at him.

  “Benedict?” I slurred, “But I called you Ben!”

  “Your pig of a father called me Ben,” he sniffed, idly licking a paw. “But my name is Benedict.”

  “Benedict?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re Ben?”

  “Yes.”

  I stared at him, my eyes trembling in my skull as I clutched the glass of rum harder. “You’re Ben?”

  “No- Benedict, but I am also Ben.”

  “Ben Ben, as if in Ben?” That moment was the first moment in my life that I was to witness a cat rolling his eyes. Then it clicked. “You can talk?!”

  “Well-”

  I screamed then and ran into my room. I stared at the door, unable to comprehend that a cat was shouting my name and calling me a “stupid human.”

  “Lalalalalalalalalalala lalala la la la!” I shouted with my back against the door and my hands over my ears.

  “Just so you know,” he said, “that is the worst song I have ever heard.”

  “What do you know about songs?!” I yelled. “You’re a cat!”

  The scratching stopped. “I love music. I know a couple of songs- would you like to hear?”

  “Go away!�
� I shouted. “Lalalalala la la lalala!”

  “Meoooooowwww! Meowowow, meow meowwwwwwww! memeowmeow meooooooowwww!”

  “Lalala la la LA LA LA LA!”

  “MEOOOOOOWWWW! MEOOW MEOWW MEMEMEOWWWWWWW!”

  “Stop it!” I sobbed. “Stop it!”

  “Only if you stop it and let me in!”

  “No!”

  “MEOOOOOOWWWW! MEOOOOOOWWWW! MEOW MEOWW MEMEMEOWWWWWWW! MEOWW MEOWW MEMEMEOWWWWWWW!”

  The meowing continued and the neighbours starting banging on the wall. I pulled my hands from my ears. “All right! All right!”

  “Meow?”

  “You win!” I yelled wrenching the door open.

  The ginger cat sat before me, looking incredibly smug. “I win?”

  “Yes!” I snarled.

  “Then I best explain, hadn’t I?”

  Chapter Two

  Sitting down at the table was the strangest thing with a cat. He paced back and forth until he was comfortable and swished his tail around him.

  “This can’t go on, Ellena,” he said.

  I blinked. “What?”

  “This self-pitying cycle.”

  “I’m not self pitying!”

  “You’re crying over a Disney film.”

  I folded my arms across my chest, affronted. “Everyone knows Disney films are brutal.”

  You’re talking to a cat. You’re talking to a cat. You’re talking to a cat!

  I got to my feet and picked up the bottle of rum. Maybe I was hallucinating? How drunk really was I?

  “Yes, you’re very drunk,” Ben said, sounding bored.

  “You’re a cat.”

  “Yes.”

  “A talking cat?”

  He looked amused and watched me as I poured another glass. “I would say that isn’t a good idea but you would do it anyway.”

  “I’m talking to a cat.”

  “So?”

  I faltered. “It’s not natural!”

  “Who says so?”

  “The world!”

  “Maybe we can all talk,” Ben said. “Maybe I was just so sick of your behaviour that I decided I would talk to you.”

  “But you’re Ben!”