by Amy Lloyd
Outside, I follow the map on screen and as I walk the traffic noises get quieter, the houses get further apart and some are protected behind big gates. My heart quickens when I reach the street where Dr Isherwood lives. It is a quiet place, big Victorian houses all surrounding a small park in the middle, enclosed by spiked railings. Not a swings-and-slides park but a little shared garden: a square of grass with some benches, trees and a stone fountain.
I walk around the outside of the park, looking at the houses. They are all three storeys high, tall and narrow with weathervanes and little chimneys and mosaic tiles around the doors and on the paths. It is impossible to know which house is Dr Isherwood’s, so I loop around and around, trying to choose one for her. Maybe it is the one with the magnolia tree blocking the front living-room window. Or the one with the lion’s-head door knocker.
It’s late and only one house has any lights on. The glow comes from an upstairs window, which is open even in the cold night, and I stand and look up, listening to the faint sound of a baby crying from inside. I am still looking up when a shape appears in the window and I have to step quickly behind the gate of the park, out of sight, my heart beating hard in case the person has seen me. I look again to check whether they have. The person still stands in the light, a baby held against their chest, reaching up to close the top window. And I recognise her straight away: Dr Isherwood, bouncing the baby gently and resting her lips against its head. I see her but she does not see me. I watch as she turns away from the window, disappearing back into the house, the light turning to dark.
37
Him: Now
I sit with my head in my hands, paralysed. I can’t call the police, I can’t tell them who I am or why I think she is in danger. I can’t tell them where she is. I can’t say that I think she is somehow breaking the terms of her release. Why did I give her that stupid fucking idea about getting her tag removed? FUCK.
I punch the back of the sofa several times but my fist just sinks into the marshmallow-soft cushion, the stuffing degraded to nothing from years and years of wasters like me sitting against it, waiting for things to change.
There is only one thing I can do. I get up, put on a jacket and some shoes and grab my bike at the door. I check the time: 04.53 a.m. Fuck it, I will just have to wake Slimy up. The bike doesn’t have lights so I ride the empty pavements and take side streets lit by orange lamp posts. It’s so early not even the type-A nut jobs who run in full fluorescent gear are out yet. Just me and the delivery vans, loaded with newspapers and milk and bread, miserable drivers sneering at me through the windows as I pass.
It is nearly 6 a.m. by the time I reach Slimy’s block and by then the dog walkers are out and a man who runs past, breathing in tight little puffs which steam the air. I am sweating underneath my clothes. I roll my bike behind the wheelie bins and let it drop. Taking the stairs two at a time I run until I’m at Slimy’s door, pounding with the side of my fist. The noise sets off a dog in the next flat. I am banging for ages, nearby curtains starting to twitch, before Slimy finally comes to the door.
‘Tanker?’ he says, his hair sticking up in places, flat in others. ‘What the fuck, man?’
‘I need to use your computer,’ I say. ‘It’s an emergency – mine’s fucked. Here.’ I hand him several strips of blue pills and a baggie of skunk. His face brightens.
‘Come in, man. Must be an emergency if you’re up this early,’ he says, laughing.
Only once I’m inside, I am not the only one who’s up early. There is the new guy, sitting up and rolling a cigarette in the light from the TV, which is playing at a low volume.
‘Calum,’ Slimy says to the new guy, ‘Tanker’s just going to use my computer to sort out some business. I’m going back to bed.’
‘No worries,’ Calum says, eyeing me as I take a seat. He stares at me as he runs the tip of his tongue along the Rizla to seal it.
‘Didn’t you hear me knocking?’ I ask him.
‘Not my fucking flat, mate,’ he says with his shit-eating grin.
I brush the debris from the top of Slimy’s laptop. Strands of tobacco and stalks and seeds from shitty weed, balled-up cigarette papers from failed spliffs, dropped ash, a ring pull from a can – all scatter over the filthy carpet.
‘Seems like you’re here a lot, since it’s not your fucking flat and all that,’ I say. I try to ignore the rising anger, to push it down so this prick doesn’t know he’s getting to me.
‘Could say the same to you,’ he says. ‘Don’t you have your own fucking laptop?’
I try to ignore him, instead concentrating on the screen. I get into Dr Isherwood’s email and calendar. On another tab I create an email address almost identical to the one created for Charlotte, one letter difference, and add this email to Isherwood’s address book so that the contact looks no different. Then I send her an email.
Hi. I am not feeling good today, please can we talk? As soon as possible, please. Sorry. Things are getting too much for me.
Calum puts his rolled cigarette down on the coffee table and goes into the kitchen, where I hear the kettle boil.
I read the email again a few times. I don’t want to scare the shit out of Isherwood but I want her worried enough to call and check everything’s OK. I send the email and wait, smoking and refreshing the screen.
‘Evelyn Isherwood?’ says Calum, looking over my shoulder, a steaming mug of tea in his hand. I close the screen.
‘What the fuck?’ I stand and he backs away.
‘Just wondering what’s so important that you rushed over here at six in the morning,’ he says. That smirk spreads back over his face.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’
‘Chill,’ he says, laughing. ‘You’re seriously paranoid.’
I step closer and Calum resists taking the step back. I look at him there, his sad mug of tea in his hand, and I laugh.
‘I don’t know where Slimy finds fuckwits like you,’ I say. I turn back to take my seat; I sense him relax. Then I turn quickly and lunge towards him, watching his eyes bulge with fear. I stop before I touch him, only wanting to prove my point: that he wouldn’t dare fight me. But Calum throws his mug at me. Scalding tea hits my chest and soaks my trousers. In the shock of it I almost lose him. He darts for the door, slipping through my grip like an eel, but he fumbles with the catch and doesn’t make it out of the flat before I pull him back and throw him to the floor.
He is small, weedy, a little man who has never fought before. He puts his arms in front of his face but I pull them aside and punch and punch, feeling his cheekbone snap, feeling his blood on my knuckles. I let his arms drop, and keep hitting him even as my breath runs out and my punches become weak. Only when I am exhausted do I stop and only then do I see he is no longer moving, that his face is covered in blood.
38
Her: Then
The policemen in Sean’s living room tell us that we need to come to the police station right away. Sean’s dad tells them they are being a bit over the top and he only called because he was worried we were in danger and now we’re home he can see there’s no harm done. The police tell him that it’s a little more complicated than that and he will need to come too; they have to talk to him about something.
‘Now hang on,’ Sean’s dad says. ‘I can’t just take her to the police station in the middle of the night without her auntie’s permission.’
‘We’ve got someone to bring Mrs Patterson to the station, sir. No need to worry.’
But Sean’s dad does look worried. He looks really worried. He keeps rubbing at the back of his neck and looking around the room like he’s waiting for someone to explain to him what’s going on, except no one does.
‘I don’t want to go,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry we went outside. Can I go home?’
The policemen all look at each other but only one says anything.
‘You should have thought about that before you went poking around where you shouldn’t be,’ he says.
&n
bsp; ‘Come off it, mate,’ Sean’s dad says. ‘Can’t you see she’s bloody terrified? What’s happened? I don’t want to go anywhere until you tell us what’s happened.’
‘We went to Mr Sampson’s house,’ Sean says. Sean is staring at his feet and everyone else is looking at him like they can’t believe what he said.
‘You did what?’ his dad says.
‘No we didn’t,’ I say.
‘At least he’s clever enough to tell the truth,’ the mean policeman says again.
‘Sean, mate, are you joking? Because it isn’t funny.’
Sean sniffs.
‘I’m not joking,’ he says.
‘Don’t say any more,’ Sean’s dad says to him. ‘We’ll come to the station,’ he says, turning to a policeman. ‘But you’re not to ask him anything until we’ve got a solicitor. Do you hear me?’
The mean policeman smirks. The other nods.
‘I appreciate that, sir,’ the nice policeman says. ‘If we could all go to the station now, we’ll be able to call the solicitor when we’re in custody.’
‘Wait a second,’ says Sean’s dad. ‘Is this an arrest? Are you arresting them?’
The police look at one another like they aren’t even sure.
‘At the moment, sir,’ says the nice one, ‘we’re just hoping to go to the station and ask some questions.’
‘No, no,’ Sean’s dad says. ‘No, we’re not coming. I know my rights. It’s the middle of the bloody night and you’re asking an eleven-year-old and a ten-year-old to come to the station? To answer some questions? No chance, mate. I’ll call a solicitor and see how they think this should proceed but they aren’t going anywhere tonight.’
The nice policeman sighs. ‘In that case, sir, I’m afraid that I have to tell you that they are under arrest for breaking and entering, for perverting the course of justice and for the kidnapping of Luke Marchant. As Sean’s parent you are going to have to accompany him to the police station where he will be questioned. Mrs Patterson has agreed to meet us there.’
The mean policeman looks at me and says he’s going to have to arrest us.
I cry and Sean reaches for my hand and holds it too tight like he will crush my bones, but I never want him to let go.
No one talks in the police car. Sean’s dad sits between us in the back seat. It is still dark so no one is out and no one can see us in the back of the car and that is the only thing that is OK. I have cried so much that I have stopped making tears and now it’s just my face that feels like it is crying.
The station is even more horrible at night. From somewhere in the back someone is shouting really loudly and banging on the door. I cover my ears. My Auntie Fay and Uncle Paul run in behind us and when they see me I think they’ll be angry but they just look worried. They both come and hug me and ask if I’m OK. Then the police start asking them questions about me, like how old I am and my address and if I’m allergic to anything. Uncle Paul answers the questions but some things he doesn’t know and then Auntie Fay gets annoyed at him for not knowing.
Then I have to have my photo taken and I’m not supposed to smile, they say, like when you have a picture taken for a passport.
Auntie Fay has brought me a change of clothes, and she and a woman policeman take me into a little room and I have to change out of my first clothes and into the new ones. They take all my old clothes and put them into a bag.
A different policeman takes me to another room with Auntie Fay. I ask what’s going to happen.
‘Have you ever done finger painting?’ the policeman asks.
‘Yeah …’
‘Well, this is like finger painting. What we need you to do is to press your finger on this ink here and then press nice and firmly on this paper here. OK? Do you understand? I’ll help you to make sure you do it properly.’
One by one the policeman makes me point with a finger and then presses it into a black ink pad that smells like permanent markers. Then he holds my finger and presses it on to a piece of paper, into the middle of a square, and rolls it back and forth. Last of all he takes my whole hand and pushes it on to the ink and then on to the paper, so that when we are finished my hands are covered in sticky black ink.
I whisper to Auntie Fay.
‘What is it, darling?’ she asks but doesn’t look at me; she looks off into the distance.
‘I want to wash my hands,’ I say, still holding them out in front of me.
‘I’m sure they’ll let us go and wash our hands soon, sweetheart. We need to wait and see what they want us to do next.’
‘But I want to wash them now. Please!’
‘In a minute, love.’
‘Now!’ I shout.
‘Fine!’ Auntie Fay says. ‘Excuse me, officer, excuse me. She needs to wash her hands. Is it possible for her to wash her hands? She’s terribly fussy about these things; she gets very upset.’
‘If you could just take a seat,’ the officer says. ‘We’ll let you know what’s going to happen next. Then she can wash her hands.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ Auntie Fay says. ‘It’s three in the bloody morning, she’s exhausted – we’re all exhausted! You can’t possibly want to question them now. When will we be allowed to go home so she can rest?’
There is a silence where the police officer looks very confused about why Auntie Fay is shouting at him.
‘As my colleague explained,’ the policeman starts, in a really quiet voice, ‘she is currently under arrest for—’
‘Yes! Yes we know! I’m asking when we can go home!’
‘You can’t,’ the police officer says. His face looks very white. ‘You will have to stay here tonight, with her.’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ Auntie Fay says. ‘You can’t put a ten-year-old in a custody cell!’
Everything is very quiet. The man shouting and banging in the back has stopped. I can feel him listening.
‘These are very unusual circumstances for all of us,’ the policeman says.
‘Do I have to sleep here?’ I ask.
‘No, darling, he’s being silly. Uncle Paul is talking to the solicitor now and we’ll get this sorted and take you home.’
The policeman doesn’t say anything even though Auntie Fay just called him silly.
‘Where is Sean?’ I ask. They made Sean go into a different room when we got in and I haven’t seen him since.
‘I don’t know love,’ Auntie Fay says.
‘Why aren’t I allowed to wash my hands?’
‘I don’t know, love! I don’t know anything because they won’t bloody tell me what’s going on!’
The nice policeman comes back in and Auntie Fay starts talking to him and asking him all the same questions and eventually the policeman tells her to calm down and he says we can go to the cell and rest if we want to. I don’t want to go back there, with the shouting and the banging, even if it is quiet right now. Auntie Fay says she’d rather wait to hear what Uncle Paul has to say after talking to the solicitor and the policeman sighs and says fine, come with me.
We go back to where all the policemen go to have a break. There are toilets there and they let me go and wash my hands. I wash them properly but even afterwards there is still black in the lines on my fingers and the soap in the toilets doesn’t smell very nice. Then they take us into a room that has old sofas in with big flowery patterns all over them. You can tell they are old because some parts are really shiny from all the times people have touched them. There is another armchair and there are toys in the corner of the room but not good toys, they are the rubbish kind they put in the doctor’s waiting room and in the bank. The ones that don’t really do anything and you can’t play proper games with.
They let us sit in the room and say they will bring blankets for us.
‘That won’t be necessary; we won’t be staying long,’ Auntie Fay says, tucking her handbag next to the armchair. ‘Trust me.’
The policeman sighs and says he’ll bring them anyway.
‘
I’m tired,’ I say. ‘Are we going home soon?’
‘Yes, love,’ Auntie Fay says. ‘We’re just waiting for Uncle Paul now.’
The door opens and we both hope it’s Uncle Paul but instead it’s just the policeman with the blankets and some bottles of water. He shows Auntie Fay a button she can press if she wants to talk to someone; then he leaves again.
Auntie Fay tells me to lie down on the big settee and then she puts the blanket over me like when I stay home from school because I’m ill.
I can’t sleep even though I’m really tired. I open my eyes a tiny bit in case Auntie Fay is looking at me but she isn’t, she is just sitting in the chair with her head lying back and her eyes closed but I can tell she isn’t asleep because her lips are moving. I close my eyes again because it scares me.
I try to think of nice things instead of what’s happening. I try not to think about floating Mr Sampson or his bulgy eyes. I try not to breathe the sofa which smells like the old women in church.
Uncle Paul comes in quietly like he’s trying not to wake me up, so I pretend to still be asleep.
‘Well?’ Auntie Fay says, speaking really softly.
Uncle Paul does a long sigh. ‘It’s not good, love,’ he says. ‘The solicitor says they can keep her here. Ten, apparently, that’s the age of criminal responsibility – if you can believe it.’
‘Criminal?’ Auntie Fay whispers back.
‘Their words, not mine. I told them, whatever they think she’s done, they’re wrong. But they’re adamant. Won’t explain themselves now, of course. They say they’ve got evidence that she’s … been involved with some very serious things. They need to keep her – us – here until morning when they can question her properly.’
‘What about Sean? Is he being made to stay here? I need to talk to his dad …’ Auntie Fay says. I can hear her starting to get up but Uncle Paul shushes her and tells her to sit back down.
