by Suzy K Quinn
I notice how bitten and short my fingernails are. Maybe Kate has made a note of this. A sign of stress.
Sick with fear, I turn the pages, trying to take in details.
Risk of harm … unexplained injuries …
I look at the fish fingers, now unable to finish them. As I put the bowl by the kitchen sink, I have a thought: Better check the medicine box key is still under the rubbish bin.
I tip the silver cylinder to one side and kneel to examine the key taped underneath.
The key is there, but …
Has it been moved? I swear there’s an extra crease in the Sellotape. It looks different somehow.
And Mum was here earlier …
No. I’m being paranoid. Letting my stress get the better of me.
The key is fine.
No one has moved it.
I think I’m going crazy.
Kate
9.24 a.m.
Keep your head up. Walk tall. I stride past three teenage boys lounging on a bench. They play tinny music from a mobile phone. They’re not quite men, but certainly not young boys.
One of them says, ‘She ain’t wearing a bra.’ And the other two snigger.
I turn around. ‘Excuse me?’
Three pairs of eyes widen in surprise. Then the tallest boy regains his composure and mimics, ‘Excuse me?’
I put my hands on my hips. ‘If you have something to say, come out and say it.’
The boys look uncomfortable then, and the smallest one says, ‘He was just saying he fancied you.’
‘Oh. I see. Well, just to let you know, I am wearing a bra. It’s a 34D seam-free one from Bravissimo and is the most comfortable bra I’ve ever worn.’
The boys don’t know where to look now.
‘We just wanted to know what you’re doing here,’ the tallest one asks.
‘I don’t have to explain myself to you.’
The tallest one says, ‘If you’re looking for someone, I can show you where they live.’ He turns to his friends and boasts, ‘I know everyone in this block.’
‘Okay. Do you know Margaret Kinnock?’ I ask.
‘Um … nah.’
One boy snorts. ‘You know everyone.’ Then he says, ‘She’s an older lady, yeah? Like … sort of yellow hair? She’s in that one.’
He points to a first-floor flat. I see long, purple and paisley dresses hanging along the balcony.
‘Thank you.’ I head past a small play park and up concrete stairs onto the first-floor walkway.
Margaret Kinnock’s flat looks neater than those around it, with well-tended marigolds and a funny little sign by the door that says: Beware of the Owner.
I ring the doorbell and hear a jangly version of ‘Greensleeves’.
There is a soft pad of feet and then the door opens. A lady in a green dressing gown with long, dyed-blonde hair answers.
‘Yes?’ She looks me up and down.
‘Margaret Kinnock?’ I ask.
‘Who wants to know?’ Her accent is East London.
‘I’m Kate Noble from Child Services. I’m looking for your son, Olly Kinnock.’
‘Who is it?’ shouts a male voice from somewhere in the flat.
Margaret puts a hand to her chest. ‘Olly’s not here. That’s my partner shouting.’
‘Can I come in?’ I ask.
Margaret looks flustered, checking behind her. ‘We’ve only just finished breakfast.’
‘Who is it?’ the male voice demands.
‘Just someone from child something,’ Margaret shouts. ‘Here for Olly.’
A short, elderly man with a shaved head appears, holding a Daily Express newspaper. ‘What do you want?’
‘Freddy!’ says Margaret. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Noble. This is my partner.’
‘Husband,’ Freddy snaps. ‘Say husband. I hate the word partner. That’s what gay people say.’
‘Husband then,’ says Margaret. ‘Common law.’
‘I asked her what she wanted,’ says Freddy, brown eyes glaring. ‘Fair enough question, isn’t it?’
‘I’m looking for Olly Kinnock,’ I reply. ‘Your … stepson?’
‘He ain’t here.’ The man stalks off.
Margaret turns to me. ‘Why don’t you come through to the lounge? Let’s not talk on the doorstep.’
‘Yes. Okay.’
As I follow Margaret through to the perfumed living room full of china cats and teddy bears, my phone rings.
Tessa Warwick, Social Services Manager.
I can almost feel Tessa’s rage through the phone display. She’s rung four times now and left a text message: Neilson report – WHERE IS IT?
Yes, hell has finally frozen over. I missed a deadline.
There was an eighty-page report to do yesterday, plus two home visits, and there’s no way a normal person can do that.
Something inside me snapped.
I’m rebelling.
Sod the paperwork – I’m going to do my job properly instead.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Margaret asks.
‘I don’t really have time,’ I say.
‘Have you seen my grandson?’ Margaret’s eyes crinkle with worry. ‘He was very poorly last time I saw him. But his mum moved him to a different hospital and I haven’t heard from her since. She’s not taking my calls.’
‘I can’t discuss that,’ I say. ‘You’ll have to talk to your daughter-in-law. I’m sorry to visit unannounced but I heard Oliver Kinnock was staying here.’
‘I haven’t seen him in a while. The next time he comes by—’
‘Do you have an address for him?’
‘He doesn’t have one now he’s sold the flat. But every so often he turns up.’
‘Mr Kinnock doesn’t have any address at all?’
‘He’s living in his camper van. Travelling around.’
‘So when did you last see him?’
‘Oh, I can’t quite remember. He comes and goes.’
‘To this flat?’
‘Yes.’
Freddy shouts from the kitchen: ‘I tell him to sling his hook. The great unwashed, telling me what newspaper to read in my own home.’
‘Freddy, shush,’ says Margaret.
‘What about a phone number?’ I ask.
‘Oh, Olly doesn’t have a phone.’ Margaret straightens a porcelain cat’s lace collar. ‘He got a bit down after the court case. He doesn’t want to see anyone.’
‘No one wants to see him either!’ Freddy shouts from the kitchen. ‘He needs a haircut and a good scrub-up.’
‘There must be some way to contact him?’
Margaret gives a hopeless shrug. ‘I just see him when I see him. I could let him know you came by?’
I get the feeling Margaret isn’t being totally honest.
‘Has Mr Kinnock seen Tom since the court case?’
Margaret shakes her head, lips tasting something sour. ‘Lizzie won’t allow it. She keeps Tom hidden away. I get what I can out of her when we meet up. Little by little. One of these days, I’ll find out where she’s staying.’
My phone rings again. Tessa, of course.
‘I need to get this,’ I say. ‘Here are my contact details. If you see your son, please pass them on.’
I press a folded notepad page into Margaret’s hand, on which I’ve handwritten my name, job title, telephone number and email. The Comms department still haven’t printed me any business cards (probably thinking I’ll quit before they need to), so I write out contact pages whenever I’m stuck in traffic.
Margaret considers the white paper slip. ‘You’ll send Tom my love, won’t you? I don’t see nearly enough of him.’ Her mouth screws tight and wrinkles stretch from her cheeks to her ears. ‘Lizzie is too hard on Olly. It isn’t right. He needs to see his son.’
I wonder, quietly, if she was there in court. I’ve read the court documents a number of times now. Police records and medical evidence.
Olly Kinnock was accused of grievous bodily harm towards h
is wife and son, including breaking Tom’s wrist, actual bodily harm and sexual assault. The sexual assault allegedly followed a physical fight between Olly and his neighbour, after which Lizzie claimed that he forced her to perform a sexual act.
Olly denied the charges.
Tom’s broken wrist was later deemed a possible accident – even though Tom provided a video testimony citing his father as the cause.
The case was ultimately dismissed due to lack of sufficient evidence. This is how it often goes with domestic violence cases. No witnesses. The human body heals, destroying years of evidence. Fortunately, the courts gave Lizzie sole custody and Olly only supervised access. The restraining order was upheld for Lizzie, so he can’t come near her. And he can only see Tom if Tom wants to see him. Which he doesn’t.
A decent outcome, when all is said and done. At least we’ve worked to keep Tom safe.
Margaret probably didn’t attend the hearing. It would have been too painful.
If there’s one thing I’m learning on this job, it’s the power of denial.
Lizzie
Today, social services will decide if I’m hurting my son.
Needless to say, I didn’t sleep well last night. I woke up this morning with knots in my stomach. They’re still there, pulling and pinching.
‘Please,’ I tell the bus driver. ‘Can’t you just let me off here?’ We’re stuck in a slow-moving slug of traffic. I think there’s been an accident up ahead.
I’m wearing a pin striped skirt suit. It’s the smartest thing I own. The skin around my nails is now bitten to bleeding point.
‘Please,’ I beg. ‘I’m going to a meeting. About my son. I can’t be late. Please.’
The bus driver’s big shoulders sink a little. ‘There’s an emergency door handle up there.’ He looks straight ahead. ‘I never said you could pull it. But you can pull it. Just watch out for any motorbikes, all right? Sometimes they come up on the inside.’
‘Thanks.’ I pull the handle and the bus doors hiss open, freeing me to jump off and run down the street.
I’m out of breath and pink by the time I reach the Town Hall. Kate Noble waits in the foyer, arms crossed, wearing her usual black trouser suit. She looks tired.
‘We’re a little behind schedule,’ she says. ‘Usually I’d talk you through things but there’s no time. I did ask you to come half an hour early…’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t understand—’
‘We should go straight in.’
I follow Kate into a beige meeting room. There is an oval table at its centre and three people sit around it.
‘Come on in, Lizzie,’ says Kate. ‘Take a seat.’
I sit on an upholstered chair, noticing Mr Cockrun across the table. He is as immaculate and tailored as ever, fingers laced together, head cocked attentively, totally unfazed by a meeting that could ruin my life.
My brain swims, assessing the two others at the table: a large, red-faced woman and a tall, bearded man, most likely a doctor.
Kate takes a seat and hands me some paperwork from the centre of the table. Dutifully, I look down. … cause for concern … unexplained head injury … unusual pattern of illness … possible injection marks.
My eyes fix on my fingers, which are locked together in one giant, shaking fist.
‘I’ll start by reading out the report,’ says Kate.
Some words wash over me, others stab like knives.
Considered at risk of significant harm …
‘A paediatrician has confirmed that Tom’s head injury happened before he fell unconscious, Miss Riley,’ says Kate, reading from pages in front of her. ‘A few days previously, he believes.’
In the silence that follows, I realise I’m expected to comment. I lift my head, voice weary. ‘I have no idea how he hurt his head. I already told the doctors. School is the only time he’s away from me. It must have happened there.’
Mr Cockrun sits up straight. ‘This really is bordering on slander now, Miss Riley.’
Kate holds up a hand. ‘We’ll hear from you in a moment, Mr Cockrun. Please don’t interject again until you’re called upon.’
I’m a good mother. You can’t take my son away. Please, please don’t take him away.
Kate turns to the tall, bearded man. He has grey hair and an unhealthily pale face. ‘Perhaps you should take it from here, Michael?’
The ruddy-cheeked woman beside Kate, who clearly wants to be somewhere else, snaps, ‘Aren’t you going to introduce everyone first, Kate? Before you get into that? Miss Riley doesn’t even know who she’s speaking to.’
‘Sorry.’ Kate clears her throat. ‘Yes – Miss Riley, this is Dr Michael Philips. He’s a consultant paediatrician.’
‘It was another doctor who examined Tom,’ I say. ‘Mr … Mr … it began with a rom sound.’
‘Doctor Ramir, yes,’ says Dr Philips. ‘I’m afraid he couldn’t be here today.’
I sit up at this. ‘You’ve never met my son.’
‘I can relay what other professionals have told me,’ says Dr Philips. ‘Tom’s head injury was partially healed when he was admitted to hospital. Which tells us the injury happened some time before Tom fell unconscious.’
‘How?’ I demand.
‘The injury could have happened in all sorts of ways,’ says the doctor. ‘But from our experiences of head injuries, the most likely cause was being struck with something. An object.’
‘You believe he was struck?’ I say, stomach churning.
‘It’s a strong possibility.’
‘What else could have caused it?’
‘Do you have any ideas, Miss Riley?’ Kate asks. ‘Any accidents at home?’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I’ve already told the hospital this. It must have happened at school. Tom doesn’t go anywhere else without me. And it’s not me who’s doing this.’ I’m angry now. ‘Don’t you understand? I’m worried sick. My son is being hurt. No one knows why or how. And instead of helping me find answers, you’re putting me in the dock.’
I wonder if the people walking past this building realise what’s happening inside.
They’re trying to take my child away.
‘Usually the parents are the best source of information,’ says Kate.
‘Do you understand how frightening this is for me?’ I reply. ‘Tom had a seizure the moment he started this new school.’
I see Mr Cockrun bristle, but he keeps quiet.
‘Then Tom came home with injection marks on his arm,’ I continue. ‘Now a head injury. And he’s changing at that school. Why can’t anyone see how odd it all is? How many schools do you know with bars on the windows? Who don’t let anyone in during the school day? Who padlocks gates so no one can get in and out without a key? It’s like all the kids are brainwashed. And the teachers. Tom’s not himself. I’m petrified.’
Kate clears her throat. ‘Now we can hear from you, Mr Cockrun.’
Mr Cockrun fixes me with cold eyes, the fake smile long gone. ‘Children are very well safeguarded at Steelfield School. Physical injuries are recorded immediately. All our staff are DBS checked. Miss Riley has been back and forth to the school on multiple occasions accusing us of whatever she can think of. We have told her repeatedly that these injuries are nothing to do with us.’
‘You’re not in Tom’s class,’ I say. ‘Tom’s teacher can’t watch him every minute. What about playtime? There are holes in the fence.’
‘This is about a family breakdown and nothing to do with us,’ says Mr Cockrun. ‘Miss Riley won’t let Tom see his own father.’
‘If you knew about his father—’
‘Divorce can bring out the worst in people,’ says Mr Cockrun. ‘My feeling is that Tom would benefit from more discipline.’
‘Are you saying I can’t discipline my son?’
‘Two parents are better than one.’
‘Not if one of them has very serious issues.’
‘You’re not thinking about Tom,’ says Mr Cockr
un. ‘What’s best for him. The boy wants to see his father.’
I suck in my breath. ‘What?’
‘Look, he’s told me in confidence,’ Mr Cockrun continues. ‘He misses his dad.’
‘His dad is a manipulator and a liar, and it’s none of your business.’
‘It’s our business if Tom has emotional problems and doesn’t behave at school.’
Mr Cockrun starts flicking through papers then, and I catch a glimpse of something – handwriting that looks suspiciously like Olly’s scrawled, spiky loops.
‘Is that … has Olly written to you?’ I hear myself shout. ‘Does he know Tom’s at Steelfield School?’ A shaky hand flies to my mouth.
The handwritten document is quickly covered with a typed sheet.
‘I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,’ says Mr Cockrun.
‘Olly.’ I turn to Kate for support. ‘Has he written to the school? It looked like his writing …’
Mr Cockrun gives a false-sounding laugh. ‘Are you talking about this?’ He holds up the handwritten letter for half a second, then buries it again under paper. ‘These are Karen’s notes. The lunchtime assistant.’
I swallow, knowing I’ve just made myself look paranoid. Unhinged. But it looked so much like Olly’s writing … and I don’t trust the headmaster.
What if they’re letting Olly into the school? Giving him access to Tom?
Divorce is terrible, Mr Kinnock. What you must be going through. Of course we’ll let you spend some time with your son during the school day. What the mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her …
I put a hand to my stomach, trying to breathe the thoughts away.
‘Let’s talk about next steps,’ says Kate, glancing at Mr Cockrun.
‘The next steps are you allowing me to remove Tom from this school,’ I say, more loudly than I mean to.
‘There’s nothing to suggest the school is doing anything untoward,’ says Kate, her voice gentle. ‘We’ve worked very hard to get Tom’s placement there and give him a smooth transition.’
‘He’s coming home injured!’ I scream, eyes furious and accusing. ‘He’s having seizures! And what if his father is getting in? What if they’re giving him access?’
Nobody says anything.
It can’t be the school, Miss Riley. Just admit something’s happening at home …
