by K. L. Slater
But it was all lost on Daniel Clarke; he didn’t appear to notice any of it.
He sat down robotically, no shuffling in his seat to get comfy or glancing around the room to take in his surroundings. He stared straight-ahead at a blank stretch of newly plastered wall that she hadn’t yet found a suitable framed print for.
Carla scribbled down her early observations on a piece of paper headed with Daniel’s name and class.
‘I’m Carla.’ She lay down her pen and laced her fingers in her lap. ‘Do you know why you’re here, Daniel? Why you have been referred to me?’
Daniel did not move or blink.
He was a slight boy, but she thought malnourished rather than naturally petite in build.
Lank, dark blonde hair badly in need of a trim draped limply on his grubby shirt collar, and Carla noticed both outside edges of his fidgeting index fingers were red and looked sore as if he’d somehow sloughed off the first few layers of skin.
‘I’m here to help you, Daniel; I think you might be going through a difficult time.’
No response.
‘I want to reassure you that anything you say in here, anything we talk about, is strictly confidential. I won’t repeat a word to anyone.’
Carla thought she caught a brief flicker of something in the boy’s eyes but it was replaced almost instantly by the blank stare.
The day before, she’d met with Daniel’s class teacher, Mrs Martin, who had fully briefed her. Apparently the teacher had noticed Daniel growing steadily more withdrawn since the beginning of the autumn term.
Through further investigation involving other staff, Mrs Martin had ascertained that Daniel had begun to use recognised avoidance tactics during the school day, such as sitting near the door to ensure he was first out of class when the bell sounded and making do without lunch most days in order to keep himself away from the dinner hall.
‘One teacher even saw him taking a shortcut through the building between lessons, instead of walking outside with the other pupils.’ Mrs Martin shook her head. ‘I’ve spoken to the usual suspects in Daniel’s year, Philip Naylor and his gang of thugs, but they’re not owning up to anything and, for once, I actually believe them when they say they’re not involved. But I can’t get to the bottom of what’s wrong because Daniel point-blank refuses to talk to me or anyone else about it.’
The Head of Year had become involved when possible signs of self-harm had been spotted on Daniel’s arms by a Teaching Assistant during a recent PE lesson.
‘We think the poor lad’s been cutting himself,’ Mrs Martin sighed. ‘In twenty years of teaching I don’t think there has been one quite as bad as this. He’s fading away right in front of our eyes but he won’t let anyone help him.’
The governing body had been made aware of all these concerns and the relevant agencies informed. But from previous experience, Carla knew it could be weeks before any action was taken by the city’s hard-pressed social workers.
After a few minutes of complete silence, Carla poured two glasses of water from the jug on the low table and pushed one across the pale wood veneer to Daniel.
It remained untouched.
‘I’m on your side, Daniel; I want you to know that. I’m not a teacher; you can think of me as a friend, if you like.’
‘You work for the school.’
His clipped, cold tone took Carla by surprise and for a moment she was not entirely sure how to respond.
‘It’s true that I am employed by the school, Daniel,’ she said, keeping her voice level. ‘But my counselling work with pupils is entirely private. Whatever we talk about stays strictly between you and me.’
Daniel gave a derisory sniff and looked down at his hands.
‘Can you tell me how school’s been for you since the start of term?’ Carla pressed.
Silence. This one was going to be a hard nut to crack.
The sessions were not nearly long enough, for one thing. Twenty minutes, once or twice a week, was no time at all to build up a trusting relationship with a traumatised child.
Nevertheless, Carla usually managed to get them saying something about their problems in the first session.
A lot more than the five measly words this boy had uttered, anyway.
‘Are you afraid of someone, or has anyone threatened you?’
Her BACP-accredited counselling training had advised the therapist to speak as little as possible in order to allow the young client to divulge any concerns in their own time.
That was all well and good in relaxed one-hour privately paid appointments, but it didn’t work too well in a cash-starved state school that constantly pressured her to deliver prompt results.
Carla was developing her own set of rules on the quiet, her own way to get the desired results, and it hadn’t worked too badly so far.
She reckoned another couple of months and she might have enough successes under her belt to go for a well-paid job she’d heard was coming up at the prestigious, independent high school in the city.
Listening to affluent kids whose worst problem was whether to choose a pony or an activity holiday in the USA for Christmas beat the pants off the city woes she was trying to resolve here at Cumber Meadows.
And she saw it as a fast track to establishing an impressive reputation.
It followed that, before long, she’d be opening her own high-end private practice where she’d be entitled to charge top dollar to a plethora of harassed, wealthy parents who hadn’t got the time or inclination to straighten out their own privileged kids’ mixed-up heads.
It was also the key to freeing herself of the small mountain of debt in her name still remaining from Mark’s doomed foray into the art world.
With mounting credit card balances that were a result of a too-ambitious monthly rental property in the prestigious leafy area known as The Park, a new job was the only valid path to keeping a decent standard of living.
Mark had liked to grandly describe his unfathomable splashes of muddy colours on canvas as ‘contemporary abstract expressions’.
The only trouble being they were so abstract nobody wanted to buy one.
When she thought back to those days, she remembered only too well how the burden of their future security felt, settled as it was, so heavily and completely on her own shoulders.
If there was anything to be grateful for after their painful split, it was that she only had herself to support now, thank God.
It was true they’d had plenty of happy years but Carla was certain that if she had stayed she’d have ended up the same way as Mark: living in an elusive dream world that was never going to happen.
Carla shifted in her seat and brought her attention back to the room.
She remained quiet for a few seconds longer, but in this current battle of silence, Daniel was winning hands down.
‘I think there’s a reason you are always the first one out of class,’ Carla said gently to the boy. ‘I know you take shortcuts to lessons to avoid the other pupils, so who are you running from, Daniel?’
For the first time since he’d entered the room the child looked at her.
Creepily, his eyes seemed to focus just short of Carla’s face.
‘If you talk to me, I can help you. It doesn’t have to be this way, you know. All you have to do is trust me; we have to trust each other. Is someone threatening to hurt you?’
The boy blinked rapidly; his eyes were big pools of olive-coloured misery in a bleached, impoverished face.
Carla caught an almost imperceptible nod.
‘Who is it?’ She pressed him harder now. ‘Believe me, the worst thing you can do is stay silent: bullies rely on it. Nobody knows you’re here, and nobody has to know one word you say to me today. It’s strictly just between you and I, Daniel, do you understand?’
The boy shook his head, and Carla watched as he gripped his knees so tightly his knuckles turned white.
‘He’s always watching me,’ Daniel whispered. ‘He knows what I’m thi
nking. He knows about every single thing I do.’
Chapter 8
Present day
Anna
Dr Khan arrives and the room fills with medical staff.
‘Is he going to be alright?’ Ivy presses a fist to her lips.
‘All will be revealed in good time,’ Dr Khan replies without looking at her. ‘Head injuries can be tricky things; no two are the same.’
‘He doesn’t seem to know me, Doctor,’ Ivy says.
‘Some memory loss can be expected under the circumstances,’ Dr Khan mutters, studying a printout. He looks up sharply with raised eyebrows. ‘Give it time, Mrs—’
‘Bradbury,’ the nurse supplies.
We are asked to move outside to the waiting area in the main ward. Ivy falls silent and sits with her head bowed, twisting her hands.
We wait for what seems like ages then a nurse brings Ivy a cup of tea, and I sit next to her without tea. The cup and saucer rattle in her hands, threatening to spill all over her lap.
I place my hand gently on Ivy’s arm but she doesn’t respond. It’s upsetting for everybody but some of us try not to show it.
The nurse comes over and tells Ivy that Liam has been sedated again and won’t wake up now until tomorrow.
‘He doesn’t remember me.’ Ivy wipes her eyes. ‘He doesn’t remember anything.’
‘Perhaps that’s a good thing,’ I point out. ‘You wouldn’t want to remember nearly getting killed, would you?’
Ivy doesn’t reply but sets her cup and saucer smartly down on the floor.
‘I’d better get off.’ She looks out at the darkness beyond the glass. ‘There’ll still be plenty of buses running at this time.’
‘It’s silly you getting the bus,’ I say, standing up. ‘I can take you home.’
‘No, I mustn’t put you out, Anna,’ she says firmly, gathering up her coat and bag. ‘I’m fine, I always get the bus.’
‘And what on earth would Liam say if I let you go home on your own when you’re so upset?’
She looks at me.
‘My car is parked quite close; it’s only a two-minute walk from the main doors.’
* * *
When we get to the car, I open the door, get her settled in comfortably and make sure her seatbelt is securely fastened.
I imagine how pleased Liam will be that I’m looking after his gran.
‘It’s so kind of you, Anna,’ she says again as we sit waiting at the traffic lights on the edge of the hospital campus. ‘But I really don’t like putting you out.’
‘It’s no trouble but you’ll have to tell me where you live because I haven’t got a clue where I’m going.’ We both laugh at this and my breathing slows a touch.
It’s natural, under the circumstances, that things feel a little strained. Soon Ivy will come to understand I only seek to help and support her in Liam’s recovery. And to ensure he gets the justice he deserves.
It turns out they live in a semi-detached council house on the edge of the St Ann’s estate.
I delivered on this very round a couple of times last year when they were struggling for staff – back when the management were still grateful to people willing to do overtime.
As with every housing estate, there are good and bad areas but Ivy directs me to Heath Close which is on the better side. Some people living here own their houses and generally they tend to look after them better than some of the Council’s tenants.
‘I’ve probably delivered mail to your house,’ I say as we pull up outside the house. ‘It’s a small world, isn’t it?’
‘Our mail never comes now until the middle of the afternoon.’ Ivy sucks in her soft, wizened cheeks. ‘I’m always saying to our Liam it’d be quicker if I fetched it myself.’
‘That’s nothing to do with the delivery staff, Ivy.’ I switch off the engine and turn to face her. ‘It’s the new policy. They’ve cut down on staff and stopped all the overtime.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t blaming the posties themselves.’ She shrugs. ‘It’s just that we used to get it at a decent time and now it’s always late afternoon.’
My heart rate ramps up a notch.
‘But we do get the blame and it’s not fair. Customers always seem to think it’s our fault but we can’t do anything about it.’ I think of Jim Crowe, strutting around with his clipboard like the management team’s puppet. ‘I’d rather start early and finish early but do you think they listen? Do you think they care what we think?’
Everyone on my round moans at me for the fact their mail comes so much later now.
My head is thumping.
For some reason I start to think about what’s in the spare room. There’s this sort of bunching-up sensation in my throat that makes it difficult to swallow.
Ivy unfastens her seatbelt and reaches for the door handle. ‘Thank you for the lift, Anna. I’d better get inside.’
When she slams the car door shut, I am shaken out of my thoughts.
I watch as she reaches into her handbag at the gate, pulls out her keys and then turns and waves.
She isn’t going to ask me in.
I turn off the engine and clamber out of the car. She stops walking at the sound of the door slamming and turns around.
‘I don’t suppose I could use your loo?’ I see her hesitate. ‘I should have gone before we left the hospital but I wanted to get you home.’
‘Of course,’ she says, and I exhale. ‘That’s if I can ever find this blessed door key.’
It’s one of those houses with a peeling, wooden porch that smells damp. I follow Ivy’s lead and slip off my shoes.
Following her inside, I see that the front door leads straight into the lounge.
Ivy snaps on the light and reveals a predictably plain and dated room. The walls are covered in cream-painted woodchip, and a chipped, burgundy-coloured dado runs mid-height, all the way around.
There is a strong chemical smell of air freshener in here which I won’t entertain in my own house, not least because it makes Albert continually sneeze.
‘So, have you got family of your own, Anna?’ Ivy asks as she slips off her coat.
After a few seconds she stops struggling to getting her arm free of the sleeve and looks over at me.
‘Sorry, I’m desperate for the loo.’ I hop from one foot to the other.
‘Oh, the bathroom is up the stairs and first on the left.’
I nod and rush to the stairs.
Upstairs, it feels very cool and it’s quiet.
Apart from Mrs Peat’s, I can’t actually remember the last time I was in someone else’s house.
My chest flutters as if there is a tiny bird trapped inside.
The bathroom door is ajar, and there are two other closed doors leading off the landing.
I pull on the bathroom light cord and consider the other doors, wondering which room belongs to Liam.
I can hear Ivy clattering crockery in the kitchen downstairs.
I don’t need the loo, of course, but I go through the pretence of flushing and washing my hands to buy a bit of time.
There are feminine toiletries in the bathroom cupboard and some tablets right at the back of the shelf prescribed for ‘Ivy Bradbury, 11.9.37’.
I notice they use the same shampoo and toothpaste that I do.
As I walk back downstairs, a large ginger tom brushes up against my legs, and Ivy emerges from the kitchen.
‘I see Boris has introduced himself.’ She smiles as I reach the bottom. Her dated pink lipstick bleeds into the tiny lines that radiate from her mouth, bleeding out into her face like a wound.
I force myself to look away.
‘He doesn’t like me going out; he’s not used to being on his own, you see,’ she continues.
‘My cat, Albert, is the same,’ I tell her. ‘Every day without fail he sits by the door waiting for me to come home from work.’
It’s like I waved a magic wand.
Ivy starts chatting away like I’ve known her for years
, giving me the low-down on the personality of every cat she’s ever owned.
I try bringing Albert into the conversation once or twice, but she’s far too engrossed in her own tales to listen to anything I might have to say. It’s irritating but I expect I might well be the same when I’m her age.
‘How long do you think it’ll be before the police prosecute the other driver?’ I ask.
‘I’ve told you, Anna, I don’t know.’ Her tone implies that I shouldn’t be asking. ‘Soon, I hope. That woman could have killed Liam.’
I’m pleased Ivy at least seems to want justice as much as I do but I can’t keep her interested in the subject of the accident for long.
Apparently, she tells me, Liam loves cats and has a special way with animals. That doesn’t surprise me; I could tell immediately he’s the sensitive sort.
She says that Liam came to live with her when he was just seven years old.
Someone ought to tell her he’s grown up rather a lot since then but that would be a little callous under the circumstances. She’s understandably upset and worried about her grandson. It’ll just be her maternal instincts kicking in.
‘His mother, Lynette, she left when he was two, so he never really knew her,’ Ivy explains. ‘She disappeared off to Spain one day with some rogue who sold secondhand cars. She was never any good, that one. I used to tell my Robert, “she’ll be trouble, mark my words”. But, of course, he never believed me. Until it was too late.’
Always the woman’s fault, of course. Some mothers and their perfect, blameless sons.
I manage to work out that Robert was Ivy’s son and Liam’s father. Ivy has an annoying habit of dropping out names and assuming I’ll know who’s who.
She explains that Liam’s father and his younger sister were killed in an accident some years earlier.
‘That’s terrible.’ I press my hand to my mouth. ‘What happened?’
She laces her gnarled fingers together and stares down at them.
