by Luana Lewis
Simpson gave a bitter laugh. ‘Unbelievable,’ he said.
‘Are her allegations true?’
He shook his head.
‘Do you want to say anything more about this?’ she asked him.
‘Why should I? It’s a pack of lies.’
Stella turned to another page she had marked. ‘In 2003,’ she said, ‘your ex-wife presented at Accident and Emergency with a broken nose. She told nursing staff that you had punched her. After she was discharged, she changed her mind. She said she’d fallen in the bathroom after a night of heavy drinking. Within twenty-four hours she had withdrawn her complaint and I understand you were back together.’
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly what she does. It proves my point. She acts out, to punish me, then when she sobers up, she begs me to go back to her. Have you ever lived with an alcoholic? You have no idea. It’s basically a living hell.’
‘There were some suspicions that there was pressure on your ex-wife, from you, to withdraw her initial statement.’
‘Look,’ he leaned forward, his face twisted, ‘I don’t have to sit and listen to this crap. I’ve been tormented enough with these false claims.’
‘I’m not doing this to torment you,’ Stella said. ‘I’m raising this so you have a chance to respond, to give your version of what happened. Whatever you say will be documented in my report, so you get a chance to have your views on record. So is there any comment you’d like to make?’
Simpson leaned back and looked away from her, towards the examining bed against the wall. She could see the tightness in his jaw as he clenched his teeth.
‘It’s no use,’ he said. ‘There’s no point. This has been going on for years. It doesn’t matter what I say.’ He had softened, a sadness rising up in him.
‘I think it does matter,’ Stella said. ‘But I can’t force you to open up.’
He looked at her, held her gaze for a few moments. ‘Imagine what it’s like,’ he said. ‘Imagine how you’d feel if someone made up the most vile, the most disgusting things imaginable and said you’d done them.’
Stella nodded. There were a few moments of calm silence between them.
‘There were a few more things I wanted to ask you about,’ Stella said. She kept her eyes on her notes. ‘According to your ex-wife, when she first asked you to leave the house, she would come home to find windows had been smashed and there was damage to some of her property – her computer was full of water damage, her tyres were slashed. She blames you for these incidents and she thinks you were trying to frighten her or punish her, to intimidate her into letting you back into the home. Do you want to respond to that?’
He spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘These accusations paint me as a monster,’ he said. ‘And there is nothing I can do about it.’
‘So you deny all of it?’
‘All I’ve got to say is this.’ He was making eye contact again and his voice rose as he kept it steady, trying but not quite succeeding in controlling his anger. ‘You need to understand that the drinking made her less and less able to look after a child, even to meet her most basic needs. I hope you’ve read the social worker’s report, because it’s all there. When she was a baby – the only way I could have prevented her being shunted off to foster care was if I had stayed home and given up my medical training. Maybe I should have. But I was terrified of losing my career and losing our house if I couldn’t pay the mortgage. I was out there, slogging to put a roof over our heads. I did what I could. As soon as I was on my feet, I applied for custody. I poured her bottles of drink down the sink when I found them. I restricted the money I gave her so she couldn’t spend it on drink. Of course it didn’t work. Her need for alcohol is her one and only priority. Not me, not our daughter.’
He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. Stella wanted to pass him the box of tissues but she hesitated, he was so easily offended. She looked down at her notes and flipped to the third section of background documents. The ex-wife had claimed that he did not give her enough money to buy food or clothing for their daughter and would not allow her access to their joint bank account. She had to ask her parents for financial help. She claimed she had once had to beg him for money for sanitary pads.
Stella knew she could not risk being too strongly influenced by his ex-wife’s claims. The problem was that once an allegation was made, it was repeated over and over again in the mountain of background documents: in the social worker’s report, the guardian’s report, the case summary – until it became its own truth. She felt herself sinking, being sucked into the same vortex of contradictions every other professional had faced while working on the case.
Simpson had composed himself. His eyes were dry again. He began to speak. ‘I blame myself for the fact that my daughter has once again had to be put in a foster home. I should have seen it coming. I should have fought harder. Of course her mother is never going to change. Of course she’s not. How many times must my daughter lose her home, or be placed in the care of some stranger?’
He sat back, pushing his fringe away and taking a breath to calm himself. ‘I lost that first house because every cent I had went into fighting custody proceedings. But I’ve clawed it all back – I have my own practice, a new house, a stable relationship. Gemma and I have been together for over a year and there have been no problems at all. What more do I have to do to convince you people?’
Stella was beginning to grow impatient with his tendency to answer every question by launching into a list of complaints about his ex-wife. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘if the situation is so clear-cut, why do you think the judge has asked for a personality assessment? There is concern about your ability to parent. There is concern about potential risk factors.’
‘If you’ve decided to believe everything my lunatic of an ex-wife has to say, I haven’t got a hope, have I?’ He stood up.
He most certainly did not like being challenged. She was disappointed. He had withdrawn again so quickly and the prickly, closed façade was back in place. Completely.
She was left looking up at him, powerless to engage his cooperation and feeling somehow foolish. He was tall, around six foot two, and while not powerfully built – more on the sinewy side – she felt small looking up at him. She was aware of the difference not only in their respective sizes, but in their ages. He must have fifteen years on her. She felt young, an impostor. She had been Dr Davies for all of two years and sometimes the title still felt like a fraud.
‘I’ve tried to explain,’ she said. ‘This interview is your chance to talk about yourself, not only to give your opinion about other people. I would like you to allow me insight into your personality. But you’re not doing that.’
She looked at the clock. The two-hour session had come to an end.
Simpson had noticed her checking the time. ‘I know my way out,’ he said.
She stood, straightening her skirt.
Stella was eager to score the personality test because she thought it was the best chance she had of salvaging any useful information from their fraught first appointment. She suspected that Simpson would come under the profile known as ‘faking good’, in that he would not admit any psychological problems, even those milder ones commonly experienced by everyone from time to time. But she was curious – there just might be something that could give her insight into his personality profile. Something he had not intended to reveal. She entered his responses – more than five hundred of them – into the computer programme and waited while the report was generated.
She was disappointed. Simpson had succeeded in staying out of sight. So far as the validity scales indicated, the profile was invalid. It could not be interpreted. Stella could comment, of course, on his reticence in the clinical interview and his guardedness. All of the data so far pointed to someone who had no wish to be known and who refused to give any insight into his inner life. Someone who might have something to hide. He would succeed in his efforts, to some extent, but in reality he wasn’t
doing himself any favours. If he was determined to do so, he could conceal his emotional difficulties, but then he also deprived himself of the opportunity to showcase his strengths. And his behaviour with her didn’t bode well for his future cooperation with professionals around the wellbeing of his daughter.
Stella stood up and stretched. She flipped open the shutters and looked out of the window at the four lanes of traffic outside. It was rush hour and the cars were at a standstill, bumper to bumper. She was frustrated. This had been an opportunity to demonstrate her skills and to shed some light on a case that others had found impenetrable. She would talk to Max, see if he had any ideas about how she might approach the second interview. She knew in her gut, the strength of her report would hinge on being able to engage Simpson, on gaining his trust. If he relaxed a little, got to know her – if he understood that she was fair – perhaps she was in with a chance. She wondered if his stand-offish, guarded behaviour might be driven by an undiagnosed anxiety disorder; an irritable depression, even. Because there were moments when he seemed – decent. He had appeared so pleased to have rescued the clinic from Paul’s incense sticks.
Stella ran through the background documents again in her mind. Some of the claims were horrifying. One image in particular kept coming back to her. His ex-wife had described how Simpson had punched her belly while she was seven months pregnant. But then again, these were allegations from an unreliable, substance-dependent witness who was fighting tooth and nail for custody of her only daughter.
Stella had to convince Simpson that it was in his best interests to let her in. She believed him when he said he loved his daughter and wanted the best for her. But his love alone didn’t mean he was capable of providing her with a home where she was physically and emotionally safe.
She packed the test materials away and straightened up her desk. She closed the blinds. She would write up her findings so far over the weekend, in preparation for her supervision session with Max on Monday. And she would have to think creatively about how to approach the next appointment with Lawrence Simpson.
Hilltop, 5.30 p.m.
Stella had laid out plates, glasses and serviettes, but had decided against putting out any cutlery, just in case. Blue chose the chair at the head of the vast kitchen table and began to pick unenthusiastically at the sandwich Stella had prepared.
Stella sat next to her. ‘How about a thank you?’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ Blue said, ungratefully.
‘You don’t seem very hungry,’ Stella said.
‘You can’t force me to eat.’
‘I’m not interested in forcing you to do anything.’
Blue kept her eyes down as she pushed the sandwich from one side of her plate to the other. She hadn’t eaten more than a mouthful. Stella supposed the request for food had been a ploy, to ensure she was allowed to stay in the house a little longer.
Blue yawned. ‘I’m still tired. Why did you wake me?’ She looked resentfully at her host.
‘It’s getting late. I need to phone someone to let them know you’re safe,’ Stella said.
‘I told you – there’s no one.’ Blue shifted the sandwich to the opposite side of her plate.
‘There must be someone,’ Stella said.
Blue shook her head.
‘Well, we need to find a way to get you home.’ In truth, any hopes Stella may have had for a swift departure were fading. She was less and less optimistic that the girl would leave voluntarily.
‘I told you – I’m not going home.’ Blue pulled off the crusts and discarded them. ‘Have you got any Coke?’
‘No.’ Stella poured them each a glass of water from the jug on the table. ‘How old are you?’ she asked.
‘Eighteen,’ Blue said.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Sixteen.’
‘It would be so much easier if you told me the truth.’
The scene in the kitchen had begun to resemble an interrogation, but somehow Stella had ended up in the wrong place. She sat directly under a bright enamel industrial pendant lamp that hung over the long white kitchen table, casting a harsh light that hurt her eyes.
‘I’m not a liar,’ Blue said. She was digging her nails into her forearm and staring at the floor.
‘Be careful, you’ll hurt yourself.’ Stella pointed to Blue’s short, ragged-edged nails with their chipped red polish. Blue stopped and pulled the sleeves of her top over her hands.
‘Does your mother know you’ve come here to see my husband?’ Stella asked.
‘No.’
‘She might think something has happened to you. We have to contact her.’
Blue peered up at Stella from under her fringe. Stella imagined a flicker of guilt in her expression.
‘You don’t even know my mother,’ Blue said. ‘Why should you care?’
‘My husband won’t be home until much later. We can’t leave your mum waiting that long. I need to know your home telephone number.’
‘I don’t have to tell you anything.’
Stella, tired of watching Blue dismember her sandwich, went to retrieve the half-empty bottle of Chardonnay from the living-room coffee table and poured herself a glass. It was not a good idea to drink on top of her pills, but what the hell.
Blue stared at Stella and at the glass of wine. ‘You don’t have any Coke but you’ve got wine,’ she said. She appeared to be making some sort of accusation.
Stella took another sip.
‘It’s not even six o’clock,’ Blue said.
‘I don’t usually drink at this time,’ Stella said. ‘I’m in shock – you, turning up at my front door, and saying that my husband is your father. Do you know someone who drinks too much?’
The girl nodded.
‘Is it your mum?’ Stella asked.
‘Vodka,’ Blue said. ‘She thinks it doesn’t smell but I still know.’
‘Is there anyone else that looks after you? Grandparents?’
‘Just me and my mum,’ Blue said. She stretched her arms above her head so that her T-shirt rode up even further, exposing more of her flat belly and then her sharp hipbones. She reached across the table to lift up Stella’s glass. ‘Does he like this wine?’ she asked.
Stella wondered if Blue had inherited her beauty from her mother. Again, that unreasonable flicker of jealousy. She wondered if Max might be happy to have a daughter, and whether Blue might have more claim to his heart than she herself did. She hoped this girl was not his.
‘How many bedrooms does this house have?’ Blue asked.
‘Quite a few.’
‘It’s so quiet,’ Blue said. ‘I don’t like this place, it gives me the creeps.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Stella said.
‘How long have you been married?’ Blue asked. She rocked back and forth, teetering on the back legs of her chair. It was extremely irritating to watch her.
‘A little more than a year.’
‘You’re younger than he is.’ Blue looked thoughtfully at Stella, examining her face. ‘His hair is sort of grey,’ she said.
‘I thought you said you’d never met him?’
‘I saw his photograph. On the internet.’
Blue took a sip from Stella’s glass. ‘Mm,’ she said. She lifted the bottle of wine and filled the glass to the brim.
‘I don’t think you should drink that,’ Stella said.
Blue took a long drink. Stella wondered if she was responsible for the girl, simply because she had lied her way into her house. She supposed she was, especially if she did turn out to be Max’s daughter. Max might care about the girl. He might expect Stella to keep her safe. The rounded slippery plastic of her chair felt hard and uncomfortable against her back. She was sure Max would not abandon a daughter, if he knew one existed.
‘That’s enough wine,’ Stella said, more forcefully. It had been a long time since she had taken responsibility for anything or anyone.
Blue paused, long enough to give Stella a defi
ant look, before taking another swig. She kept drinking until she had polished off almost all the wine, then she lifted the bottle as if to pour herself a refill. Stella reached across, took hold of the neck of the glass and yanked it away. Wine splashed across Blue’s lips and down over her precious jacket.
‘I said: that’s enough.’ Stella banged the glass down on to the table top.
‘Bitch,’ Blue hissed. She wiped her hand across her mouth. She pushed her chair back hard, so the metal legs made a terrible scraping, screeching sound against the slate floor. She stood behind Stella, leaning over her. Stella’s heart rate picked up, missed a few beats. She gripped the edge of the table. She did not move or show fear.
Blue leaned in close, her breath sour with wine. ‘Are you two in love?’ she asked.
‘That’s enough,’ Stella said. Now it was her turn to push back her chair. She stood up. She enjoyed the fact that she was a head taller than Blue. ‘I’ve called someone – from the police. I’ve told him you’ve run away. He’s looking at the police reports to see if any girls matching your description have been reported missing. You haven’t given me any choice.’
Blue shoved Stella’s chair so hard that it fell backwards. She left it where it lay.
‘Blue, what—’
Blue ran over to the sofa, bent down to retrieve her bag and then slung it over her shoulder as she made her way to the front door. She fumbled as she bent down and tried to pull on her still damp trainers.
Stella stayed a few paces away from her, at a safe distance.
It would be better if the girl left her alone. In peace. She might not even mention the visit to Max; it would be as though it had never happened. Blue’s claims were so unlikely.
Blue did not look back at Stella, but she took her time leaving. She fiddled with her laces, then with the zip of her jacket. Stella didn’t want the girl to do something stupid. What if she did turn out to be Max’s daughter? What if she hurt herself, or froze to death? She would soon be in agony if she walked out into the snow.
