by Mel McGrath
We are beyond the industrial zone now, motoring through commuter belt towns unaffected by the chaos in the city, the kind of places where, in better times, Tom and I had briefly considered relocating after the Spelling case. Tom thought we’d get on better there. For him, the world of garden gates and village fêtes has a familiar, comforting feel. But there was nothing comforting here for me then and there’s nothing comforting now. I belong to London. Everywhere else makes me nervous. Harpeet reacts to the change in mood by making frequent checks in the rear-view mirror as if expecting me to have come to some harm.
‘My daughter’s in hospital,’ I say by way of explanation.
The driver nods and says nothing. A few minutes later he turns up the radio.
The West Kent Hospital Paediatric A&E sits behind a set of double doors at the end of the minor injuries department but it may as well be a planet away. There’s an unmistakably curdled atmosphere in paediatric wards, a distinctive brew of youthful resilience and parental terror. In this one, the administrator, a plump woman with a severe ponytail and a monobrow, is leaning against the registration counter. Her colleague is a small-boned, impish man with dancing lips. I move up to the counter and ask to see Freya Walsh.
‘And you are?’ This is the plump woman.
‘Her aunt. On her mother’s side.’ The woman eyes me carefully then checks her screen. At that moment the phone rings and the man picks up. The ponytailed woman seems to lose confidence. She hasn’t heard about an aunt. Or, worse, perhaps, she’s been told the girl’s crazy mother might try to make an entrance. Either way, there’s a look of indecision on her face I don’t much like. A distraction is called for.
‘By the way, as I came in, I saw some creep fiddling with himself on the other side of the double doors. You might want to investigate.’
Magic. The woman bristles and, straightening her uniform, careens off down the corridor. Her colleague, distracted by his phone conversation, waves in the vague direction of a set of double doors and mimes a left turn. Beyond the doors, a grey corridor smelling faintly of antiseptic and shit shrinks to the vanishing point. A nurse with Heidi hair hurries by and, at the mention of Freya’s name, floats an arm towards yet another set of double doors and into a ward of eight beds screened by curtains. It’s not far off ten now and the doctors are just finishing their rounds. From behind one screen comes low chatter, from behind another there’s guttural sobbing. The usual hospital symphony of anguish, nervous bonhomie and fear. In the third cubicle along, Freya lies alone and asleep, a Pippi Longstocking storybook beside her. Seeing her there makes me want to cry but crying is not useful so I hold back, reminding myself of my doctoral supervisor’s maxim. Only ever trust the evidence.
My daughter’s nose works in her sleep, picking up my smell, the animal bond. Should I wake her? I’m not sure. What I’d most like to do is scoop her up and sweep her away from here and from Tom and Ruby, but the DVPN limits my options considerably. The simple fact of being here puts me in breach. Any attempt to take Freya with me could be construed as kidnap. To stand a chance of getting away with it we would have to go straight to the nearest airport and get on the first plane. I have to admit there’s a certain renegade appeal to that. Apart from Sal, what’s keeping me here? We could carve out a new life together somewhere. Jamaica maybe. Swap the grey, burnt streets for coffee plantations and disappear into the warm, coconutty air. No more Tom or Ruby. No more MacIntyre. Freya’s memories of home would start to fade the moment we stepped off the plane. But sooner or later, the first brilliant flare of adventure would dim. Then how would I explain to my daughter the decision to take her away from everything she knows?
A clipboard of medical notes hangs over the end of the bed. The symptoms are as Sal relayed them to me: heart palpitations, dizziness, nausea, headache and vomiting. Blood tests have revealed no obvious source of infection. Blood carbon monoxide at 1.5%. Normal for a city kid. They’ve tested the glucose in the blood for diabetes but that’s normal too. On the summary page I see the words panic attacks? They’re holding her overnight for obs and a psych referral. So far as I can tell from the notes, the referral hasn’t yet happened.
Freya’s breathing grows shallower and her eyes begin to flutter as her mind swims back up to the surface. A single eyelid opens.
‘Mum!’ She wriggles herself into a seated position, yawning and pressing her fists into her eyes, looking about. A shadow passes across her face. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘He’s gone back to your grandfather’s but your Aunt Sal’s here. Would you like me to fetch her?’ I spotted my sister as I came in, slumped across two chairs in a waiting area, an expensive-looking cashmere thrown over her head.
Freya looks at her hands for a moment as if she’s thinking this through. She bites her bottom lip and her eyes are shimmery.
‘Things have got a bit complicated.’
‘I know. Dad says we can’t live with you anymore because you’re not well.’
I lay my hand on her head. ‘It’s only temporary, sweet pea. Only for now.’ Stroking her face with the back of my finger. Her eyes close again. ‘Can you tell me something? It might be a difficult thing, but can you tell me if I promise you no one’s going to get into trouble?’
She frowns then gives the smallest of nods, which is enough.
‘Can you tell me what happened at the lido?’
Freya opens her eyes. I’ve surprised her. This isn’t what she had in mind.
I repeat that no one will get into trouble. Freya hesitates then opens her mouth. The gesture is a stone thrown into a dark pool, its first ripples carving wet channels in the soft down of Freya’s face. But still she can’t bear to say it.
‘It’s OK, my darling, all you have to do is whisper it to me.’ I lean towards her, turning my head so my ear is right beside her open mouth. We’re so close now it’s almost as if we can read one another’s minds.
‘Ruby said telltales end up like her mum.’
‘Oh, sweet pea.’
She hesitates a moment then in a flash reaches out and slings her arms around my neck and in a voice hoarse with emotion she whispers, ‘Ruby killed Harry. She got a hammer from the shed and she hit him.’ She is trembling now. ‘She left him in your bed. She said it was your fault for not letting her have him.’ Freya slumps, the breath catching in her chest.
Keep on, my darling girl, keep on, we are so close to the truth.
‘I thought having a sister would be more fun than this.’
My hands find the soft hair on my daughter’s arms. ‘What happened at the lido?’ A long sob follows. ‘Tell me, sweet pea.’
The sound of a nurse in the cubicle next door. The muffled cry of a sick child. I wait, my finger poised over my mouth. Footsteps fade out into the corridor. Sitting on the bed beside her, I take one of her hands in mine. The other cups her face. She’s sobbing now, her face in her hands. ‘I don’t want Ruby to get into trouble.’
I’m suddenly conscious of the time. I don’t want to push my daughter. I’m intensely aware of her fragility but Tom could be back any minute. ‘Please, my love, please. I’ll make sure Ruby gets help.’
Thoughts criss-cross Freya’s face, then she rearranges herself, opens her mouth and speaks.
Afterwards, in the waiting room with Sally.
‘She’s sleeping now.’
Sally says, ‘Poor Freya. I’m so sorry to have doubted you, Cat. Tom was drip-feeding me with this bullshit about you being unwell and I was stupid and fell for it. He just seemed so plausible.’
I laugh in spite of myself. ‘Yes, Tom has always been very good at being plausible. Years ago, when we first got together, he told me a story about his childhood. I sensed he was testing me and I was newly in love and I wanted to pass the test. I’ve thought a lot about that story over the last couple of weeks. It was about this kid in his village he biked around with after school. The kid had a stammer and some of the other local boys teased him about it. Tom was happy for the kid to han
g around with him because the boy was pathetically grateful. One day, though, the kid stepped over the line. He told Tom that he was his best friend. Tom was OK being around this boy but the last thing he wanted was for this boy to make any claims on him. So, the same evening, he crept round to the boy’s front garden where he kept his bike locked and loosened the wheel nuts. The next day, he challenged the kid to a bike race. As the boy was racing downhill, he turned a corner and his front wheel came off. Kid was in hospital for a month. The boy’s parents asked Tom if he knew what happened, he said he had no idea. He went to visit the boy in hospital. Even then his sympathy was plausible.’
‘That’s creepy.’
I pull some coins from my pocket. ‘You want a coffee?’
‘Is that what they call it?’
I fetch her a cup. She puts it to her lips, makes a face and drinks it anyway.
‘You heard of that book, Dale something, How to Win Friends and Influence People?’
‘Rings a bell,’ Sal says. In Sallyland, this usually means no.
‘It’s this sort of self-help bible for manipulators. Tom had a copy when I first met him. He was embarrassed about it so he got rid of it, though not before I had a flick through. It basically says the best way to get ahead is by being whatever people want you to be.’
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘It means everything just becomes a performance. Maybe the reason he’s so brilliant at performing Tom Walsh is that he doesn’t even realise it’s an act.’
A nurse swings by, offers a brief smile then hurries on.
‘I’m trapped, Sal. If Freya comes with me now, the police will issue a warrant for my arrest. I can’t let her go back home, not after what she’s just told me.’
‘She could stay with me. Would Tom allow that?’
‘Hmm. With Michael not well and the hearing coming up he’s got a lot on his plate. If you don’t say anything about Ruby, and he thinks it’s only for a little while, then yes, maybe. He might be glad if you took Freya for a few days.’
‘She should really tell her dad what she just told you,’ Sal says.
‘She’d feel she was betraying him. And even if she did tell him, I’m not sure he’d do anything about it. Tom is refusing to get Ruby into any kind of therapy.’
‘But why?’
‘I wish I knew.’ And this is the hard truth. Why is Tom protecting Ruby Winter? Guilt? Bloody-mindedness? Or – the idea flashes across my mind like a burst of gunfire – does Ruby have a secret that Tom doesn’t want her to tell?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I’m on the train back to London from Tonbridge when Dominic returns my call.
‘Hello, you. How’s tricks?’ The old, familiar voice.
‘Getting by. Listen, Dom, you got any time today?’
‘For you, of course.’
He checks the calendar on his phone and suggests a time. ‘Better tell me what this about.’
‘I need you to help me pull a rabbit out of a hat.’
‘Ah, magician’s assistant, is it? Then I’m your man.’
The train trundles on. At Sevenoaks, a passenger alights from the carriage leaving a copy of the Herald behind. The paper is full of the riots: youths in balaclavas or bandanas hurling bricks at shop windows, the police, and each other. One image in particular catches my eye – a group of younger kids who appear to be watching the looting and violence. A little way off, standing on his own, is a face I think I recognise. I peer in closer. The broad nose, the thick dark hair, the penetrating stare are unmistakable. In a flash, my fingers are dancing over the phone.
‘Dr Lupo, I’m so glad you called. Can you meet me in the park?’
‘Now?’ I glance out of the window at the familiar red terraces of south-east London.
‘As soon as you can.’
The Bandstand Cafe in Grissold park is nearly empty. Evidently, the message hasn’t got around that the park has reopened. Either that, or people are playing safe. Emma Barrons sits at a corner table where the light is dimmest, at an angle, as though she were riding side-saddle, turning the rings on her fingers.
Her voice is muddled with booze. ‘You saw the picture?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve left Joshua with his father and the nanny. They’re fucking, of course – my husband and the nanny, that is. So far as I know, neither of them has yet resorted to having sex with my son.’
A waitress comes over and, as we’re ordering coffee, Emma absent-mindedly pushes up the sleeves of her blouse to reveal livid bruises splashed along both arms. She notices me clocking them and waits for the waitress to leave before murmuring, ‘These were Joshua, not his father.’
Since his discharge from the clinic, Emma explains, Joshua’s behaviour has gradually deteriorated and there is some new hectic charge about him, for which Emma blames the riots. ‘I took him back to the consultant he was seeing before he came to you. Without his father knowing, of course. Defiance disorder and a prescription for Ritalin. I told her we’d been there, done that. And then she talked about therapy.’
‘All the research shows that would be the worst possible thing for a kid like Joshua,’ I say. ‘He’d see it as useful training in manipulation techniques.’
Emma laughs bitterly and removes an e-cigarette from her bag. A trail of vanilla vapour rises on the thermal.
‘It was a relief to see Joshua’s picture in the paper this morning. We didn’t know he’d gone; he got out of his bed in the middle of the night and must have got back into it in the early hours of the morning because that’s where the nanny found him. But she told me his bed sheets smelled smoky. I was worried that he’d tried to set fire to his bed. He’s always setting fire to things. Now at least I know what caused the smell.’
Emma Barrons takes a deep inhale. ‘When we first met you told me about a “warrior” gene. Do you remember?’
‘Of course. Back then we were speculating, but the genetic marker showed up in later tests on Joshua. Low activity variant MAO-A.’
‘If his problem is genetic, then I suppose there’s no cure?’
‘It’s more complicated than that. But that’s why it’s so hopeful. Research in behavioural genomics does point to a correlation between the low activity variant MAO-A gene and violent behaviour, but lots of people who have the genetic marker don’t go on to be violent. We’re beginning to understand that violence is more often than not a learned behaviour. While it’s true that Joshua may well be genetically predisposed to being violent, he’s more likely to be violent if he sees it at home.’
The waitress returns with the coffee and casts an eye over Emma’s arms before moving away.
‘That’s why it’s so important that we keep Joshua away from any violence.’
Emma Barrons gives me a pointed look. ‘You know, I suppose, that your colleague said there was nothing more they could do for Joshua.’
When I tell her about her husband’s involvement in Halperin she first raises an eyebrow then shuts her eyes and, shaking her head, says, ‘Christopher’s not with Joshua most of the time, he doesn’t understand. One day my son is really going to hurt someone.’
From the park I set off in the direction of the institute. The streets have been reopened in all but the worst affected areas now and sweeper trucks plough up and down the major thoroughfares. But glass on the pavement still crunches underfoot and the boarded-up shops, broken bus shelters, fluttering police tape and the spicy tang of burnt-out bins are testament to the events of the past three nights. Thank God for the rain, and for the cooler weather.
I call Anja’s mobile from the Wise Owl Cafe.
‘It’s Caitlin. Can we talk?’
Anja arrives a few minutes later, spots me at our usual table and strides over. In the cafe lights, her hair is the colour of ripe oats.
‘Caitlin! What a surprise. What can I do for you?’ Her voice is calm and a little officious, but she shifts her weight between her feet as if there are tiny, sharp stones inside h
er shoes.
‘Please, sit down.’ I tell her what Emma Barrons has just told me.
She listens, hands steepled on the table, pretending to give weight to what I’m saying. I don’t mention the records. When the waitress appears Anja waves her away, a signal to me that she’s not staying long.
‘You’re making a mistake discharging Joshua,’ I say finally.
Anja crosses one leg over the other and cocks her head. ‘I’m afraid it’s you who are mistaken, Caitlin. The clinic couldn’t possibly have discharged Joshua Barrons. He was never officially a patient.’
I’m nearly back at the Travel Inn when my phone rings. It’s Gloria. While I was at the hospital she went back to the Dionysius cafe as she said she would. Without me around the men seemed more willing to talk. She got chatting to a man who claims to know a man who knows Ani. He’s promised to make a couple of calls and see what can be arranged but she’s hopeful that, if we can’t speak to Ani himself, we might at least be able to speak to someone who can get a message to him. Less encouraging news is she’s heard the council is intending to replace the boiler and do some general renovations in Lilly Winter’s flat next week. Another family needs the space. If there is any physical evidence of what exactly happened the night Lilly Winter died, we have only a few days left to find it.
