Give Me the Child

by Mel McGrath

  I say, ‘Thanks but I’ve given up.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The medication.’ I’m scanning Tom’s face for signs of scepticism, but he’s listening, open-eyed, chin on his fists, strangely intimate, like nothing ever happened. Lies. I’m getting better at them. Not in Tom’s league, but still.

  A waitress approaches and Tom orders himself a chicken burger, sparkling water and a coffee for me. I’m not hungry. Heaving a sigh – always one for the grand gesture – he says, ‘God, Cat, how the hell did this whole thing get started?’

  It started with a one-night stand, Tom. It began when you decided to sleep with Lilly Winter.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe we just overreacted a little.’

  He straightens himself up and runs his left palm up and down his thigh. ‘You put on quite a show.’

  I laugh and let this pass.

  ‘How are the girls? How’s Freya?’

  ‘Good, both really good. Freya’s gone to your sister’s for a bit, maybe till after the hearing, just until things calm down.’ Tom’s left leg begins to jig. Nerves? Remorse? I can no longer tell. I am on new ground now. Or perhaps I’m on old ground and I’ve just forgotten what that feels like.

  ‘I’m not looking forward to the hearing.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you are. If only there was a way to stop it, but there really isn’t.’ A rueful smile. ‘The dead hand of bureaucracy.’

  I allow my left arm to hang beside my pocket. As he picks up his beer and takes a swig, my fingers are checking the settings on my phone. All good. Keeping it in the left pocket is a stroke of genius. I’m right-handed so Tom will never suspect.

  ‘You mentioned, on the phone…’ He tails off awkwardly.

  ‘The house? Yes, well, I’ve been thinking too, you know?’

  Tom takes a sip of his beer and looks at me carefully. ‘That’s why I’m glad you got in touch. There must be better ways of settling this than getting all lawyered up.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is, no lawyers?’

  ‘Let’s just keep this low-key. Do what we have to, minimise the fuss and get it over with. I’d hate it for Freya not to see her mother.’

  I glance at his face but his expression is giving nothing away. ‘You’re suggesting some kind of arrangement?’

  ‘Maybe, now the house is in the mix.’

  The burger and drinks arrive. Tom waits until the waitress has gone.

  ‘We’d need to sort out the details, of course.’

  I smile. ‘Of course.’

  Tom looks at his food then at me and makes to stand. ‘Gents. Old habit. But then you know that.’ As he skirts around the table, his eyes cut momentarily to his phone.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, take your time. I need to make a call anyway,’ I say.

  He eyes me beadily for a second then, against his better judgement, nods and turns away. At the steps down to the basement toilets he thinks better of it, turns and comes back, hand-miming a phone call.

  ‘Forgot it.’ He smiles as he’s reaching out, his hand at an odd angle, unable to pick up the phone without first moving both his burger and the beer bottle. Then his eyes blade to me, trying to decide if this is a trap. He stops, eases off, rocking his weight into his heels, and, finally laughing, he flaps at the air and says, ‘What a bloody idiot phone addict!’ Leaving the phone on the table he spins on his heels and hurries back towards the toilets.

  In an instant the phone is in my hands. This is better than I’d hoped. I press in the key lock number, the one I’ve seen Tom enter a zillion times – 0580, the first release date of Pacman – and I’m in and scanning down the list of his most recent calls. Sal’s number, mine, Michael’s, one or two old friends, nothing unusual. Then to the message folder and I’m scrolling back to the weeks before Lilly’s death, speed-reading with one eye on the staircase to the basement toilets. Tom’s been gone two minutes now. I’ve probably got another four. My husband likes to wash his hands. He’s a meticulous hand-washer. Still nothing obvious. Damn it! Whatever game Tom is playing he’s keeping the rule book close to his chest.

  I’m placing the phone back on the table beside the beer when an app icon on the home screen catches my attention. A single eye. Checking for any sign of Tom’s return and seeing none, I peck it open. A list of numbers scrolls up, followed by a series of URLs. Puzzling. None of this data means anything. And then, an instant later, clarity. My brain connects and it’s as if someone has thrown a seed into a freezing pond and the shapes and patterns of crystallising ice are blossoming before me. It suddenly feels very hot. The blood is a torrent in my ears. These are my calls, the websites I’ve visited. Every phone call I’ve made, each text, all the websites. My husband has been spying on me. Until the day I left home, every minute detail of my communication, every GPS location, every message I’d sent, every call received was downloaded to this app. This is not the secret I expected to uncover. But it’s a secret I can use.

  There’s movement in my peripheral vision. Quick as a flash I’ve let go of the phone. My fingers are trembling now, the blood bubbling inside them. A man walks by but it isn’t him. Fingers trembling, I pluck my own phone out of my left-hand pocket, cut the recorder, take a few screen shots, then, spotting the top of Tom’s head on the stairs, switch my own phone back to record and return it to my pocket. A second to replace Tom’s device on the table before I am in his line of vision. Tom strolls over. As he edges back into his seat and draws up the chair there’s nothing on his face to suggest alarm. Our eyes meet across the space, the only sound between us the thin tick of my shoe on the linoleum. His gaze falls on his device, wondering whether to pick it up and then, at the last minute, he decides against it and turns to his burger instead. One misstep now and it’s over. I will have revealed my hand. I am struggling to remember how we left things. There are worry lines on Tom’s forehead. As he lifts the bun to his mouth I say, ‘Good burger?’ My voice sounds oddly strained.

  ‘Did you make your call?’

  ‘Yes. Had a work thing but it went to Claire’s voicemail.’

  ‘Oh.’ The evenness in Tom’s expression suggests he doesn’t know I’ve been put out to grass. He puts down his food and wipes his fingers on a paper napkin.

  ‘Look, I’ve been thinking about what you said. You’re right, no lawyers. Let’s just keep the hearing low-key.’

  He hums through a full mouth, swallows and says, ‘It’s for the best.’

  ‘So at the hearing, you’ll say it was all a misunderstanding? You don’t think you saw the things you thought you saw?’

  He’s nodding. ‘In exchange for the house? Absolutely. One hundred per cent.’

  This is the time to leave, while he still believes he’s won. I rise from my chair. He puts down his burger and reaches for my hand. He’s surprised I’m leaving but the ripples on his face soon melt into a cool blank lagoon.

  ‘It was good to see you, Tom. I’m glad we had this talk.’

  ‘Oh, me too, Cat, very glad indeed.’ His lips pull into a tight, unfamiliar smile.

  Out on the street a piece of advice I read all those years ago in Tom’s copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People pops into my mind. Rule number one: make friends of your enemies.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The next morning when I wake it takes me an instant to remember where I am. I moved out of the Travel Inn last night and into the Travel Express a little further down the road. I also deleted my email and social media history and removed the SIM card from my phone, in case Tom has bugged Sal and registered the new number as mine.

  I swing my legs out from under the sheets, pad over to the desk and push a capsule into the coffee machine. While it’s brewing, I hop into the shower, flipping the temperature dial from cold to hot and back again until my skin feels as tightly sprung as a new mattress.

  After coffee, I fling on some clothes and then make my way down to reception. I go to the public phone beside the lifts and punch in Sally’s num
ber. My sister answers in a low voice.

  ‘She’s fine, she’s sleeping a lot.’

  ‘Will you tell her I love her and I’ll see her very soon?’

  Outside the streets are busy. The traffic is high but not yet irritable and the shops are opening up for business. The slice of sky visible between skyscrapers is an aching, southern blue, as if flown in overnight from the Med. Women and men slide by, lattes and bagged croissants in hand, tapping on their phones. London is healing today, a delicate rim of gliosis forming around necrotised cells, corralling them off from the healthy tissue, the neurons looking for pathways around the dead zone.

  At PC Planet I pick up a cheap laptop, a USB hard drive and a pre-pay smartphone. The next couple of hours are spent in my room at the hotel with the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door, downloading all my data onto the drive then wiping my old laptop and cloud space, unlinking my old phone, which I’ll keep in case Freya calls me, closing all my email accounts and setting up several new ones. Tom will figure out pretty quickly that I’ve moved on but at least I’ve bought myself some time.

  I call Dominic Harding with my new phone and set up a lunch meeting, then key in Claire’s number.

  ‘Emma Barrons has been trying to reach you. Shall I tell her you’ll be in touch? She sounds pretty desperate.’

  I ask Claire not to give my number out to anyone, and to call Emma and tell her I’ll be round at about nine tonight.

  At lunchtime, I make my way to The Complete Pig in the shadow of St Paul’s. Dominic Harding is tucked away in a secluded booth in the corner, his fingers scurrying across his phone. The place specialises in what it calls ‘top to tail’ eating. We used to meet here for lunch sometimes in the old days. We’d order brains and cross-examine each other while we ate. Given the size of the occipital lobe in exhibit A, on your plate, is it your contention, Dr Lupo, that the defendant is a sheep or a wolf in sheep’s clothing? Maybe you had to be there, but it made us howl like madmen. Those were the days, before Kylie Drinkwater, when almost everything amused us.

  Today, as Dominic watches me approach, his face is set in its habitual attitude of professional breeziness, but the giveaway is in the eyes. He’s worried. Standing, he presses me to him in an affectionate hug.

  ‘Caitlin, so pleased to see you, but, tell me, are you looking after yourself?’ This is Dominic’s very English way of telling me I look like shit.

  ‘I’ve had things to think about.’

  He colours, mutters, ‘Of course,’ and leaves the subject.

  We settle ourselves and when the waiter appears I order sparkling water. We’ve not spoken since my meeting with Tom.

  We quickly get down to business. The hearing will decide whether the Domestic Violence Protection Notice will be formalised into a court order. If it is, the court has the right to put conditions on my access to Freya. If I lose, I might forfeit the right to live with my daughter.

  ‘Notice has been served with a date for the hearing. Two o’clock on Wednesday at Camberwell Green Magistrates’ Court. The courts are always quick with DVPO hearings. We could apply for a stay, but there’s no guarantee they’d grant it unless there are extraordinary circumstances, even now, in the aftermath of the riots.’ His eyes narrow. ‘Are you about to tell me that we need a stay?’

  I tell him about the conversation with Tom and, as I’m speaking, he’s leaning on the table, one hand on his forehead, shaking his head in exasperation.

  ‘You do know, I suppose, that going to meet him was about the dumbest thing you could have done? You’re in breach right there.’

  ‘If I hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have found out about the spying. That’s got to help our case, hasn’t it?’

  Dominic considers this a moment then, raising his eyebrows, says, ‘If we can prove he’s been systematically spying on you, we might be able to get him under the new cyberstalking laws. It won’t necessarily help with the DVPN, but it might. What evidence have you got?’

  I take out my new phone and show him the screen shots I’ve transferred from the old one. His eyes widen.

  ‘What’s his game plan?’

  ‘Hard to say. Maybe he’s preparing his attack at the hearing;

  maybe he’s about to file divorce papers and claim custody of Freya; maybe he thinks I know something incriminating.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘How Lilly Winter died.’

  Dominic’s eyes narrow. ‘And do you?’

  As I detail my suspicions, Dominic’s eyes widen again and a look of scepticism shades his face. ‘Look, unless and until you’ve got some hard evidence, what you’ve just told me is going to sound vindictive, vengeful and a bit nuts, frankly. If you’ve got proof that Tom was in any way implicated in the death of that woman, you need to go and make a statement to the police.’

  ‘Really? And what’s the likelihood they’d believe me, do you think? A woman they consider to be mentally unstable who has a DVPN out on her?’

  ‘All the more reason to leave it. Focus on the hearing and getting your daughter back. You’ve admitted to pushing Ruby and pulling her hair. Our best strategy is to show you had solid grounds for believing Ruby was a danger to Freya and were taking reasonable steps to protect your daughter. Am I right in thinking that the only evidence the other side has to go on is Ruby’s version of that moment in the bathroom? Or did you manage to root out whatever it was you were talking about last time we met?’

  ‘No one saw me hit Ruby because I didn’t hit Ruby.’

  The waiter bustles up with the drinks, waits for the food order then offers to return in a few minutes. He’s picked up the tension in the atmosphere and assumes we’re lovers in the middle of a row. When he returns, we order our usual.

  Dominic pushes the menu to one side and steeples his hands on the table. ‘I’ve been doing a bit of spying myself and I’m pretty sure the other side are going to produce physical evidence of bruising.’

  ‘But I didn’t hit her!’

  ‘I’m just telling you what I know. Is there any other way Ruby could have come by those bruises?’

  I think about this for a while and am reminded, suddenly, of the incident with the paper clip.

  ‘She could have done it herself. She has form.’

  Dominic sighs. ‘No one’s going to believe that in court. We need to think laterally, Cat, and focus on your strengths, establish your credentials.’

  The food arrives. The brains are soft and sweet and ever so slightly bitter. For a moment or two it’s five years ago and Dominic and I are sliding into something dangerous and thrilling.

  Then Dominic puts down his fork. ‘Your expertise is your trump card. You need to use it. Supposing there were a way to prove Ruby can’t be taken at her word. What’s the saying? Genes are destiny.’

  ‘This is about the scans.’ Over the last few days, since Dominic and I first spoke, I’ve been thinking a lot about the scans, weighing up the consequences of using them.

  ‘I know how you feel but they’re all we’ve really got to go on that isn’t just he said/she said.’

  ‘But they’re unreliable witnesses. If behavioural genomics tells us anything, it’s that there’s no gene for lying. People don’t lie or do terrible things because their genes make them; they lie and kill because they choose to. Scans are wonderful, they’ve revolutionised brain science, but they’re lousy predictors of human behaviour.’

  Dominic rubs a hand through his hair and does his best not to sound irritated. He’s frustrated. At some level he thinks I’m being bloody-minded and pernickety.

  ‘Look, Cat, you know as well as I do that human beings need certainties. We demand them even when we know they don’t really exist. Guilty or not guilty? Blameless or culpable? I’m not asking you to lie outright. I’m just asking you to use the scans to say something simple, something certain.’ Dominic fixes me with a steady look. ‘Think about what’s at stake here.’

  ‘I can’t lie about Ruby. I thought I could but I ju
st can’t.’ I push my plate away, disgusted suddenly by the creamy wobble on the plate. Dominic’s jaw tightens as if bracing himself for what might come next. He’s afraid for me, for the case.

  ‘Then it’ll all come down to your word against Tom’s.’

  I pause. ‘If I did use the scans, the other side would be bound to bring up the Spelling case. They’ll say I have demonstrated poor judgement. It could so easily backfire. Plus, I’d be laying a terrible and unfair burden on Ruby. I’d be sticking a label on her that will stay with her for the rest of her life.’

  ‘But isn’t that exactly what you did in the Rees Spelling case – presented the science to spare him the full sentence?’

  They’re not the same, Dominic. Rees Spelling was – is – a psychopath and I failed to spot it because I let my principles interfere with the science. I didn’t want Spelling to end up in a youth offenders’ unit so I convinced myself the science was stronger than it is. I was wrong to give Spelling a second chance but I’d be equally wrong to deny it to Ruby. I’ve looked at Ruby’s scans.’ This was true. I had loaded them onto my laptop at the hotel. ‘Her profile is almost normal.’

  ‘Almost?’

  ‘There are some connectivity issues and the amygdala is on the small side, but with the kind of childhood Ruby’s had, there’s nothing I wouldn’t expect.’

  ‘But that’s not the same as saying she’s normal.’

  ‘It’s not the same as saying she’s psychopathic either. And there’s something else. I forged the permissions documents.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘I forged Tom’s signature on the documents giving me permission to take the scans.’

  ‘Jesus, Cat.’

  ‘I had this idea that maybe I could learn something about her from the scans, that maybe I could use that somehow. I don’t know, I guess I wasn’t thinking straight. It had got to the point where I was desperate.’