Give Me the Child

by Mel McGrath

  I press my fingers to my eyes. Orange patterns dance in the space behind my eyelids. ‘There’s another thing I need to tell you.’

  Dominic can feel the weight of what’s coming while it’s still a bundle of ideas collecting words and forming sentences in my mind.

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

  ‘Years ago – I mean, years – I did something terrible. I didn’t mean to do it, but I can’t say it didn’t happen.’

  Dominic’s knuckles are pressing hard on the table, leaving little pools of bleached, pressured skin.

  ‘You know what a prodrome is?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘It’s the first stages of a psychosis. Subtle changes in behaviour that foretell a psychotic episode. Like an aura. They started happening to me about a month before my breakdown. Odd intrusive thoughts, dropouts in my memory, that sort of thing. At first I just put them down to pregnancy hormones. Which was right, as it turned out, but the point is, I ignored them. And then, one morning, about thirty weeks into the pregnancy, I wake up to this smell, like the most disgusting stench of dead flesh coming off a vase of lilies. So I go over and, I don’t really know how to explain it, I just get this feeling that those lilies have stolen my baby and that they’re somehow eating her flesh, like the smell is so bad because she’s dissolving inside the vase. It sounds mad because it was. And so I pick up the vase and I can hear myself cry out and my cry must have woken Tom because the next thing I know his arms are around me, trying to hold me back, and I’m thinking he’s trying to stop me from saving my baby, so I wheel about and I punch him, hard.’

  Time slows and for a moment I am back in that dream lift, rising through a tall building and heading shakily out towards the atmosphere, out beyond the air.

  ‘Does anyone else know about this?’ Dominic says.

  ‘Tom called 999. The police arrived along with an emergency psych team. They put me under observation for a few hours then discharged me, said it was probably just a hormone spike.

  ‘I came home and for a while I was OK and everything seemed to be fine between us. Until, about a month later, I woke up to the smell again. Things just spiralled downwards very quickly from there. It was like an earthquake went off in my head.’

  ‘It would have been helpful if you’d told me this before,’ Dominic said coolly. He is trying to understand, but he doesn’t, he can’t.

  ‘The stuff I did, the stuff I said, I know it shouldn’t be shaming but it is. I didn’t want to live in the shadow of mental illness all my life; I didn’t want to have to think about it. A month ago, I had a good life, a daughter I’d die for, a wonderful career and a serviceable marriage. And now what? I’ve got nothing left.’

  ‘You have a chance. All you have to do is stretch the truth and you have a chance to be with your daughter.’

  ‘And lie in the process? Condemn Ruby Winter? If I did that, Dominic, would I even be fit to be with Freya?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  In a cab. It’s eight forty-five in the evening and the night has already closed in. Commuters have hustled back to the ’burbs and the streets are quiet. As we bowl over London Bridge heading south towards Brixton there’s no sign of rain but a tanginess in the air is suggestive of autumn. The yellow boards that were everywhere only a couple of weeks ago have disappeared. Shops have been repaired, burnt-out buildings boarded up. No one has mentioned LeShaun Toley in days. All the city’s tumult is behind us. Only the taut, metallic aftermath of violence remains, casting its shadow over the capital.

  The cab rumbles along past the smart Georgian terraces of Kennington towards more troubled parts of town.

  The driver pipes up: ‘Springfield Road, that’s the one by the park, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ The one ten minutes from my old life.

  Emma Barrons answers the door in a silk kimono looking like all manner of shit. Something in me can’t let go of the Barrons family. I’m guessing I’m still trying to manage the fallout from Spelling, to make up for my monumental failure. Emma gives me a smile and leads me through a bright tiled hallway into a vast, expensively furnished kitchen. She waves me to a seat at the immaculately distressed table and flops down opposite.

  ‘Where’s Joshua?’

  ‘Out, with the nanny. He doesn’t sleep – well, not much anyway. She takes him to Brixton Tube. He likes to ride the escalators. He’ll go up and down for hours.’

  ‘I remember him telling me he wanted to be a Tube train driver in one of our sessions.’

  ‘Yes, he’s into dark tunnels, secret places no one else gets to go. And he likes to be in control, too, of course. He’s not his father’s son for nothing.’

  ‘Where is your husband?’

  Emma Barrons lets out the air from her mouth in a long sigh. ‘In New York. He’s not coming back.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She presses her puffy eyes with her fingers then releases them. ‘Don’t be. He’s been looking for an excuse to leave for years. I really don’t mind, except that now I’m left to cope with Joshua on my own.’ She takes a breath, remembering her manners. ‘You’ll have a drink?’

  ‘Coffee would be great.’

  Emma nods, gets up and goes to the kettle. She lets out a peal of brittle, bitter laughter and, turning back to me with her eyes shining, she says, ‘You’ll never guess. Joshua has taken to keeping creepy-crawlies in tanks. Did I tell you? They’re upstairs. Ghastly!’ Her smile fades and she’s fidgeting with the rock on her finger now to stop her hands from trembling.

  ‘What will you have? Vodka?’

  She brings over the bottle, some ice and two glasses, pours herself a double and knocks it back in one. The coffee is forgotten.

  ‘I read somewhere that violence is an attempt to restore self-esteem. Is that true, do you think?’

  ‘Yes, I had a therapist who said that.’

  Emma pours herself a second vodka. Emma Barrons is drinking herself stupid. There’s another laugh, this one indistinguishable from the yelp of a kicked dog. ‘It’s funny, when you think about it. We’ve built the whole of society around the assumption that human beings want to be socialised. What are we supposed to do with ones like Joshua who don’t?’

  Emma pulls out her chair and swings her legs over as though any moment she’ll be making a bid for freedom. ‘They told me you’d left for disciplinary reasons.’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  Another drink is poured. ‘Did you speak to Anja De Whytte?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her face registers mine and falls.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Do you read the Bible ever, Caitlin?’

  ‘My dad read it to me sometimes, when I was a kid, but no.’

  ‘You know the parable of Abraham and Isaac, though, I suppose?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that God wanted Abraham to sacrifice his son? How could anyone seriously love a god who could even suggest such a thing?’

  I say nothing. Thoughts about Ruby and Tom dance through my mind.

  The silence is finally broken by the plink of ice cubes in Emma’s glass.

  ‘You’re in a lot of trouble, aren’t you?’

  Ignoring this, I say, ‘There might be a way to help Joshua, but it would mean blowing a few whistles. There’d be press, and I wouldn’t be able to guarantee to be able to keep yours or Joshua’s name out of the papers.’

  Emma Barrons blinks and with a croak in her voice she says, ‘Anything’s better than this awful fear, the unbearable daily dread that my son is going to end up doing something terrible.’

  Back outside it has begun to rain and the air is damp and cool. Walking down Springfield Road around the corner of the Grissold Park, I am overtaken by a tremendous hollowing thump in the gut. No one ever speaks of the awful animal loss, the pang in the chest, the constant tug of blood and genes that makes a battle of your body when you can’t see your child or know they are sa
fe. But if I feel this way, how much worse it must be not to miss your kid, to wonder why you ever had him, to look at his face and not see anything to love there without hating it a little too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The hum of traffic over London Bridge not far off midnight, inky water on the high tide slapping on the stanchions, and the shadow of Rees Spelling casting across the river to Joshua Barrons on the other side. I’m tapping numbers into my phone.

  A wary voice answers. ‘Who is this? Have you seen the time?’

  ‘It’s Caitlin Lupo. I’ve got a story for you, White. You already know we were treating Joshua Barrons at the clinic. As I remember, it was about the only piece of information you’ve had on me that you haven’t used to screw me over.’

  ‘You might not believe it but I do have some scruples. A few anyway.’

  ‘It was Anja, wasn’t it, who leaked that particular nugget of information? She was hoping you’d leak it and I’d get the blame.’

  ‘I can’t reveal my sources.’

  ‘Did Anja also tell you that she discharged Joshua Barrons from the clinic and deleted all his files? The institute’s line is that he was never officially a patient.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘Christopher Barrons is a principal trustee of the Halperin Trust. They support a lot of the institute’s research. He was terrified word would get out that his son was in treatment and what for. He threatened to cut off the Halperin money and the institute went along with it and, just to be on the safe side, erased Joshua’s records. I can’t prove who gave the directive to delete the files but I know it was done to protect the Halperin funds. I can email you the deleted records. Every last one of them.’

  ‘You got anyone who can corroborate this?’

  I’ve already thought of this and made the necessary calls.

  ‘Claire Turnbull and Lucas Stavlinski, respectively my administrative assistant and my research associate. They were both present when Joshua Barrons was either discussed or in treatment and they’re willing to go on the record.’

  White lets out the air with a hum.

  ‘This kid is going to do something bad, probably to his mother or his nanny or someone close to him, but maybe to some random child he meets on the street. He’s not going to get treatment till someone rolls over the stone and deep cleans all the shit lying under it.’

  ‘Sounds like someone wants her job back.’

  ‘I took the job to help kids like Joshua.’

  ‘How noble. There was me thinking it was because you’d screwed up the Spelling case and were trying to redeem yourself.’

  ‘Look, White, I don’t give a shit what you think my motives are. I’m offering you a scoop. You don’t want it, there are a dozen hacks out there who will.’

  ‘So why pick me?’

  ‘Because I have so much respect for you. Why do you think I picked you? Because you’ll publish, that’s why.’

  A grunt on the other end. ‘Email me those documents. I’ll think about it.’

  I finish up the call, take a whisky from the minibar and email over Joshua Barrons’ records. I’ve done all I can for Joshua now. It’s time to try to get some sleep.

  Some hours later, I’m woken by the sound of a slamming door. It’s not yet light and the air in the room is rank with the empty, plastic smell of recycled corporate hospitality. I’m nauseous and my head is a ball someone has been kicking around the pitch. A groan passes my lips and, as I raise myself onto my pillow, my eye catches sight of two empty mini-bottles of whisky and one of vodka sitting on the bedside table. Craazy Cat has been at the booze. Shit. I stumble into the bathroom, grab the mouthwash and gargle. The eyes in the mirror stare back reproachfully.

  I am in the shower when my right hand begins to tremble and from there everything goes rapidly downhill – my chest tightens, my whole body is shaking and a gasping sound is coming from my mouth. I just manage to stumble out of the shower on hollow legs before I am throwing up weak brown fluid into the toilet bowl. After that the panic subsides a little. Then it’s back to the shower to clean up and take some deep breaths to try to quell the fear.

  Three capsule coffees later I’m feeling more myself. I’ve showered and ironed my navy skirt and white blouse, oiled my hair and I’m anxious but in control. A quick fix in the mirror. The woman who looks back means business.

  The facts are… The facts are that I did not hit Ruby Winter or cause the bruising on her body. The facts are that Ruby Winter is a disturbed child and a danger to my daughter. The fact is that Freya is afraid of her half-sister because, among other things, she held her under water until she nearly passed out and then threatened her so she would keep it a secret. The fact is also that Tom Walsh is protecting Ruby Winter or perhaps Ruby Winter is looking out for her father. Or both these things. The fact is that Ruby Winter and Tom Walsh have lied and lied and covered for each other. The fact is Tom and Ruby have a secret.

  Human behaviour cannot be predicted from a scan. That’s a fact.

  A fact is not a fact unless it can be proven. And what about the truth? Isn’t that more than whatever fits the facts?

  The Herald slides under my door around six thirty. No mention of Halperin or Christopher Barrons or the institute. Nothing on the website either. At eight thirty I leave the hotel and make my way towards the bus stop to meet my fate. Someone has fixed a sign to the railings reading Hackney is hurting, with details of a meeting for the citizens of the borough to discuss the riots. The irony of that notice strikes me. We need a brain to read the sentence but the brain is itself incapable of feeling pain. It has no means of hurting. Brain tissue, actual grey and white matter, lacks the necessary nociceptors. The only pain receptors are in the dura and the pia, the brain’s protective shields. Thinking is a very different matter. Thinking can leave you chafed and blistered and with painful, suppurating wounds. Thinking should come with a health warning.

  The leaves on the plane trees around St Paul’s are beginning to curl, the sky is marbled with clouds and it won’t be long now before the city changes out of its summer livery into its grey winter uniform. A young homeless man sitting on a bench outside with his dog asks for money. I’m early for my meeting with Dominic at the Hunt, Baylor, Strachan offices. I find a table in a nearby cafe, stop the waitress and order a double espresso and an omelette. By the time it arrives my appetite has gone, so I ask to have it boxed up with the intention of taking it out to the man and his dog. I’m heading over to them when the pressure of a hand on my elbow brings on a reflexive flinch and, as I turn, I see Dominic standing beside me, dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and conservative tie. Always cool under pressure is Dominic.

  ‘I spotted you on my way to the office.’ We’re beside the young homeless man now. Dominic bends to pat the dog. ‘Hey, Steve.’

  ‘Hello, mate,’ the homeless man says. ‘A fiver wouldn’t go amiss.’

  I watch a sparrow hop along the bench then take flight and follow it to its perch on a thin branch high in the plane tree where it bows and flutters to stay upright in the breeze.

  Dominic produces the money. ‘Get the dog some breakfast.’

  Steve rises from the bench and pulls on the dog’s lead. ‘Nah, you’re all right. I’ve got to be going in a minute, mate. Busy day.’

  We watch him leave then, laying a steadying hand on my shoulder, Dominic says, ‘Let’s go to the office. We can talk in private.’

  Walking down the path past the plane trees in St Paul’s churchyard and across the street to Dominic’s building, neither of us speaks because there is too much to say. The receptionist fills out a visitor badge and Dominic ushers me through the security gate. In the lift, he squeezes my elbow.

  ‘How are you, Cat?’

  ‘Nervous.’

  The doors open at the eighteenth floor. Dominic waves me out first then sees me through the glass doors and exchanges a greeting with the floor receptionist. We move into the quiet thrum of the corridor and th
rough a panelled door into his office.

  ‘Coffee?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I had my PA check with the clerk at Camberwell Green Magistrates’ Court. Antoinette Spiro’s on rota. She’s tough but she’s a listener and she doesn’t like separating kids from their mothers unless there’s absolutely no alternative. Plus, she’s under pressure to get through a mountain of riot cases. You have court experience, Cat, which will be useful, but you need to be prepared for Tom putting up a good fight. He loses this and you’ll have the right to get up from the court and move straight back into Dunster Road.’

  ‘And if I lose?’

  Dominic leaves the armchair where he has perched and comes over to sit beside me. ‘This isn’t a run-of-the-mill case where the wife, husband, partner – usually a bloke with a bit of a history; drunk, high, whatever – hits out. The other side will do their best to convince Spiro that you threatened Tom. They’ll call on your history. Even so, my gut tells me they’ll fail to impress Spiro. There’s no hard evidence that you ever threatened Tom. It’s Ruby I’m more worried about, the physical evidence of bruising on her body and the fact that you haven’t got any real evidence to suggest she might be a danger to Freya. If there’s any question mark over either child’s safety…’

  ‘Which there is.’

  Dominic absent-mindedly brushes some non-existent lint from his trousers. ‘Spiro has the right to issue a temporary custody order. Both girls will go to a relative or into temporary foster care.’ He lifts a reassuring hand. ‘I’m sure it’s not going to come to that but it’s only right I warn you that it could.’

  From somewhere outside comes the soft burr of a wood pigeon. Dominic lays a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘It wasn’t always like this with Tom, you know?’ I begin. ‘Even after Ruby arrived. I’m sure he felt attacked and defensive but he did seem to want to fix things. But then something changed and he began acting as though it was my reaction to events rather than the events themselves that had created the problem.’