The Unheard

by Nicci French

  ‘Hi, Alex, this is Tess. Nadine said I could call. I’ve got an enormous favour to ask.’

  FIVE

  ‘You probably think I’m being stupid, wasting your time.’

  ‘No,’ said Alex.

  I’d wanted him to say yes. I’d wanted to be told this was nothing, it would all be all right, it would all go away.

  After the phone call, I had rung Laurie saying that Poppy was missing the morning at school, so I wouldn’t be taking Jake, if that was all right, but I’d pick him up as usual. Then, as he had requested, I sent Alex an email listing all Poppy’s unusual behaviour since the weekend: the drawing, the swearing, the bed-wetting, the way she had been more clingy. I had taken a photo of the black crayon picture and sent it to him. I had told Poppy that we were going to visit someone before nursery.

  ‘A fairy godmother?’

  ‘No, just a friend.’

  On the bus to Primrose Hill, Poppy had tumbled up the stairs and sat at the front, leaning forward, her little legs swinging, her face gleeful with interest. She pointed out the magpie sitting in the plane tree, the small dog that seemed to have lost its owner, the boy doing wheelies on his bike, the silver car, the puffs of white clouds in a sky that was blue, the gaggle of schoolchildren in their yellow reflective jackets, the bin that a fox must have raided in the night, spewing its contents onto the pavement. Her red hair shone and her eyes glowed in her pale, freckled face; she was like a small, bright flame.

  The Warehouse was a recent conversion of an old industrial space, all steel and glass and wood. In the lobby we were met by a woman with a mass of curly dark hair who introduced herself as Paz. She was wearing a spotted yellow dress and had enormous earrings. Poppy gazed up at her with round eyes.

  ‘Are you a witch?’

  Paz grinned. ‘No. Or not a wicked one,’ she said. She had a faint accent: Spanish, I thought. ‘Are you scared of witches?’

  Poppy considered. ‘When I was a witch, I did be,’ she said.

  Paz looked confused by this.

  ‘Alex is expecting you,’ she said to me. ‘This way.’

  I’d met Alex Penrose several times, but at parties or social gatherings. I knew him as a very thin and very tall man, a pourer of wine, a wearer of eccentric shirts, a teller of unexpectedly lewd jokes, an energetic but not graceful dancer. This was a different Alex Penrose, grave and courteous, who shook my hand briefly as if we were meeting for the first time, and then bent down from his unusual height to greet Poppy.

  ‘Hello, I’m glad to meet you.’

  He talked to her respectfully, as if she was a small adult.

  It didn’t feel like a consulting room. There was a squashy sofa by the window, a striped rug on the floor, posters on the walls, children’s books and toys spread out on a table.

  ‘I hear you like drawing,’ said Alex. ‘Perhaps you can draw something for me.’

  He pointed to the box of chunky wax crayons. Poppy looked at him through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Something for Mummy, not you.’

  Alex laughed. ‘Fine. Maybe Mummy can wait downstairs and it can be a surprise.’ My face must have shown my alarm, but Poppy seemed unconcerned. She was already seated at the table with an orange crayon in her fist, frowning in concentration.

  ‘No looking,’ she said sternly.

  ‘We won’t be long,’ Alex said.

  I sat in a chair that was too low, trapped in its capacious softness. It was not long after nine, and The Warehouse was empty, its day not yet begun. I tried to read one of the newspapers spread out on the table, but the words made no sense to me and I soon laid it aside. Leaning back in my chair, I covered my eyes with one hand. I could feel hot tears start up and my body felt boneless with fear. How was it possible that I was sitting in this centre for psychotherapy and mental health, while a doctor who specialised in child trauma was examining my daughter?

  A few days ago I would have agreed with Jason that in spite of everything – the separation; the painful relocation to a different home in a different part of London; the careful restructuring of Poppy’s life into time spent with Daddy, time spent with Mummy; the appalling sense that so early on in our child’s life we had let her down – in spite of all of this, we had done all right. Poppy might be marked but she wouldn’t be damaged. She had seemed miraculously unharmed, so sweet and sparky, that I’d let myself believe that we had done it, had survived. I had begun to believe I could be happy again, after years of happiness’s gradual erosion. I had even let myself fall in love again, feel desired and beautiful and cared for.

  Now, from the warm blue sky, this: this ugliness. What had happened over that one weekend with Jason to turn Poppy from a cheerful, settled little girl into one who had trouble sleeping, wet her bed, drew pictures of death, and said ‘kingcunt’ while her mouth twisted and her eyes glittered in her pale face?

  I took my hand away from my face and let the light that shone through the large window dazzle me. There were flowers in the grass slope outside; birds were building their nests in the unfurling branches. I wanted Alex to walk towards me smiling, saying: It’s nothing at all, your daughter is completely fine. But if he did that, I wouldn’t believe him. I knew it was something. But what?

  I heard a door open and a babbling voice and Poppy appeared at the top of the stairs, Alex beside her. She was so tiny and he was so tall. He took one of her hands as they came down the steps, in the other she held a clutch of papers.

  I heaved myself out of the low chair.

  ‘There you are.’ My voice came out tinny.

  ‘I did draw,’ said Poppy triumphantly. She pushed several drawings into my hand.

  I smoothed them out on the table, scared that I would see a menacing black scrawl, but they were all bright with colour. There was a fox, or at least something orange with an eye. A rainbow, wonky and bold, with the sun at one end and rain at the other. The beginning of a house: square box, two windows, door, tree to one side. The fourth drawing showed three triangles with circles on their tops from which messy spirals of hair sprouted. There was an enormous yellow circle to one side.

  ‘That’s you,’ said Poppy, tapping the smaller triangle. ‘That’ – and she tapped the vastly larger one – ‘is me.’

  ‘And who’s this then? Is that Daddy?’

  ‘Daddy doesn’t live with us. Daddy lives with Emily. That’s the fairy.’

  ‘What about Sunny?’

  Poppy looked at me reproachfully and laid a stubby finger on the giant yellow circle. ‘There.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you want a sticker, Poppy?’ Paz had joined us.

  ‘Yes! On my arm and on my tummy.’

  ‘Let’s go and choose you one.’

  Alex waited till they were out of earshot.

  ‘You understand this isn’t a formal assessment,’ he said.

  ‘But what do you think? Is she all right?’

  ‘Your daughter is a bright, friendly, inquisitive, outgoing child, Tess.’

  ‘I know. But is she all right?’

  ‘I didn’t find any sign –’ he held up a long, bony finger – ‘with all the usual caveats, of abuse. I mean sexual abuse.’

  My breath came in shallow gasps. I needed to sit down.

  ‘I didn’t do a physical examination. But you said on the phone that there was no sign of soreness in the genital area.’

  I nodded. My head wobbled on my neck. Across the large room, Poppy was rummaging in a basket.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Obviously I don’t know what to look for.’

  ‘There’s nothing that struck me as worrying. No sexualised behaviour. She doesn’t seem notably restrained.’ He allowed himself a smile. ‘To say the least. She is communicative. But’ – the bony finger once more – ‘everything that you described to me, the sleep disturbance, the bed-wetting, the clinginess, the agitation, they can be symptoms of some kind of trauma. And they can also mean nothing at all.’

  ‘So you don’t know.�
�

  ‘I can’t know, without evidence. Young children are highly receptive. It’s how they learn things. You know this as well as I do.’

  I thought for a moment. I felt dull and stupid and I wasn’t sure whether this was good news or not.

  ‘So you’re saying this might all mean nothing.’

  Alex thought for a moment.

  ‘Not exactly. I’m saying that I have no reason to believe that she has been assaulted but she may have witnessed something. Or she may just be feeling something.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You say that this began when she returned from visiting her father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s her relationship with him like?’

  ‘Good. Fine. It’s Jason – I mean, you’ve met him. He’s fine. He—’ I stopped and rubbed my face. My eyes felt gritty. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. She usually goes there every other weekend and once mid-week and so I don’t know that bit of her life anymore. She’s only three, but what happens to her when she isn’t with me is out of my reach. There’s a bit of her I’ve already lost.’

  ‘It’s hard.’

  ‘He’s a good father. He adores Poppy.’

  In my mind’s eye, I saw Poppy riding on Jason’s broad shoulders, her hands clutching his ears, both of them laughing as he carried her down the sunlit street towards me.

  ‘And is it just Jason?’

  ‘You mean – oh, I see. No. He’s married. He married pretty quickly after we separated. Emily’s quite a bit younger than him.’ I grimaced. ‘Surprise, surprise. Anyway, I don’t really know her but she seems sweet. Sweet – that’s a word I don’t usually like to use about a woman. But she does.’

  I was talking too much and too quickly. I took a calming breath.

  ‘What should I do?’ I asked again.

  ‘Keep an eye on her. You might want to let her school know about your concerns.’

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  He paused again. He seemed to be thinking.

  ‘This behaviour in a small child,’ he said finally. ‘It can be about something else.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I was saying that children pick up on things. How are you?’

  ‘Me?’ I said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. ‘I’m fine. I’m doing my best. It’s difficult sometimes.’

  He didn’t respond. Instead he took a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it.

  ‘Poppy did this picture as well,’ he said. He handed it to me.

  I looked at it. It was a woman. I could tell it was a woman because of the hair and the triangular dress. There was a row of vertical black lines that almost covered the figure.

  ‘What is it?’ I said.

  Alex looked across the space to where Poppy stood with Paz.

  ‘She said it was you.’

  ‘What are the lines?’

  ‘She said it was a cage, like at the zoo.’

  ‘A cage?’ I said, dismayed. ‘Why has she put me in a cage?’

  ‘A cage can be for keeping someone in,’ he said. ‘It can also be for keeping things out.’

  ‘So which is it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  SIX

  At nursery, I let go of Poppy’s hand and she raced into the melee of small bodies in the playground. I looked after her for a few seconds: her red tee shirt, bright hair and small, strong body; that boisterous, throaty laugh. I realised that I was watchful and tense, as if waiting for something to happen. Would Poppy shout some obscenity, would she push someone, would her merriment slide into something dark and even violent?

  I turned away and went into the classroom, where Poppy’s teacher, Lotty, was eating her sandwich. She seemed alarmingly young to me, in her early twenties perhaps, with the smooth skin of a child, but she was always cheerful and calm and Poppy adored her.

  It was suddenly hard to find the words: saying it out loud made it seem grimly real, as if I was bringing something dormant to life. I told her everything and Lotty listened without interruption, her head to one side, her sandwich uneaten.

  ‘This must be upsetting for you,’ she said when I came to the end.

  I couldn’t trust myself to speak. I looked away and nodded.

  ‘First of all, I have to say I haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary, but of course I’ll be extra attentive now that you’ve told me this.’

  ‘She’s been fine?’

  ‘She’s bright, she’s energetic, she’ll join in with anything. She can be excitable and boisterous and loud, but that’s nothing to worry about. As far as I’ve noticed, she’s been fine.’

  I swallowed. ‘I assume you’ll report this to the safeguarding lead?’

  ‘It’s policy,’ she said. ‘As you must know.’

  ‘So who will be informed about it?’

  ‘Apart from her, then it’s the head, the deputy head, and that’s about it.’

  ‘And you’ll keep an eye on her?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And tell me if there’s anything I should know?’

  ‘I will. But I’m sure she’ll be OK.’

  I gritted my teeth: how could she be sure? ‘Thanks.’

  * * *

  I stood for a moment in the schoolyard, in the silky warmth of the day. In the playground, Poppy raced past, unaware of me watching, her face radiant with purpose.

  I turned away. Although both Alex and Poppy’s teacher had been calm and reassuring in their different ways, I felt that I had set something in motion.

  But what had I learned? Nothing, except there was probably nothing to worry about. Poppy was fine and I was a fretful single mother, the kind I often met in my job, the kind Jason complained about.

  What had they said I should do? Nothing, except wait and watch and see and try not to worry too much.

  I had three hours before I collected Poppy and Jake and I didn’t know how to fill the time. Normally I would have gone home, done some yoga or had a run, and then continued with Poppy’s witch outfit. Or I would have wandered round the second-hand shops in search of things that I still needed for the flat. Or met up with a friend. Once or twice I’d even gone to see a movie, sitting in the back row in the dark with the illicit pleasure of solitude. What I should really do was attend to the mounting pile of bills and reminders.

  But I didn’t want to do any of those things, because I was filled with a churning disquiet that made my limbs twitchy. If I’d still been a smoker, I would have smoked a cigarette and then another, lighting one from the tip of the previous one. Killing time.

  I walked slowly down the street towards my flat, past the magnolia tree in sumptuous bloom, past the junkyard and boarded-up shops, then I stopped. I thought of the drawing, of Poppy’s words and of the way that she had clung to me. What had she seen and what had she heard? What was she trying to tell me?

  I turned round. I made my way onto the high street. I went up to the door of the police station and without giving myself time to think, I opened the door and stepped inside.

  SEVEN

  ‘I hope you won’t think I’m wasting your time,’ I began.

  Detective Inspector Kelly Jordan had come round from behind her desk as if she was trying not to be intimidating. I was relieved: for some reason, I had pictured a middle-aged, red-faced, beetle-browed and bulky man who would stare at me dismissively. But she was a woman. More than that, she was a woman who looked like she could be my friend. She was in her late thirties or early forties, I guessed, faint smile lines around her mouth and eyes, dressed in drawstring linen trousers and a long-sleeved black tee shirt. She didn’t wear make-up and hadn’t the time to do more than roughly bundle up her coarse dark hair. I felt I could tell my troubles to her.

  ‘So you’re reporting a crime,’ she said.

  This was already starting to feel difficult.

  ‘I think there’s possibly been a crime committed.’

  Jordan frowned. ‘I d
on’t understand.’

  I took a deep breath and began. I took Poppy’s black crayon drawing out of my bag and showed it to the detective. I recounted Poppy’s behaviour and what she had said. I described our visit to the psychiatrist. I felt increasingly awkward. When I finished, there was a long silence.

  ‘If you were me,’ she said finally, ‘what would you do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Though I did, of course. ‘You’re a detective. You know how to deal with things like this.’

  ‘All right, then. Let me rephrase it: what are you asking me to do?’

  ‘Investigate it.’

  ‘Investigate what?’

  Jordan waited. She didn’t seem scared of conversational silences the way I was. They always made me feel that they need to be filled.

  ‘I’m not exactly reporting a crime because I don’t know what the crime is. I said that you’d think I was crazy. But I think my daughter witnessed something bad. A three-year-old girl can’t exactly report a crime but I think in her own way, in that drawing, in what she said to me, that’s what she was doing.’

  ‘So where is the crime?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Who’s the victim?’

  ‘You can go on asking these questions. I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you have anyone you suspect?’

  ‘I don’t want to accuse anyone without any evidence.’

  ‘You must know that I’m going to ask this: do you suspect your ex-husband?’

  ‘Actually, ex-partner. We weren’t married. Not that it matters. And the answer is—’ I stopped for a moment because I didn’t know what I wanted to say. I just wanted someone to take me seriously and I could see that however sympathetic this detective was, she too was just going to tell me to go home and calm down. ‘No. I don’t. I mean, of course I don’t. He’s a good man.’ I hesitated for a fraction – was Jason actually good? Charming, yes. Energetic, certainly. Interesting, for sure. But good? ‘He’s one of the most trustworthy people I’ve ever met,’ I said, too emphatically. ‘If he says he’s going to do something, then he does.’