by Delaney, JP
58
MADDIE
I KEEP QUIET DURING Pete’s interview with Grace Matthews. It’s him they want to talk to, after all, the person at the scene, and I didn’t even get to the NICU until long after the mix-up had happened.
Afterward, we get an Uber home, too exhausted to face the Tube. As we crawl through the traffic, I look across at him. “I didn’t realize you saw the tag on Theo’s leg so soon.”
He goes on looking out the window. “Well, I said I couldn’t swear to it.”
“Yes. But after that, you said you were certain. You told her you could picture it.”
He doesn’t reply at first, and for a moment I think he’s going to say something else. But all he says is, “Pretty certain, yes.”
“So the mix-up must have happened before that, in those first few minutes.”
“When the original tags were loose. That’s right.”
I frown. “Were the tags loose? You didn’t mention that.”
“They would have come into the NICU separately, when the babies were zipped into the skin-wrap bags,” he explains. “Grace Matthews would have known that. Although I didn’t actually see them.”
Then how do you know…I almost say, but he forestalls me. “This is so exhausting, isn’t it? All these different legal actions.”
“Perhaps that’s what Miles is counting on. Perhaps he was always planning it this way, to ramp up the pressure.”
Pete only shakes his head. But it’s a gesture of despair, not disagreement.
* * *
—
WHEN WE GET HOME, he gets straight in the car to go and pick up Theo. I open my laptop to check my emails—I’ve told the office I’ll work from home for the rest of the day—but something makes me go into my photo stream instead.
I haven’t looked at the very first picture of my baby—the picture Pete texted while I was still in the recovery room at the private hospital—since the day it was taken. It’s too raw, the memory of my revulsion at it too stark. But it automatically got saved to my iCloud along with all my other pictures, and now here it is. Grainy, a little blurred, taken over the shoulder of a doctor or nurse. No, definitely a nurse: I’d had no way of knowing it at the time, but that’s Bronagh’s slim back and jet-black hair. And the image might be blurry, but Pete always had the latest gadgets and the camera was a powerful one: As well as the stick-thin limbs and nose prongs that even now make me feel nauseous, you can see the tubes coming out of the cooling suit, the brake-light-red glow around the baby’s left ankle from the oxygen sensor.
And no tag. There’s no security tag on the other leg. Of that I’m sure.
Or am I? I peer at the photo again. To use Pete’s phrase, I couldn’t absolutely swear to it. I can’t even say if the wizened little creature in the cooling suit is Theo or David.
And Pete has said what he’s said now. There’d be no point whatsoever in sending this picture to Grace Matthews and saying, sorry, he might have been mistaken. We’d effectively be announcing that he’s an unreliable witness, someone whose entire testimony might be flawed. And that, in turn, might have repercussions for the payout.
No: Better to leave things as they are. As our lawyer said, finding out how the mix-up happened is an internal matter for the hospital. If Pete made a small mistake over the exact timing, it’s hardly a big deal.
59
Case no. 12675/PU78B65, Exhibit 31: deleted texts from Peter Riley’s iPhone, (a) from Peter Riley to Bronagh Walsh, and (b) from Bronagh Walsh to Peter Riley, in reply.
Saw them today. Said I remembered seeing the tag on Theo’s leg a few minutes after he was transferred to your incubator.
You’re a star. xxx
60
PETE
I DROVE TO HIGHGATE to collect Theo from the Lamberts’ on autopilot. Not because I was worried about the small lie I’d told on Bronagh’s behalf—I’d been pretty nonspecific, and in any case, it probably wasn’t even a lie—but because I still couldn’t get my head around everything that was going on. I even found myself wondering if we shouldn’t pull out of suing the hospital—but since that legal action was the only one not costing us anything, and would hopefully raise the funds to pay Anita Chowdry’s fees to boot, it seemed crazy to end it now.
I wasn’t really thinking about the Lamberts as I walked up the steps to their door. I assumed the buzzer would be answered by Tania, or that possibly Lucy would be there, wittering on about cups of tea and being polite to each other. But the door was opened by Miles. He was wearing a T-shirt and running shorts.
“Pete,” he said warmly. “How are you doing?”
I stared at him. I felt something I’d almost never felt in my life—a physical, atavistic hatred, an almost irresistible compulsion to do bloodcurdling violence to another human being. The hairs on the back of my neck rose and my face flushed involuntarily.
“I’ve come to collect Theo,” I said curtly.
“He’s just having a wash—finger painting got a bit messy. He’ll be along in a minute.”
I nodded, unwilling to engage in small talk. Miles put his head on one side and regarded me quizzically.
“You really hate me, don’t you, Pete?” he said softly.
“I don’t hate you,” I said coldly. “I dislike what you’re doing and the way you’re doing it, that’s all.”
“Really?” He studied my face. “No, I think you hate me. I never waste time hating people.” He stepped forward, pulling the door behind him so we couldn’t be overheard. “You know, some pretty dark stuff happens in the scrum. Gouging, punching, a thumb in the shorts, collapsing the front row the moment you’ve got the ball…But after the match is over, you shake hands and buy each other a beer. Because it’s the player who hit you hardest who you respect the most.”
I stared at him. “This is not some fucking game.”
“No.” Miles shook his head emphatically. “It’s a contest. A contest I will win. Not because I hate you, but because the prize of this particular contest is my son.” He suddenly leaned in very close, so he was almost talking over my shoulder, his lips close to my ear. It was all I could do not to flinch. “But. Just. Remember. This. You have him on loan, nothing more. And if you do anything, anything at all, to undermine my future relationship with him, I will seek you out and I will kill you.”
He stood back, smiling, just as Theo pulled the door open and ran out. “Daddeeee!” he cried excitedly, charging into my legs.
“Ready to go, Theo?” Without waiting for an answer, I took his hand and started down the steps.
“Bye, Theo,” Miles called cheerily.
“Bye, Moles,” Theo called back over his shoulder. “Love youuu!”
61
PETE
“HE DIDN’T MEAN IT,” Maddie whispered.
I looked across at Theo, now engrossed in a wildlife documentary in which wolves were tearing a deer to pieces. It probably wasn’t very age-appropriate, but for once he was actually looking quite peaceful, sitting cross-legged in front of the TV in his pajamas, sucking his thumb. “I know. Miles almost certainly taught him to say it. Bribed him with sweets or something.” I paused. “But I could count on one hand the number of times Theo’s spontaneously said that to me. And what if the CAFCASS people hear him and assume he does mean it?”
“So we’ll tell them. Add it to the list: Miles Lambert has been coaching our son to say, ‘I love you.’ ”
I watched Theo for a few moments. “Why doesn’t he say it to us?”
“He’s a boy. An unusually confident little boy. Which is a credit to your parenting.”
“Maybe. Or…”
“What?”
The wolves, having brought down the deer, were now defending their meal from a bear three times their size. I said quietly, “Could he be a bit like his father? His biological father, I
mean?”
Maddie replied immediately, which is how I knew she’d already thought about this. “In what way?”
“Nasty.” There, I’d said it now. “Is Theo going to grow up to be a horrible bastard like Miles?”
Maddie put her hand on mine. “Of course not. Because, unlike Miles, Theo has you for a role model. Which is another reason we can’t let the Lamberts get hold of him. If he were raised by them, then sent away to boarding school, he probably would turn into a nasty bastard. But here…it’s like you said to Miles when you went for a drink. Here he’ll get the best of both worlds.”
“Perhaps.” I didn’t say that it increasingly felt as if the two worlds couldn’t possibly coexist. That at some point they would simply crash into each other and explode. “Miles threatened to kill me today.”
“Seriously? Was he angry?”
I shook my head. “Deadly calm. Like he always is when he drops the nice-guy act.”
Maddie looked horrified. “He wouldn’t dare try anything violent. Not in the middle of a court case.”
“Let’s hope not. But I think we should both be careful. Just in case. There was something about the way he said it…It gave me the creeps, put it that way.”
I looked over at Theo, engrossed in the standoff between the wolf-pack leader and the bear. The leader, a she-wolf, was trying to wear the bear down, circling so it could never get a decent bite of the dead deer, but at the same time trying to stay out of range of the bear’s claws.
As I looked at him, for the second time that day I felt an unfamiliar emotion. I looked at my son’s face and felt, just for a moment, some of the visceral, all-consuming hatred I’d felt for his father.
* * *
—
I HAD MY OWN CAFCASS call the next day. At precisely eleven o’clock, my phone rang and Lyn Edwards introduced herself.
Maddie had already run me through the questions she’d been asked, so I knew roughly what to expect. No contact with social workers, no. No allegations of abuse. I tried to remain calm, even when Lyn asked me whether Maddie’s mental health issues could affect Theo’s safety.
“Maddie doesn’t have mental health issues,” I said politely. “Any more than someone who had a broken leg two years ago still has a broken leg.”
“But someone who broke their leg might still have difficulty walking,” Lyn pointed out, still in the same insurance-call-center voice. “Does Maddie, Peter?”
“Have difficulty walking? No.”
Lyn didn’t respond to my feeble attempt at a joke. “So there are no mental health issues currently, in your opinion.”
“None whatsoever,” I said firmly.
“And I understand that you’re the primary carer?”
“That’s correct.”
“How would you describe your parenting style, Peter? Are you more of a structured person, do you see, or child-centered?”
“Well,” I said carefully, sensing a verbal trap, “I don’t really see a distinction between the two. We have boundaries, obviously, and Theo’s aware that there are consequences for crossing them. But I also try to listen to his suggestions and opinions.”
“I’ll put ‘both,’ shall I? Oh, it won’t let me do that. I’m afraid you’ll have to choose.”
I sighed. “Child-centered.”
“Because there have been some concerns, Peter, haven’t there? I understand Theo was asked to leave his nursery.”
“He’s a little late in learning to share toys, take turns, that sort of thing. Sometimes he hits or bites in order to get his own way. It’s something we’re working on, for example by using the naughty step.”
“And what do you think Theo’s wishes are in this situation, Peter? What are the outcomes he would like to see?”
“We haven’t asked him,” I said firmly. “Not because we don’t want to take his feelings into account, but because this is much too momentous a decision for a two-year-old to take. It would cause him immense anxiety even to think about it.”
“Yes, your partner said the same thing.”
“Well, we’ve obviously discussed it.”
“And is there anything you want to tell me, Peter?”
“Pete, please. And yes, there is actually. I want to remove Theo from the nanny share with the other party. I think it’s holding his development back—he can’t really take turns with David, and the nanny has a strong French accent, which isn’t good for his delayed speech.”
“I think we’d need to see what the court recommends before we make a big change like that, Peter. What would you do with him instead?”
“He’s on the waiting list for a different local nursery.”
“And have you asked Theo what his wishes are about going to a nursery?”
I hadn’t, of course, mainly because I knew what he’d say. At the Lamberts’ he was treated like a little prince. He never needed to share a toy. Why would he want to learn to take turns when he could have a well-stocked playroom all to himself, not to mention a nanny to fetch the toys and tidy up after him? I could tell him that nursery would be more fun because there’d be other children there, but the truth was, Theo didn’t particularly like other children, not unless they were the meek, pliable kind who could be relied on to hand over their toys whenever he wanted them.
“Theo’s wishes are mixed,” I said at last. “He loved his last nursery, and it was definitely good for him to learn how to socialize with other children. I also have concerns that he’s being overindulged by the current arrangement. For example, they’ve been coaching him to say ‘I love you’ to them.”
“Have they now?” Lyn said. “And how would you know that?”
“He said it to Miles yesterday, when I collected him.”
“But how do you know it was the result of being coached?”
“Well, it stands to reason,” I said, exasperated. I was about to add, Because he hardly ever says it to me, when I thought better of it.
“I don’t think we should make any assumptions when it comes to ascertaining Theo’s feelings,” Lyn was saying. “I’ll write down that you think that, if you like, but also that there’s no evidence to back it up.”
62
Case no. 12675/PU78B65, Exhibit 32: Report by Susy Carson, proprietor, Acol Road Nursery and Preschool.
I have been asked to write something about the circumstances that led to Theo Riley leaving Acol Road Nursery. Asking a parent to remove a child is not something we take lightly, we would only do it after a sustained pattern of behavior that has the potential to negatively impact the other children. In line with government guidelines half our staff either hold NVQ or BTech qualifications or are working toward them. We always aim to maintain the recommended staff–child ratios and at the current time are actively recruiting to achieve this. However, in line with many local facilities we do find it hard to retain staff, at the time under discussion we were down from eight persons to six. I was heavily involved in covering the shortfall myself, but providing an individual child with one-to-one shadowing to prevent harm was unfortunately not an option we were able to pursue.
The specific incident that led to Theo’s removal was that he hit another two-year-old with a tumbler, leading to a large bruise and bleeding on Zack’s forehead. Even had there not been bleeding, we would have written it in the Incident Book and discussed it with both sets of parents. However, this was the fourth hitting/biting incident in five weeks and it was clear previous efforts to teach Theo to play safely with other children were not working. We had previously had several conversations with the father about the situation and the need for consistent strategies including the home. Whether Mr. Riley followed through on these is not known, however Theo’s behavior clearly had not improved. When I informed Mr. Riley that Theo would be leaving us he did not take it well and I was forced to ask him to moderate his language.
&n
bsp; Although we report incidents to parents anonymously, on this occasion both parents I spoke to were able to identify the other child. I feel it is my duty to mention that soon after Theo left us, Zack Tigman’s mother was knocked off her bike by a motorist as she left the nursery, causing her unfortunately to break her leg. Initially she was unable to provide the police with any details, but she has told me recently that she believes the vehicle could have been a Volkswagen, the make of car driven by Mr. Riley.
63
PETE
“NO!” THEO SCREAMED. “NO no no no no!”
“It’s not a discussion, Theo,” I said firmly. “You chose cheesy toast, so you have to eat it all if you want a mini roll for pudding.”
“It’s burned.”
Admittedly, the corners of the toast were dark from being left under the grill a minute or so too long. “It’s not burned, it’s browned. And anyway, you have to eat it.”
“No no no no no no no.”
“In that case, no mini roll.”
In response, Theo slung his cheesy toast on the floor. I retrieved it and put it back on his plate. “There’s no point in doing that, because you still have to eat it, and now it won’t be as nice.” My phone rang. There was no caller ID, which meant it might be one of our lawyers. “Hello?”
“Hello Peter,” Lyn’s voice said, her Welsh accent emphasized by her slow, careful delivery. “Is it a convenient time? It’s just a quick question, really.”
“No! No! No!” Theo’s face was now puce with anger as he banged the table with his fists.
“Yes, I guess so,” I said, desperately looking around for somewhere quiet. There wasn’t anywhere, not unless I went upstairs, in which case an unsupervised Theo would almost certainly wreak havoc with his tea. “Let me just sort out Theo.”
