Do Me No Harm

by Julie Corbin

  ‘Two officers are at the bar in the High Street having words with the manager,’ O’Reilly says. ‘Checking CCTV footage and finding possible witnesses. All the staff who were on duty that night will be questioned and officers will go back every evening next week to speak to clientele.’

  ‘Do you think this could have been perpetrated by someone who’s already known to the police?’ I ask. ‘What I mean is – are there people who routinely commit this sort of crime?’

  ‘Possibly. In cases of date rape, for example, the perpetrator may have acted before. But an incident like this is most likely to have been perpetrated by somebody Robbie knows.’

  We all look at Robbie. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. He’s staring down at his bare feet, curling his toes into the carpet. He looks vulnerable and I want to hug him to me, but I know he won’t appreciate my show of affection and protection when there are so many of us in the room.

  ‘Friends sometimes spike each other’s drinks. Usually it’s just for jokes. Other times it’s malicious,’ DI O’Reilly says. ‘In light of Robbie’s condition when he arrived in A & E, it appears he ingested a hefty dose.’

  ‘Hardly a joke then?’ I say quietly.

  ‘It’s possible whoever did this made a mistake with the amount but . . .’ His expression is reluctant. ‘. . . I’m inclined to think it’s malicious.’

  ‘But why? Who would do that?’ Anxiety churns in my stomach. Phil is next to me on the couch and I catch myself in the act of reaching out to hold on to his arm, diverting my hand at the last minute to grab at a cushion. I hug it tight to my middle. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘It can’t have been any of my friends,’ Robbie says.

  ‘But you don’t know the hockey crowd that well,’ Phil says.

  ‘You don’t know the hockey crowd that well,’ Robbie says, glowering at Phil. ‘But I do.’

  ‘The fact remains, that if you didn’t take the GHB yourself—’

  ‘For the hundredth time,’ Robbie says, leaning across the space between himself and Phil, ‘I didn’t take anything.’

  ‘So one of the crowd must have a grudge against you,’ Phil pushes on. ‘Could you have offended someone?’ Robbie’s face shuts down. He says something under his breath and slumps back against the sofa, his feet jerking a frustrated rhythm on the carpet. Phil glances along the couch at Mark. ‘Can you think of anyone Robbie might have upset, Mark?’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Robbie says before Mark has a chance to answer. ‘They’re just not like that! None of them take GHB themselves, never mind giving it to me!’

  ‘We have to consider every possibility,’ Phil says. ‘Otherwise you’ll never find out how the drug got into your system.’

  ‘So what if we don’t?’ Robbie challenges. ‘It’s happened and it’s over and I just want to get on with my life.’

  ‘What we’d like to do now,’ O’Reilly says, interrupting the palpable current of animosity flowing from Robbie to Phil, ‘is to take statements from both boys.’ He looks at Mark and Robbie then turns to me. ‘Is there another room where PC Bullworks can take Mark’s statement?’

  ‘Yes.’ I shoot to my feet. ‘We have a small study next door.’

  ‘Are we allowed to be present?’ Leila says, indicating herself and Archie.

  ‘That’s up to your son. At seventeen, we’re legally entitled to question him without parental consent.’

  We all look towards Mark who steals some quick eye contact with Robbie before saying, ‘I can handle it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Leila says. ‘Because I’m not.’ She squeezes Archie’s sleeve. ‘Do you think he should have one of us in there with him? Or a lawyer even?’

  Before Archie can answer, O’Reilly says, ‘Neither of the boys is being charged with anything, but they are perfectly entitled to have legal representation if they wish.’

  ‘It’s fine, Mum,’ Mark says, impatience showing in the tight expression on his face. ‘Stop making such a big deal of everything.’ He marches off through the door and Bullworks follows him. Archie takes Leila’s arm and says something quietly into her ear. I expect her to argue her point but she doesn’t; she follows him out of the room and into the kitchen.

  ‘Help yourself to tea and there’s plenty of food in the fridge,’ I shout after them. ‘Would you like some tea, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ He smiles at me before swivelling round to where Robbie is standing by the window staring out into the overgrown back garden, a climbing rose encroaching on the light and reminding me that I need to get out there and put some time into the garden before it gets away from me and becomes more than I can manage. ‘Robbie, would you mind if I talk to your parents first and then we can have a word?’

  ‘Sure.’ Robbie’s mood brightens at once and he makes a beeline for the door. ‘I’ll be in my room.’

  ‘Glad to be off the hook,’ O’Reilly comments as the door slams behind Robbie.

  I’ve yet to retake my seat and now that there’s more space I don’t need to sit back down next to Phil. He knows more intimate details about me than any other man on the planet – not just the sort that involve sex, but all the other stuff that counts for just as much, if not more: dreams and ambitions, fears and regrets, all my day-to-day realisations and concerns. I trusted him with all of me, felt our confidence-sharing engendered closeness. For over twenty years he was the repository for everything I thought and felt, and yet now that counts for nothing and we keep a distance between us, a polite space, safe from each other’s heat and touch. It still makes me sad that what started out as a deep and meaningful connection has ended up like this.

  ‘Can I just ask,’ I say. ‘Could this be a case of mistaken identity?’ I sit down in an armchair several feet from both men. ‘Or simply a random crime? I mean, I know Robbie’s friends and he’s right – they’re all very supportive of each other.’

  ‘What about the fight he had at school?’ Phil says, and I sense O’Reilly’s ears pricking up.

  ‘There was a problem at school last term with a boy in his year,’ I tell O’Reilly. ‘They ended up having a fight in the common room and were both suspended for a couple of days.’

  ‘We never quite got to the bottom of it,’ Phil says. ‘And neither did the headmaster, but it seemed like Robbie was as much to blame as the other boy.’

  ‘They’re good mates again,’ I say.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Mark told me.’

  ‘Mark’s going to side with Robbie. For all we know, their dislike of each other may have continued out of school and this could be the boy retaliating.’

  Phil’s only following the same line of thought as I did when I questioned Mark in the taxi but, hearing him talk like this, in front of O’Reilly, feels like a betrayal of Robbie’s trust, and I try to prevent a cold expression closing down across my face. It’s a bit like trying to stop a sneeze and I know I’m not succeeding.

  ‘What was this boy’s name?’ O’Reilly says.

  ‘David Renwick.’

  He writes it down in his notebook.

  ‘But I really don’t think he could have had anything to do with it,’ I add. ‘Otherwise the boys would have flagged him up as the obvious suspect.’

  ‘That’s for the police to decide,’ Phil says.

  Irritation spikes in my chest and I try to breathe through it. I once participated as a facilitator in an anger -management course and I practise one of the techniques now, -visualising a scene that makes me feel calm: a sandy beach, Mediterranean sunshine, a lounger placed just in the shade, a good book, a cold drink by my side, the children playing happily in a turquoise sea. Not a care in the world.

  ‘I’m wondering,’ Phil says to O’Reilly, ‘whether you think Robbie’s reaction is normal for a teenage boy?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to care about who did this to him.’

  ‘Well . . .’ O’Reilly shrugs. ‘Teenag
ers generally think adults are making a fuss about nothing. As far as he’s concerned, it’s happened, it’s over and he wants to get back to what interests him. Or –’ he tilts his head – ‘he might have -something to hide. Do you think that’s a possibility?’

  ‘Yes,’ Phil says. ‘I do.’

  I give a deliberate sigh before staring down at the floor.

  ‘I think there’s a possibility that he willingly took the GHB,’ Phil says.

  ‘I completely disagree.’ My voice is loud. ‘I think—’

  Phil holds a hand up towards me and I stop talking, not because he’s commanding me to, but because O’Reilly is watching me and I want to keep my cool, put forward my opinion as calmly as possible.

  ‘I find his lack of interest in who’s done this to him suspicious,’ Phil reiterates. ‘It’s as if he knows there’s no point pursuing it.’

  I stay quiet as Phil and O’Reilly discuss the likelihood that Robbie and Mark are both lying. This goes on for a couple of minutes, Phil talking in his psychiatrist’s voice about the unreliability of adolescents and O’Reilly listening with, I’m pleased to observe, a noncommittal look on his face.

  ‘Several times in the room just now, they glanced . . .’ Phil pauses, ‘. . . slyly at each other.’

  ‘They weren’t sly glances,’ I say into my hand. ‘They just don’t like being under the spotlight.’

  O’Reilly turns to me. ‘You don’t think the boys might be lying in order to protect each other?’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Do you think they could have bought the GHB and what happened was an accidental overdose?’

  ‘No, I don’t believe they bought the GHB.’

  ‘And as far as you know your son does not use drugs?’

  ‘Well . . . nothing stronger than alcohol and the odd smoke of marijuana. And if you look at his record, you’ll see that – apart from that one incident at school – he’s not a child who’s ever been in trouble before.’

  ‘With all due respect, Dr Somers, most parents don’t know the half of what their teenagers get up to.’

  Phil is pleased at this comment and stares at me as I reply. ‘That’s as maybe. But I think it extremely unlikely that my son is using drugs.’

  ‘No changes in his behaviour over the past year?’

  ‘No . . . well, yes,’ I admit. ‘But that’s been because Phil and I separated.’

  ‘Robbie has shown signs of situational depression and anxiety,’ Phil chips in, and I turn to him, aghast.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘I think anxiety over the break-up has caused him to kick back against us both and to question his own place in the family. You know that children from broken homes are more likely to have problems—’

  ‘Not exclusively,’ I cut in.

  ‘Significantly. Marital breakdown is not good for children.’

  ‘And who caused the break-up, I wonder?’ Out of the corner of my eye I see DI O’Reilly lean forward in his seat.

  ‘This is neither the time nor the place to discuss our relationship,’ Phil says in his calm but firm voice.

  ‘No, you’re right, it isn’t,’ I say with a forced steadiness. ‘And I would appreciate it if you would comment as a father rather than a psychiatrist.’

  ‘All I’m trying to establish here,’ DI O’Reilly says, his palms upwards as he appeals to us both, ‘is whether or not you think Robbie might know who did this but is either too afraid to tell us or is protecting that person.’

  ‘I don’t believe for one second that Robbie knows who did this or is protecting the person who did,’ I say firmly.

  ‘What DI O’Reilly wants to establish, Olivia—’

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Phil. I’m not stupid.’ I hold his eyes. It’s difficult, because resentment has filled my mouth with bitterness and I want to spit words at him, words that have nothing to do with Robbie and everything to do with us. ‘I’m not taking Robbie’s side because I’m naïve. I’m doing it because I believe he’s telling the truth.’ I look back at DI O’Reilly. ‘I am a trained doctor and I have not noticed signs of depression in my son. He has been moody and awkward at times but nothing beyond the realms of the ordinary. I am one hundred per cent sure he’s as much in the dark about this as we are.’

  ‘Good.’ O’Reilly gives me a reassuring smile and there’s a sympathetic expression in his eye that makes me feel he’s no stranger to marital discord. ‘So . . .’ He looks down at his notebook. ‘One final point. You’re linked to the shelter in the Grassmarket, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I volunteer there two evenings a week.’

  ‘That’s the reason you’re up for the City Women award? I recognise you from the papers.’

  I nod. When, way back in September, I saw I’d been nominated for the award, I was pleased at the publicity it would give to the centre, never imagining it would turn me into a reluctant mini-celebrity.

  ‘Does Robbie ever go with you?’

  ‘To the centre?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I think I see where this is going. The centre has a zero tolerance policy on illegal drug use, but most of the people the centre aims to help are, or have been, drug users, and I’ve no doubt that drugs are sometimes brought on to the premises and hidden in places where the staff can’t find them. ‘He’s only visited the centre once. Both children came with me on Christmas Day last year when we joined in with the party. Otherwise neither of them ever accompany me because I don’t think it’s appropriate. The clients deserve their privacy and the children would gain nothing by being there.’

  ‘And Robbie has no connections to the centre otherwise?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Okay.’ DI O’Reilly smiles at us both. ‘I think I have everything I need from you. I’ll have a word with Robbie now.’

  ‘And will you be questioning all the young people he was with that evening?’ Phil asks.

  ‘Absolutely. We’ll get the names from Robbie and follow them up.’

  ‘I’ll call him.’ I open the door, walk the few steps to the bottom of the stairs and shout up to Robbie, breathing a sigh of relief that I got out of the living room before I had a proper go at Phil. I don’t remember when he started speaking to me in his oh-so-tolerant tone, as if I’m one of his patients, but it’s become one of the triggers that snap my antennae into attack mode. While I wait for Robbie to appear, I can just about hear Phil conversing with DI O’Reilly. I catch phrases like ‘everything I can’, ‘putting the children first’ and ‘my experience with adolescent behaviour’ and it makes me groan. ‘Sod off, Phil,’ I say under my breath. ‘You’re full of hot air.’

  Robbie thumps his way down the stairs and I give him a quick hug before he can sidle past me. ‘Would you like either myself or Dad in there with you?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Like he says, I’m not being charged with anything. I can do this on my own.’

  ‘Be absolutely truthful, hun, won’t you?’ I hold him still so I can look up into his face. ‘It’s important they catch this guy before he does it to someone else.’

  ‘I don’t have anything to hide, Mum. Honestly, I don’t.’

  I give him another hug then send him towards the living room. There’s a short exchange between Robbie and Phil when Phil suggests to Robbie that he stays in the room during the questioning and Robbie point-blank refuses, folds his arms and braces himself against the doorframe, his posture challenging. I don’t wait to see what happens next. I walk through the kitchen and outside where there’s a wooden table and four chairs at the bottom of the back garden on an old stone patio that has split in places and has weeds growing up through the cracks. Archie and Leila are sitting in what’s left of the sunshine, two glasses and a bottle of wine between them.

  ‘We spurned tea in favour of the wine bottle.’ She holds it out to me. ‘Want to share what’s left?’

  ‘I won’t yet. I need all my faculties about me when I’m dealing with Phil. I wanted to brain him in the
re. He’s so bloody full of his own importance.’

  ‘I never liked him that much,’ Leila says.

  ‘Leila,’ Archie warns her.

  ‘Well I didn’t!’ She takes my hand. ‘I’m not saying I actively disliked him, but I never thought he was good enough for my best friend.’

  We really are best friends and I pull a chair up next to her and lean my tired head against her shoulder. We first met at the evening social before the start of medical school, back in the eighties when we were both eighteen. I was standing by myself in a roomful of strangers, overcome by crippling shyness and wanting nothing more than to blend into the dusty, russet velvet curtains that hung from ceiling to floor across the rectangular windows. Our eyes caught and held for a couple of seconds and then she worked a path towards me across the polished oak floorboards, dodging through groups of students who were striking up tentative conversations with each other. She was holding two drinks, and she handed me one, then linked our free hands together and said, ‘Come on, I want to show you something.’ We went up a flight of red-carpeted stairs with an ornately carved banister and then through a door and up some cold concrete stairs that were narrower and dirtier. At the top of this there was another door and more stairs, metal this time, and a sign that said ‘emergency access only’. Leila took no notice of this and led us both through the door, up the final set of steps and on to the roof. I gasped. We were on top of the world and the view was breathtaking: Edinburgh Castle, the city lights, church spires and Arthur’s Seat.

  ‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Amazing!’ I laughed and turned round with my arms at full stretch, soaking up every inch of the skyline and then looking further up at the blanket of sky where stars pinpricked the darkness. ‘How did you know about this?’

  ‘I have three older brothers and two of them came here to study medicine.’ We sat down next to each other on a layer of bricks at the base of a tall chimney. ‘And the third one studied medicine at Glasgow.’

  ‘A family of doctors?’

  ‘Just as my parents dreamed.’ She leant back on one elbow and used her other hand to wrestle a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of her dress. ‘They’re from Pakistan.’