by Mark Morris
She could choose. She could turn her back on the light, go up to bed, and in the morning abandon this place, with its mysteries, and her marriage, with its frailties.
Instead, she went ahead, towards the pantry. Easing open the door, however, she found only shelves and a back wall. Of course, she thought. He’s gone.
Yet as she went to pull the chain to the naked bulb, the filament burst, plunging her into darkness. She reached for the back wall, no longer sure of what might be there. Her fingers found panels and followed their contours to the doorknob. Trembling, she grasped it firmly, willing herself still and ready.
* * *
His wife had not come down to breakfast. Her car was in the driveway, but Edgar didn’t dare go upstairs to check on her. She had left him in the living room, which meant she blamed him. That boy was in the road, he reminded himself, but the excuse rang hollow.
He rolled from the couch into standing. Having slept hunched over a pillow, the fibrocartilage in his back had turned to gravel. Coffee, he decided. Black, in part to wake him, and in part as penance. He did not deserve rich cream or the pleasure of sugar.
Stepping into the kitchen, he was surprised to find his wife. “I didn’t hear you come down.” He waited for her to face him, but she did not acknowledge his words. “I know you must hate me. But please, look at me.”
He stepped around to see her. “Stephanie, please. I’m your—”
Something in her stillness compelled him to stop. “Stephanie?” He squeezed the fleshy part of her arm, but she gave no response. Grabbing her chin, he tilted her head towards him and stared into her eyes, which gleamed with the lifeless lustre of glass.
The Naughty Step
Stephen Volk
One voicemail. Could be worse. Could be ten. She listened as she hurried back to her car, started the ignition, phone pressed to her ear. Instantly recognised Comms.
Minor been found at a crime scene. Age about six. Male. Not yet located anyone to look after him. Calling out to EDT to attend scene.
Accelerating, she punched in the postcode of the address, already thinking ahead to finding this one a room and food. Ran through her mental Rolodex of emergency foster homes she could rely on at a moment’s notice. The Hendricks. The Garretts. Those people were godsends.
Not in physical danger… at least there was that. Even so, Friday after hours you never knew what was going to hit you. Shoplifting at closing time was classic Morag. She’d been needed as the appropriate adult during the police interview, then to talk her down before delivering her home to mum and stepdad. Morag was just the sort of teenager who’d disappear through the cracks if you let her. She wouldn’t.
You have reached your destination.
The street’s dark gullet widened ahead. Neighbours like meerkats at their front gates. Coppers telling them to stay indoors, to not film with their phones please. The rectangles of illuminated screens you get at a rock concert.
She parked, got out.
No tape up, so presumably the crime scene was contained. Forensic people drifted in Arctic white. Two ambulances. Two police cars. A van marked PRIVATE AMBULANCE, which she knew to be an undertaker’s vehicle for the removal of a body.
Death was present.
She’d known that from the police control room saying there was nobody to look after the child. One or other parent, she was pretty sure, was in that PRIVATE AMBULANCE. She’d seen it before, too many times. Violent break-up with the kid as piggy-in-the-middle. Wished to God she hadn’t.
A female PC – stab vest, tool belt – stood outside the house next to a male with a clipboard making a log. She knew a few, but didn’t know her. Afro-Caribbean heritage, which was good. Diversity getting out to the sticks at long last.
“Emergency Duty Team.”
The woman in uniform looked over to a skinny man in a suit, who gave her the nod.
Pathetic. Ten years since she started as a social worker and it was still ingrained in the culture. Women deal with the kids. Men deal with the offender. The big, macho guys won’t deal with children or domestics. Gay domestics, forget it. Once someone told her about a pair of queens living in a caravan park who used to regularly get into fights. The females were always sent from the station to sort it.
“What happened?”
“Still piecing it together. Neighbours reported shouting. Most likely scenario, a domestic that got out of hand. Woman in her thirties didn’t make it.”
“Where’s the boy?” She peered into the back seat of the parked police car.
“Still inside.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No, I’m not. We tried to move him, he wouldn’t come. Went into a shit fit like you wouldn’t believe.”
“God.”
“We didn’t want to push it.”
“Good.”
Truth was, every cop knew if they laid a hand on him that’d technically be assault in the eyes of the law. The child had done no wrong, they couldn’t arrest him, and they couldn’t manhandle him. Why risk it and lose your job? Worst case scenario, a public inquiry, tabloids descending like jackals. Pass the buck to Children’s Services. Let them be the fall guys.
“Never seen anything like it.” The PC shivered in the cold. “Not a word of a lie. He’s sitting at the bottom of the stairs. Just staring into space. Won’t move an inch. Wouldn’t take my hand.”
“Was he witness to…?”
“Everything, we think.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“It wasn’t pretty. Still a bit of a mess.”
“And you left him in there?”
The PC didn’t like that frown of accusation, and tightened defensively.
“CID say you can go in, as long as you limit yourself to the hall and stairs, and put on a suit. DI is understandably keen to interview him as a witness on video as a priority.”
“Yeah, well. He needs emergency foster care as a priority. Can you imagine what kind of a—?”
“Trauma. We’re aware of that.”
She could see the officer’s taut expression, and felt for her slightly. She had a job to do as well. They were picking up the pieces.
“What state is he in?”
“Unharmed, from what we can see. I’ve spent the last hour sitting next to him while SOCO do their stuff. Trying to get through to him, without much luck. No reaction. Not a dickie bird. Nothing. Nothing in his eyes.”
“What do you mean by that?” She knew what the PC meant. She meant the kid was weird as fuck. She’d heard it all before. Weird kid. Bad child. Waste of space. Scrapheap fodder. To her mind, there were no bad kids, just hurt ones.
“I’m just saying. If you ask me, he’s not—”
“Thanks.” The sarcasm showed on her face.
“Yes, well, you work your magic, if you’ve got any.” The PC moved away.
“Are you going to tell me his name?”
“Sorry. Jared. Jared Simkins. Mother Michelle, deceased.”
“Father?”
“Location unknown.”
“Anybody got any previous history on the system?”
“Not on ours.”
“Grandparents? Uncles? Aunts? Friends of the family?”
“We’re working on it.”
The PC lifted the flap of the SOCO tent for her. She went in alone, feeling a little guilty, cutting the PC some slack. She’d probably seen the crime scene first-hand. God knows what she’d seen. Or the kid had seen, come to that.
She zipped up the white plastic forensic overalls. Thought of the corpse that had been zipped up in a black body bag hours, perhaps minutes, earlier. Put the little plastic booties over her shoes. They made her think of babies.
Jared. Jared. Jared.
She reminded herself of his name as she walked back to the front door. The male PC stoo
d out of the way, allowing her to enter.
The boy was sitting at the bottom of the stairs. Underpants. Bare legs and feet. No sign of neglect. No dirt. No bruises. Blue pyjama top with rockets and stars on. He wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t looking anywhere. If he did look up at her, what would she look like? Some sort of alien. ET in the white body suit.
She took her hood down. Removed her pale blue rubber gloves. She could see the SOCO team moving about in the kitchen, silently measuring, fingerprinting. The flash of a camera strobed, the battery buzzing as it recharged.
She sank to a crouch. Put on a soft voice, aware that, though she was born and bred less than ten miles away, her accent was a bit too posh for some of her families on these kinds of estates. Too “minted peas from Waitrose” as one teenage mother put it.
“Hi. My name’s Linda. I’ve come to look after you for a short while. Just to be with you for a bit, is that all right?”
No reaction.
She dredged up her training from the Tavistock all those years ago. How to deal with an elective mute. Don’t ask questions. Don’t demand that they talk back to you. Just talk until you earn their trust.
She knelt on the floor. Another strobe. Another buzz. She glimpsed a man in white checking the screen of his digital Pentax. Ridiculous she was avoiding trigger words when this was going on all around them. A firework display.
“You know what? I felt a bit lonely outside. I thought I’d come in. I thought I might come in and, you never know, find a new friend, maybe.”
No reaction.
No eye contact at all. Autistic? No. Lord knows, kids could be uncommunicative because people like her represented the system and they shut off. She was the one their mum yelled at because they couldn’t get re-housed or benefits. The one who was taking them away from the person they loved, sometimes. But it wasn’t that either. It wasn’t wilful lack of co-operation. She knew what that looked like. This boy was in a state of shock.
“It’s a bit cold in here, isn’t it? I’m freezing.” She stroked the radiator. Edged her knees closer to him. Palms resting on her thighs.
She found it disturbing because one thing she liked about dealing with kids was their forthrightness, their honesty. Painfully so, sometimes. She was used to telling them there was nothing to worry about, and they didn’t believe it, and, most of the time, neither did she. “You know where I’d really, really like to go? Somewhere comfortable.” She extended her right hand, hoping he might take it, but he wasn’t even looking. Yet his whole body tightened.
She put her hand back on her thigh, pretending she never meant the gesture in the first place.
The boy’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. Jaws locked. Knuckles on his own knees bone white.
She blew into her hands. Slid her palms under her armpits as if sheathing weapons. Smiling broadly. Some would say inanely.
Made no difference.
She could see what the female PC meant now. He was having none of it.
Jared. Jared Simkins.
Hunched, almost foetus-like. Rigid.
Slowly she edged closer to him, one knee at a time.
Over her right shoulder, the open door to the living room. She couldn’t help giving it a quick glance.
Sofa and cushions. Facing a TV set? Did she watch daytime TV? Was she watching daytime TV when it happened? CD covers on the floor. Left there or dropped there? Pure Heroine by Lorde. Rag ’n’ Bone Man. Christine and the Queens… One of her own favourite albums of late – how strange was that? Did Michelle dance to it, hand in hand with her little boy? Listen to it on the dashboard stereo as she drove to school? Is that what kind of woman his mother was?
Michelle. Michelle Simkins.
She thought of the wallpaper around her. How had they chosen it? Had they had a big fight? Did he leave it to her or was he the controlling type? A bully? She told herself it wasn’t always like that. But, surprisingly often, it was.
“Y’areet, big man?”
The child suddenly gasped and covered his eyes with his hands.
A man, big man, almost filled the doorway to the living room. SOCO white. Monstrous to the boy. Rubber gloves. Plastic evidence bag. Carving knife inside it.
“For fuck’s sake.”
The Geordie giant shielded it, turning his back to the boy.
“Children’s Services,” she explained.
“Does Chris Holroyd know about this?”
For fuck’s sake. The DI, she presumed. Gave him an incendiary glare. What do you think?
“We’ll give you some space, then.” Backing off. “Give them a DNA swab when you leave. For elimination purposes.”
“Yes, go away now, please.”
He went, taking the photographer with him, a woman in a baggy forensic suit that un-gendered her almost completely. They left the front door ajar. Darkness outside. Soundless. Frozen. No radio crackle. No chat. Just the wind gently rustling the white plastic of the forensics tent in the middle of the road.
She walked to the door and pushed it shut. The security chain was just like the one she had at home. She didn’t need to put it on. How often did Michelle do that, though? Trying to protect herself? Trying to feel safe?
The boy still had his hands over his face.
The idea surged up in her: what the hell had he seen? Had he heard his mum’s cries as she was stabbed? Or had it gone chillingly silent? Had he cried out, terrified, and got no reply? No wonder he was in a state of shock. It was incredible he wasn’t catatonic. Fight or flight? He couldn’t fight, he couldn’t fly, so he froze. And to break it, to come out of it, to let reality back in, would be unbearable.
“Sorry. Sorry.” She sank down on all fours. “They’re gone. They’re all gone now. It’s all right. Nothing’s going to happen. There’s nobody here. Just me. Just you. Promise.”
Silence.
Then the boy took away his hands tentatively. For a fraction of a second his eyes met hers – then abruptly shot down to the carpet at his feet.
Her eyes fell on a toy car next to the skirting board. Smaller than the Dinky and Corgi toys her brother played with. A red car with fire along the side. Eyes in its windshield.
“This is a nice car. It’s not a car, is it? It’s a sports car.” She turned in a circle, running it along the carpet. “Brooom Brooom.” She made a squealing noise of a handbrake turn, taking an imaginary curve on two wheels.
She sensed he was watching her, but as soon as she looked at him directly he looked away.
The length of the hall between them, she pushed hard and made the car run across the floor towards him. Unable to get traction on the carpet, it stopped short, half way. Beyond the reach of his arm. Unless he moved.
He stared at it. Blank, black eyes. So black she couldn’t tell where the irises ended and the pupils began.
“You can play if you want.”
Nothing.
“You can even get down on the floor like me if you want.”
The boy shook his head.
She crawled closer. Flicked the car with her finger.
It hit the step. He leaned over slowly and picked it up.
“Lightning McQueen.” He frowned as he saw her blank expression. “He’s called Lightning McQueen.”
Turning sideways on the step, one knee raised, he ran the car up his thigh, making it do a jump to the wall. Doing so with no sense of distraction or enjoyment a child normally had in play. She could see only a focused, insular, hermetically sealed determination. A force field holding her back.
The bleep of a text. She turned and stood up. Snatched her phone from her pocket, switched it off. Didn’t want calls to interrupt her or spook him.
Crouched again, one hand on the bottom step, inches from his bare foot.
“Are you hungry, Jared?”
He shook his head.
/>
“Thirsty, maybe?”
Again. Then a nod.
“Do you want a drink of water?”
“Juice.”
She should call out. She knew that. Except she didn’t want to use her mobile and didn’t want to leave him alone to go outside. Not now.
“Where do I get some juice?”
“In the fridge.”
“Okay.”
She walked past him, down the two steps to the passage to the kitchen. It was the same layout as the house she was brought up in. She thought of the time her mum left the gas on and caused an explosion, just a big FUFF like the air got sucked away, and it took off her eyebrows. There’d been a different explosion here.
Bright red smears on the stable door leading to the garden, tagged with a SOCO sticker with an L-shaped metric reference scale and photo cross hairs. She tried not to look at the blood on the floor. The claggy smell made her feel sick, but she couldn’t be sick, not with the boy there. She had to control herself. Control her stomach. Control her eyes.
In her peripheral vision the windows looked dirty, almost opaque, but she realised they’d been powdered with a Zephyr brush for fingerprints to be lifted.
On the fridge door she read J-A-R-E-D in fridge magnets. A photograph pinned there showed a younger Jared – age two or three – long hair, shining yellow. His mother must’ve been sad to see it go. Maybe he wanted it off. Maybe he was being teased for looking like a girl. School certificate for Outstanding Schoolmate held by a magnet of the Eiffel Tower. Another photograph of a barbecue chicken sitting on a beer can. Beer can up its arse. So funny. Mum and dad puckering up, snogging (fake-snogging?) for the lens. Were they happy then, her glasses askew, Eric Morecambe-style? On the old Sancerre? Pink stripe of dye in her blonde hair? Sleeve of tattoos, small mouth, doe eyes. Him, the nameless one, grinning at a party in the garden, showing his hairy belly button for the finger she inserts, laughing her head off.