In The Dark

by Vikki Patis

  ‘You’re not under arrest,’ PC Willis says. ‘You’re not in trouble.’

  ‘Though it is illegal to possess and share indecent images of a minor,’ PC Singh adds.

  Isabelle snorts, but I feel my breath quicken as the words sink in. ‘Even though the image was of herself?’ I ask, an article I half-remember reading a while ago floating into my mind.

  PC Willis nods. ‘Yes. You’re fifteen, Izzy.’

  ‘I know,’ Isabelle mumbles, her bravado vanishing into the air like smoke.

  ‘Can you tell me why you took the photo?’ Isabelle is silent, staring at her hands. ‘Did someone pressure you to do it?’

  ‘No. I just took it.’ Isabelle glances up at me. ‘I know it was stupid, all right? But everyone does it. It’s no big deal.’

  PC Willis purses her lips, and the look on her face tells me that it is a big deal to her, as it is to me. ‘So you took a photo and sent it to someone you trusted. Do you know why they shared it?’

  Isabelle shakes her head. ‘I didn’t know they were going to.’

  ‘If you tell us who it was you sent the photo to,’ PC Willis says, leaning forward, ‘we can find out what happened. It would really help us.’

  ‘But I don’t want to know what happened,’ Isabelle says. ‘I don’t want you involved. I just want to forget about it.’

  ‘Was it your boyfriend?’ PC Singh asks, glancing at his notes. ‘Sebastian Taylor?’

  Isabelle’s eyes widen. ‘No. No. He had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘So he didn’t ask you to send a photo of yourself to him?’ Isabelle shakes her head, her cheeks colouring. ‘Peer pressure can be difficult to ignore,’ he continues. ‘Especially from boyfriends.’

  ‘I told you,’ Isabelle says, her voice rising, ‘it wasn’t Seb. He had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘All right,’ PC Willis says, smiling at Isabelle. ‘So it wasn’t Sebastian. Was it one of his friends? Someone from school?’

  Isabelle is silent again, staring resolutely at the wall.

  ‘Are you part of this Snapchat group, Izzy?’ PC Willis asks, holding up a phone. I crane my neck to see the screen but nothing looks familiar. ‘Do you recognise any of the names here?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you know that already?’ Michael interjects. ‘Shouldn’t you be investigating who is in that group?’ He sits forward, releasing my hand. ‘Have you spoken to that boy yet? I know Izzy says he had nothing to do with it, but you need to investigate him properly. He came here earlier, probably to intimidate her or something. I told him to clear off.’

  PC Willis gives him a look. ‘That’s what I’m doing, Mr Bennett,’ she says coolly.

  ‘Pearson,’ I say quickly. ‘We’re not married. He’s not…’

  ‘He’s not my dad,’ Isabelle says bluntly. ‘He’s not even my stepdad.’

  ‘All right. We’ll leave it there for now.’ The police stand to leave, and I see them out while Isabelle scurries up to her room, Alicia on her heels, and Michael stomps off to the kitchen.

  ‘We’ll be in touch,’ PC Willis says, her eyes meeting mine as I take her proffered card, and I think I see something else there now, a softness I hadn’t noticed before. ‘But call me if you need to. Anytime.’

  For once I am glad Isabelle is in her room, because Michael starts ranting about this whole thing being ‘a waste of time’ and just ‘more of Isabelle’s attention-seeking behaviour’ as soon as I enter the kitchen.

  ‘Have you called the therapist?’ he demands when I start pulling things out of the fridge to make dinner. ‘She needs to go back, urgently. Maybe even a spell in hospital. That’d do it, shock her out of all this. I mean, really. How could she be so stupid.’

  I put the pack of peppers down slowly, my hands trembling as I fight to control my voice. What I want to do is scream at him, pick up the peppers and onion and chopping board and throw them at his head. Instead I turn, slowly, fingers gripping the counter behind me.

  ‘No, Michael,’ I say quietly. ‘She will not be going into hospital or anywhere else for that matter.’

  ‘But, Cait,’ he splutters, and I hold up a hand.

  ‘She will be going back to counselling. She clearly needs someone to speak to, perhaps a specialist in this area, but I will not be having my daughter committed. Do you understand me?’

  He opens his mouth as if to protest, and I think, go on, say it again. I dare you. As if reading my thoughts, he closes his mouth again without speaking. I know this reaction is coming from a place of fear, of concern that he cannot help her, but it is the wrong path to take. He stomps out of the kitchen, and I breathe out when I hear the study door close behind him.

  I nod once to myself, then turn back to the counter, selecting a knife from the rack and carefully chopping the vegetables into cubes. I’ve decided to make a curry, one of Isabelle’s favourites, with naan bread covered in cheese and soft, fluffy rice. She can even have a shandy if she wants.

  I try to focus on the cooking, but Michael’s words keep coming back to me. Because, despite the insensitive way he has, he’s right. Isabelle needs help. And, right now, I don’t know how to give it to her.

  18

  Liv

  I dream of Paige. I dream of the day I turned up at her flat, after almost two days of radio silence. The prickling of anxiety as I went up the stone steps, the lift forever broken. My footsteps echoed around me, the smell of urine strong and unmistakable, and I grimaced at dark patches on the walls. I dream of my fist rapping against the door, then my open palm slamming against the wood, my daughter’s name on my lips.

  The police took two hours to arrive. My legs were numb from standing on the balcony outside, ducking down every so often to shout through the letterbox. I could see a pair of shoes discarded in the small hallway, a pile of junk mail on the bottom stair, but I could hear nothing but the sound of traffic rushing by behind me, the occasional dog barking or child shouting. I knew something was wrong. Paige hadn’t been answering my calls, and when I rang her mobile again, my ear pressed against the letterbox, I could hear it ringing inside the flat.

  They broke down the door, the police officer’s heavy boot slamming against the wood once, twice, three times. It sprang open, smashing against the wall and bouncing back. I rushed forward but they stopped me, an arm blocking my way. ‘Let us have a look around first,’ another officer said, her voice gentle, and I felt nausea rise.

  They found her in the bedroom. Her eyes were open, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Her arms were by her sides, one leg sticking out at an unnatural angle. And Seb, four-year-old Seb with wide eyes full of fear, was with her, playing quietly with his toy cars beside the body of his dead mother. Brad was nowhere to be seen.

  I rang Evelyn that evening, crouched on the bathroom floor while Seb splashed around in the bath. She broke down, her voice thick with emotion as she apologised over and over again. ‘He’s not well,’ she sobbed, ‘he hasn’t been well for a long time. But I haven’t been able to help him. And now…’

  And now, my daughter was dead. And I had no more tears left to cry.

  It took five days for them to find him. He was holed up at a friend’s house, off his head on heroin, and he tried to throw himself out of the seventh-floor window when the police forced their way in. I dream of this often, this scene I did not witness but have imagined so many times in the years since. I had seen Brad’s wild eyes before, the way his head jerked around as if hearing a voice. He was not well, had been diagnosed with mental health issues when he was fifteen, given his own flat after he attacked his sister and, unable to cope any longer, Evelyn threw him out, but instead of taking the medication prescribed by the doctor, he opted for weed and ecstasy and, later, heroin. Paige had tried to help him. She had hoped that having a child would change things, but anyone could see that Brad was not ready to be a father. Anyone except Paige. She paid the price for her naivety.

  I find myself in the kitchen in the early hours, a cup of tea clutched betw
een my fingers. That was the last time I had anything to do with the police, and now they are coming here today to interview my grandson. I have to remember who he is, the boy I have watched grow from toddler to teenager, who has always been kind and thoughtful and good. He is good. He is innocent. He is not his father.

  Seb is eating a bowl of cereal when the doorbell rings. I get up to answer it, anxiety gnawing in my stomach. A man and a woman stand on the doorstep, the marked police car parked on the road beyond.

  ‘Hello, Ms Taylor?’ the woman says. I nod. ‘I’m PC Willis and this is PC Singh. Can we come in?’

  My blood runs cold as I step back, opening the door to let them in. What else can I do but let them in? I wonder if I should have called a solicitor, but no. Only guilty people do that. And besides, I can’t afford one.

  I glance at Seb as he places his cereal bowl into the sink, leading the police into the living room and offering them a cup of tea. Both shake their heads. I step out of the room, wringing my hands in front of me, as Seb is making his way down the hall.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ I tell him, placing a hand on his shoulder that I hope will be reassuring. ‘It’ll be all right.’

  The officers are sitting together on the couch. They look squashed, as if this is a miniature house and they are giants. I perch on the footstool while Seb sits in the armchair.

  ‘How can we help you?’ I say, pressing my hands between my knees. I try to smile but neither of the officers return it.

  ‘It’s just an informal chat, Sebastian,’ PC Willis says, looking at Seb. ‘You’re not under arrest at this present time.’ I bristle at the words, at the inference that he will be arrested at some point. That it is inevitable.

  Seb nods, then shakes his head. ‘It’s okay, I’d just like to get it over with really.’ His leg begins to bounce up and down, and I wonder if the officers can tell how nervous he is. Surely everyone is nervous in front of the police? It doesn’t mean he has anything to hide. Does it?

  PC Willis gives a small smile. ‘We’ll try to keep this as brief as possible.’ She glances down at her notes. ‘It is our understanding that you received a photo on Monday 6 March at approximately 1500 hours. Can you tell us about that?’

  Seb shifts under her gaze. ‘Erm, yeah, well, not really. It just got sent to the group chat.’

  ‘And who is in this group chat?’

  ‘Loads of us. Lads from school. Girls too. There’s like fifty people.’

  ‘Surely you already know who is in it?’ I cut in, trying to control the tremble in my voice.

  PC Willis ignores me, and I suddenly see why she has chosen a career in the police. She has something inside her, a tenacity to do her job right. To see things through. But will she know the truth when she sees it? Or will she be blinded by her own ideas and prejudices, as so many of us are?

  ‘How many of the people in your group would you say you’re friends with?’ she asks Seb. ‘Can you give us their names?’

  He glances at me, panic suddenly in his eyes. ‘Does he have to?’ I ask. ‘He doesn’t – I mean, we don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘I just want to help,’ Seb adds. ‘If I can. But I don’t know much. All I know is that that photo was sent to the group chat the other day.’

  ‘Which number did it come from?’

  Seb frowns. ‘Erm, it came from Ben. I don’t know his surname. Jenkins maybe?’

  ‘Ben Jenkins maybe.’ PC Willis writes it down, and I feel myself bristle again. ‘Okay.’ She sets her pen down, locking eyes with Seb again. ‘How well do you know Isabelle, Sebastian?’

  He glances at me before answering. ‘Quite well. We’ve known each other since primary school.’

  ‘And you have been in a relationship since December last year?’ Seb nods. ‘Have you and Isabelle Bennett ever engaged in sexual intercourse?’

  Seb sits back in his chair as if he has been punched. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. ‘No,’ he says eventually, shaking his head. ‘No, never.’

  ‘He’s not long turned sixteen,’ I protest. ‘He hasn’t had sex yet.’ PC Willis glances at me as if to say, well, he wouldn’t say so in front of you, would he? I suddenly want to wipe the smug look off her face. Why is she speaking to him like this? As if he is a suspect. But, I realise suddenly, he is a suspect. He, or any other boy in that group, could have requested that photo, could have forwarded it on. Could have been, what word did Mr Loach use? Distributing it. And he is her boyfriend. It’s always the boyfriend, isn’t it?

  ‘Do you know if any of your friends have ever slept with Isabelle?’

  Seb shakes his head again. ‘No, not that I know of.’

  ‘Would you be angry to discover that she had slept with one of your friends?’

  ‘What? No. Why would I?’

  ‘Have you ever accused Isabelle of cheating on you?’

  ‘What has that got to do with anything?’ I interject before Seb can respond. ‘Why are you asking him this?’

  PC Willis raises an eyebrow. ‘I’d like Sebastian to answer the question please.’

  ‘No,’ Seb says. ‘We haven’t even been together that long.’

  ‘Do you often drink underage, Sebastian?’ She changes gear so quickly, I feel as if I’ve been left behind. I suddenly regret not having a solicitor with us. Should Seb stop answering their questions? Is he digging himself an even deeper hole?

  Seb lifts a shoulder. ‘Sometimes. Everyone does it.’ He sounds sullen, even to my ears, and I cringe inwardly.

  ‘Did Isabelle often join you on nights out?’

  ‘Yeah, sometimes,’ he repeats. ‘Most of the time.’

  ‘Your social media tells a different story. You don’t often tag her in posts, do you?’

  Seb glances at me, confusion on his face. I give a shake of my head. She is trying to lead him with her questions, and I know there will be a trap somewhere along the way.

  ‘Did she go to the New Year’s party with you last year?’ PC Willis asks, holding up a phone to show a photo of Seb and his friends, party hats on their heads. ‘Or this one, in February?’ Another photo, this time taken in a field somewhere, a bonfire crackling in the background. ‘Or–’

  ‘Sorry,’ I cut in, frustration turning my voice into a whip. ‘Can you please explain what this has to do with that photo?’ I look at both the officers, trying to read their faces, but their expressions are carefully blank. ‘If you’re trying to insinuate that my grandson somehow forced Izzy to send him a photo, then you couldn’t be further from the truth. He has always been kind to Izzy, always tried to include her.’

  ‘Nan,’ Seb says, his voice low, and I stop talking. I suddenly feel so far out of my depth, as if I have plunged into the middle of the ocean, with no land in sight.

  ‘We are not trying to insinuate anything, Mrs Taylor,’ PC Singh says. ‘Just trying to gather all the facts.’

  ‘Then stick to the facts,’ I snap. ‘What Seb may or may not have done in the past has no relevance here.’

  ‘Oh, but it does,’ PC Willis says. ‘It helps us to understand what led up to the moment Isabelle tried to kill herself.’ Her words are intended to shock, and I see them hit Seb with a physical force. She tilts her head, staring at him as if trying to read him. ‘Has Isabelle ever mentioned hurting herself before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But she has done it before, hasn’t she?’ Seb shrugs, avoiding her gaze. ‘You don’t know? I would’ve thought she would speak to her boyfriend about such things. But, wait,’ she says, snapping her fingers. ‘That’s right. She’s been ignoring you, hasn’t she? Avoiding you? Her stepfather didn’t let you in the house, isn’t that right? Why do you think that is?’

  ‘She’s been having a hard time,’ Seb mumbles, his eyes hardening. ‘And he’s never liked me. Michael.’

  Seb drops his gaze, and I feel a shiver run through me. I’d assumed he had been speaking to Izzy about everything, supporting her. Has she been avoiding him? And I thought he g
ot on with Michael, I remember Seb telling me that they sometimes watched the football together. Has he suddenly turned against him?

  ‘Do you know why that is?’ The question is innocent, the police officer’s voice light, but the underlying meaning is bold and unmistakable.

  ‘Probably something to do with the colour of my skin?’ Seb says angrily, and I wince internally. Calm down. Don’t get angry. It’s what they want.

  ‘Perhaps,’ PC Willis says, with something like triumph, and again I wonder what her game is. ‘Though that’s quite an accusation. Perhaps there’s another reason why he doesn’t want you going out with Isabelle? Perhaps he has seen something he doesn’t like?’

  Before I realise what I’m doing, I am on my feet, one arm raised to point towards the door. ‘I think you’d better leave,’ I say, trying and failing to keep my voice steady.

  The police officers glance at one another before PC Willis speaks. ‘You do realise how serious this is, Sebastian?’

  ‘Seb has answered your questions,’ I say evenly, though my body is trembling with rage. ‘He has nothing else to add.’

  They stand, filing out of the room without a word. I open the front door, watching PC Singh head towards the car. PC Willis pauses on the threshold, turning back to face me. ‘I thought you’d be more concerned about this,’ she says, her voice quiet. ‘After what happened to your daughter.’ The breath leaves my body, her words slamming into me like a blow. She shrugs, stepping out of the front door, and I can almost hear her thoughts trailing behind her. Like father, like son.

  19

  Izzy

  She cannot stop thinking about the police, the way the male officer looked at her. Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl.

  He isn’t wrong. She thinks about the girl who took that photo, who sent it to someone she thought liked her. It is so out of character for her, so not Izzy that she cannot understand why she did it. But she could have a good guess.