by Suzy K Quinn
‘Oh, have a sense of humour.’ Tessa gulps from her glass. ‘All right. So tell me – how are you finding things? Not quite what you expected?’
‘More overwhelming than I expected.’
‘Ha! Yes, I imagine even a first degree couldn’t prepare you for life in child protection.’
‘I’m still grateful to be here. In a job that makes a difference.’
Tessa clearly doesn’t expect this response and shoves two dough balls into her mouth in contemplation. ‘But you just said you were feeling overwhelmed.’ She chews the words around a mouthful of dough.
‘Yes. I am. I have too much work for one person.’
‘That’s the spirit! Have a good moan. Now then. Please tell me you’re finally closing down the Kinnock file. Did you find out anything at school? Reasonable cause to believe he’s being picked on?’
‘Tom’s school teacher couldn’t give any clarity on the marks,’ I say. ‘“There’s no bullying at our school.” A bit Stepford Wives. I’ve got an appointment to see the headmaster. Hopefully he can give me a few more answers.’
‘That’s what they’re like, those academies,’ says Tessa. ‘They have to brush trouble under the carpet or their funding gets cut. From what I hear, Steelfield School has gone from crap to brilliant within the space of a few years. They’ll be desperate to keep their outstanding status. Can’t have any nasty rumours rocking the boat.’
‘Maybe the headmaster is just very ambitious and good at his job.’
Tessa snorts. ‘The best headmaster in the world couldn’t fix the Neilson boys. So anyway, what you’re telling me is you haven’t closed this file down yet?’
‘The mother is convinced something is happening at school. Tom had strange marks on his arm. I have to keep him on my caseload. Lizzie is clearly a good mother. When we have people like the Neilsons on our books it seems ridiculous to waste our time on this family. But if something is happening at school …’
‘Tom Kinnock was lucky to get a place at Steelfield,’ says Tessa. ‘A boy who moved from London … I don’t know what strings they pulled to get him in, but for the mother to be complaining … it sticks in the craw a bit, doesn’t it?’
‘We can’t rule out harm at school just yet,’ I say. ‘I mean, for a start the Neilson boys go there. One of them could be … I don’t know. But you know the history with those boys. Anything is possible.’
Tessa takes a glug of red wine. ‘From what I remember, those boys only ever hurt each other. What about Tom’s family members? Any other adults he sees regularly?’
‘Grandparents. But not regularly, from what I can gather.’ ‘Wait this one out, Kate,’ says Tessa, pouring more wine into her glass. ‘Put it down until more evidence comes to the surface. You’re in no-man’s land.’
‘Wait until Tom gets seriously injured, you mean? I’m here to protect children, Tessa. To keep them out of harm’s way.’
Tessa snorts. ‘Okay then. I’ll send you to the Bermuda Triangle, shall I? If we’re in the business of solving mysteries.’
‘If anything else happens to Tom, we’re going to have to get the courts involved.’
‘Now steady on—’
‘Tessa, something is going on with that little boy. I need to visit Tom again, and then make a decision.’
‘Look, before you jump to any conclusions, make doubly sure the father isn’t still on the scene.’
‘I intend to ask about that again when I visit.’
‘When?’
‘This afternoon. After school pick-up.’
‘Ah. Stress-o’clock. Are you hoping to catch the mother screaming at him? Messy house? Rats in the kitchen?’
‘If I want rats, I’ll go to Leanne Neilson’s house.’
‘Ha ha!’ Tessa slaps my back. ‘To see that little rat Lloyd Neilson, you mean?’
‘No,’ I say, rather shocked by this insinuation. ‘They have actual rats. Well, mice. The health inspector made a report on it.’
‘Jesus.’ Tessa shakes her head. ‘Still. Could be worse. It could always be worse.’
I’m learning to ignore Tessa’s laissez-faire attitude.
Although, sometimes I wonder – did she always have it? Or did it come about after years of working in under-funded, under-resourced social services?
Lizzie
There’s a cheery red Fiat outside our house – not a car I recognise. My grip on Tom’s hand tightens.
We’re on our way back from school. Tom’s been talking about the colour of the trees. Green holly and silver birch.
A sign of stress …
The Fiat’s engine isn’t running, but I see a shadow in the front seat – a woman. Kate. I’m relieved to see her, desperate to talk about my school concerns and the possibility of moving.
As we reach our front garden, the car door opens and she steps out, plain as ever in her trouser suit and black boots.
‘Miss Riley?’ Kate gives a wave and hurries to catch us.
I turn the key in the front door. ‘Hi. How are you? Would you like to come in?’
‘Yes, please. If I may.’
‘Of course.’ I push the door open.
‘You dyed your hair,’ Kate remarks.
I touch the bright-blonde tufts. ‘I fancied a change.’
Mercifully the house isn’t too messy. They spring visits on you, social services. I suppose to catch you in your natural habitat, chaotic and ill-prepared. Plenty of houses are a mess when no one is looking, I’m quite sure.
Suddenly, I realise I forgot to buy teabags earlier and feel my heart pound. Will Kate see this as a sign of a disorganised household?
‘I’m really sorry, we’re out of tea,’ I tell her, moving a pile of laundry from the kitchen counter. ‘I was at an interview today; I didn’t have time to shop.’
‘That’s fine.’ Kate kneels down to Tom. ‘How are you, Tom? Good day? What happened at school?’
‘I don’t remember,’ he says.
‘He never seems to remember much about this new school.’ I put an arm around his shoulders. ‘At his old school, he used to remember lots.’
Tom wriggles away, runs upstairs and slams his bedroom door.
‘And he’s always in his bedroom these days,’ I say. ‘Maybe he’s just growing up. I don’t know. But … I’m worried. Take a seat. Sorry about that blanket. Just move it to one side. I’ll put the kettle on. I’ve only got instant coffee. Sorry.’
Kate moves the crumpled blanket from the sofa and sits down.
I wonder if the neighbours know why Kate is here and if they do, what they think of me.
The kettle boils and clicks. I make two cups of instant coffee and carry them into the lounge, apologising again for the lack of tea.
‘It’s fine,’ says Kate. And then, clearly on a tight schedule, gets straight to the point. ‘Miss Riley, has Tom seen his father since my last visit?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I told you, I don’t let him see his father.’
My fingers grip my mug – a rainbow-coloured one I chose to bring cheer into the living room.
‘From a social services point of view,’ says Kate, ‘it’s important children have the widest circle of loving adults available to them.’
‘I think any parent with such serious issues revokes their right to be a parent.’
‘That’s not how the system sees it,’ says Kate. ‘A parent is still a parent, even if they’ve exhibited aggressive behaviour. Of course, they have to be managed. Supervised visits and so on. You’re quite certain Tom hasn’t seen his father since you moved?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’ I clear my throat. ‘He doesn’t want to see him. They asked him about that in court. Look, this is about more than just his visitation, isn’t it? I’m not stupid. Has Olly been in touch with you? Told you how evil I am for withholding his son?’
‘Not directly.’
‘Kate, Olly is dangerous.’ I hesitate, thoughts tumbling over themselves. ‘A very good manipulator. I’m ev
en scared he might … God, this is going to sound ridiculous.’
‘What?’ Kate sits up tall.
I take a sip of coffee, wondering how best to phrase things. ‘I keep noticing holes in the school fence. Along the country path. What if Olly ... I mean, I know it sounds crazy …’
‘Tell me what you’re thinking,’ says Kate.
I feel hot coffee scald my leg and realise my hand is shaking. My eyes drift to the angry red splash mark on my bare knee. ‘What if Olly is getting into Tom’s school? Tom hasn’t been himself since we moved here. He’s withdrawn. Moody, sometimes. Aggressive, even. It’s like he’s hiding something. And Olly is clever. I was careful, but … that doesn’t mean he hasn’t found us.’
‘Do you really think that’s likely?’ says Kate. ‘I’m sure the school would notice someone sneaking in.’
I have a vision suddenly – a tall, scruffily dressed but handsome man, jogging across the school field. It only takes him a moment, and then he’s inside the school, sneaking down the corridors.
The teacher’s back is turned.
‘Tom. Tom – come and talk to me a sec.’
I shake the vision away, feeling sick.
‘The school is such a strange place,’ I insist. ‘It’s like they’re hiding something. The bars on the windows, two-way glass, a padlock on the school gate – what normal school has security like that?’
‘Yes, I did notice,’ says Kate.
‘It’s weird. And amid all that, there are holes. Big holes cut in the wire. Why? I don’t want to sound paranoid …’ I let the sentence trail away, aware I definitely do sound paranoid.
‘I can look into that,’ says Kate. ‘Do you have any idea where your ex-husband is living now?’
‘None.’
‘I heard he’s staying with his mother.’
‘Is he? No. She would have told me.’
‘I don’t suppose you happen to have contact details for her?’
‘Margaret lives in East London.’ I stand up. ‘My phone is somewhere in this mess. Let me find it for you.’
After five minutes of searching, I finally find my phone on the bookcase, resting on a selection of literary novels and cookbooks.
‘I have her address,’ I say, scrolling through my contacts. ‘I’m guessing she’s still at the same place.’
‘Thanks,’ says Kate, taking the details. ‘I’ll pay her a visit. And I’m going to visit the school tomorrow.’
She looks at me then, and for moment I wonder if she’s going to ask something else. Some really awful question.
But she doesn’t. Instead, she thanks me and leaves.
When she’s gone, I sit on the sofa, head in my hands.
Lizzie
‘Who is it?’ I call, voice shaking.
A familiar voice comes from the other side of the door. ‘It’s me. Stuart.’
‘I’m a bit upset, Stuart. Now isn’t a good time.’
‘Let me in,’ Stuart calls, voice deep but soft.
I don’t answer.
‘Lizzie, I heard shouting. I need to make sure you’re okay.’
‘I’m okay,’ I call back.
‘If you don’t open the door, I’m going to break it down.’
‘Okay, okay, I’m coming.’ I go to the door, put a hand to it, then slowly turn the Yale lock.
Stuart fills the doorway with his tall, broad frame, and for a moment I wonder what it would be like being his girlfriend instead of Olly’s.
Stuart is handsome, like Olly, but with a broken nose that kinks in the middle. He’s a little older – nearing forty – and his brown hair recedes slightly at the temples, which I think is why he often wears hats.
‘Doll.’ Stuart’s eyes crinkle with sadness. ‘Are you okay?’
I give a stiff nod.
‘Did he do this?’ Stuart touches the long, linear bruise on my arm.
I nod again, looking away.
‘I’ll kill him. This has to stop.’
‘No. Please, Stuart. He’s getting better. Truly.’ I don’t know if I believe this. All I know is I want to believe it.
‘Where’s the baby?’
‘Olly took him out. They’re visiting his mother. Margaret.’
Stuart puts his arms around me. ‘You deserve so much better. Don’t cry. You’re too pretty to cry.’
I give a half-hearted laugh.
‘That’s better. So what happened? Do you want to talk about it?’
‘What’s there to talk about?’
‘You. Olly. The future. You can’t go on like this.’
‘He’s a good father. He does things to hurt me, but he loves Tom.’
‘Are you sure about that? How can you be? I hear some of the things he says. Blaming you for his bad leg. Calling you names. A man like that is capable of anything.’ Stuart takes my face in his large hands, and I feel tiny – a little girl beside a giant. He has coarse, brown stubble and lovely white teeth. And really, he’s very kind.
Stuart kisses me gently and then with increasing pressure. He pulls my body tight to his. Perhaps I should say no – he’d back off, be a gentleman about it. But I don’t. Olly is right. I don’t plan. Things just happen to me. And right now, this tenderness feels wonderful.
‘Run away with me, Doll,’ Stuart whispers. ‘How many times do I have to ask?’ He lifts me into his arms and carries me out of the flat and downstairs to his own ground-floor apartment.
Anyone could see us. Olly. Anyone.
But they don’t.
Stuart kicks his door closed behind us, staring deep into my eyes like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever seen.
The next minute, he is lifting my dress over my head, pushing me onto the sofa. Then he pulls off my knickers, positioning himself between my legs, holding me close, moaning and calling my name as he enters me.
We have sex in different positions, ending with me on my knees by the window wearing nothing but a bra, Stuart behind. He is a little rough sometimes, not realising how strong he is. Or maybe he enjoys throwing me around. I don’t know. Maybe all men are violent deep down.
When we’re finished, Stuart asks me again to leave Olly. He can finish his current contract any time. His family have property in the Shetlands.
But Stuart isn’t Olly. Despite his kindness, he doesn’t make me feel the way Olly does. When Olly and I have sex it’s like two souls coming together. We become one person, which both scares and thrills me. And, of course, Olly and I have a child.
So I crawl back upstairs and pray my husband never finds out about another stupid mistake.
Kate
2.45 p.m.
The roads around Steelfield School are rammed with cars, so I park on the yellow zigzag lines right outside, declaring it a social services emergency.
I should park ten minutes away and run to the appointment, arriving hot and sweaty. But increasingly, I’m learning that sometimes rules need to be broken.
The school gates are locked tight with a giant padlock and the playground is eerily still.
Most playgrounds have some life and colour to them. The odd piece of bright litter skating around on the tarmac, at least. But this school has none of that.
Everything is scrubbed and clean and devoid of personal touches. It looks sterile to the point of unused. Like a school that’s only just had the cellophane taken off.
I notice the barred windows again as I ring the intercom buzzer.
A moment later, Mr Cockrun appears from the main door and strides across the playground. He’s well-groomed in a sharp suit and has very red lips. I’d guess him to be nearing fifty, although his dress and haircut make him look younger.
‘Hello there.’ Mr Cockrun’s greeting is cheerful and he’s smiling. ‘You must be Mrs Noble. Welcome to Steelfield School. I would shake your hand, but I need to let you in first. Ha, ha.’
After the long process of removing the padlock, letting me through the gates, then re-clipping the padlock and tugging it vigorously, Mr
Cockrun takes my hand and shakes it warmly. ‘Very good to meet you.’
‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me at such short notice,’ I say.
‘Yes. Well, you’re a VIP,’ Mr Cockrun replies. ‘Anyone in our hardworking social services deserves the royal treatment. Shall we go for the tour then?’
‘Please.’
‘Did you notice the new exercise equipment?’ Mr Cockrun asks, pointing to some gleaming metal structures sunk into the tarmac. ‘Part of our healthy bodies initiative. Promotes good behaviour too, burning off all that energy.’
‘I hear you’re very on top of behaviour here,’ I say.
‘Very. The only trouble we have is with social services children. But we have good processes. Ways to keep even the most unruly child in line. Provided we’re not handed too many of them.’
He leaves the comment dangling, and I can imagine him in the staff room, complaining to the other teachers: It’s disgraceful that they can force these social services scallywags on us. We want well-behaved middle-class children who help us get good results …
‘As you can see, the grounds are excellently maintained,’ Mr Cockrun continues. ‘The caretaker is an ex-army man.’
We’re crossing the school field now, walking over short grass. On the way, Mr Cockrun stoops to pick up a stray chocolate-bar wrapper.
We reach a patch of woodland near the fence and Mr Cockrun lifts up a branch for me to duck under.
‘The fence that Mrs Kinnock told you about is back here,’ he says. ‘But this is all a storm in a teacup. One parent causing trouble. It’s been very securely repaired for the time being. During the Christmas holidays, the whole fence will be replaced. But obviously we can’t do that during term time.’
‘I don’t see any holes,’ I say, looking for them.
‘That’s because they’re miniscule,’ the headmaster says, following me under the branch. ‘Ridiculous to make a fuss about this, in my opinion. Tom Kinnock’s mother is biting the hand that feeds her. Making problems over nothing. It’s bordering on paranoid. Not to mention ungrateful.’
Behind us, the school bell rings, but there are none of the usual excited noises of children being let out. It’s all too orderly. Bordering on sinister.