Do No Harm

by L. V. Hay

  Sebastian saw Maxwell’s face darken and was glad Lily had managed to arrest the words on her tongue. He took her hand under the table and squeezed it.

  Maxwell sighed. ‘It’s every single time, Lil.’

  Sebastian almost winced at the pet name. He felt sure that was for his benefit.

  ‘Since when?’ Lily frowned.

  Maxwell’s gaze was sad, like he didn’t want to have to break this news to them. ‘A week or so – since he stayed with me when you were on your honeymoon.’

  Sebastian took a deep breath. He’d had no idea Denny was troubled. He’d thought the boy was adjusting to their new lives well. Sure, there had been some teething troubles as all three of them got used to one another, but that was normal, wasn’t it?

  Lily was defensive. ‘Well, he doesn’t wet himself at home.’

  ‘Maybe he’s hiding it.’ Maxwell countered.

  There seemed nothing else to say so, with Maxwell’s words still ringing in their ears, they announced their arrival to Denny in the living room. The boy seemed in high spirits, bidding a cheery goodbye to his father, and seemingly without a care in the world.

  Sebastian was confused. Could he and Lily have been blind to the little boy’s distress? Had he been upset by Sebastian being with his mother; had they both been too busy to see it?

  As Sebastian drove a drawn, worried Lily and a chatty Denny back to the maisonette, one thought kept returning to him. He was well used to dealing with troubled children; and he knew there was nearly always some kind of marker or sign. Little Denny was no actor or pretender – he was unfailingly open and honest, even to his own detriment, just like his mother.

  But there was someone who did like to play mind games – and wasn’t above using Lily’s concern for their son for his own benefit.

  Seventeen

  ‘Can’t you see what he’s trying to do?’

  Sebastian paced. It was awkward in the too-small space of the kitchen-diner. Perched on a stool at the kitchen table, I looked up from the plethora of paperwork in front of me.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ I hissed.

  Out in the living area, Denny squatted by the coffee table, doing his homework: he had to colour in and label all the items on the illustration of a kitchen. Every now and again he’d suddenly appear and point at something, wanting to know its official name, even though we kept telling him he had to work it out for himself. I’d told him he could only have his phone back when he’d done it.

  Sebastian made an effort to lower his voice. ‘Maxwell is inventing excuses to get close to you again.’

  Exasperated, I heaved a huge sigh, sending a flutter of papers across the table. I did not need to be in the middle of this, whatever it was. I’d been hit with an extra load of tasks, as well as my usual marking, lesson-planning and work for the upcoming school inspection. Somehow, colleagues had made their heartfelt appeals to my better nature so convincingly, I’d found myself helping to arrange the school fête in just under three weeks’ time, thanks to the previous organiser – Sam Miller’s normally uber-organised mum – having her baby nearly five weeks early.

  ‘Lily, come on. You know what I’m saying is true.’

  Sebastian ran a hand across his face. I could hear the scrape of bristles under his palm. He was nearly always clean-shaven, but today he looked wan and unkempt. Like he still hadn’t caught up on the sleep he’d missed, returning from our honeymoon in Mauritius.

  ‘For God’s sake Sebastian, what do you want me to do? Denny is having issues.’ I threw my pencil down. I’d been trying to assign stalls for the fête, but irritation and distraction crowded their way into my brain instead. I couldn’t think straight.

  ‘So Maxwell says.’

  The doorbell sounded and Sebastian’s head snapped around. ‘Who is that? That better not be him, now.’

  ‘Calm down…’ I let out an incredulous laugh but, in truth, Sebastian’s manner was unnerving. I gestured towards the oven, where lunch was cooking – the meal I’d got up at eight o’clock on a bloody Saturday morning, after a hard week at work, to make. ‘Your mother is coming for lunch, remember?’

  Sebastian rolled his eyes. Of course. It had even been his idea – to try and build bridges with Fran after the mobile-phone disaster with Denny. When he’d told me he’d invited Fran to lunch, my first reaction had been relief. I’d been trying to think of reasons to get everyone together, without making it seem like a big deal.

  Sebastian turned on his heel and clattered down the stairs to the front door.

  I grabbed the remote and turned the television off from across the room, much to Denny’s annoyance.

  ‘Go and get changed,’ I instructed.

  Denny huffed and puffed. ‘But Mum…’

  ‘Now, please. And don’t pull all your clothes out your drawers and wreck the place again.’ I warned.

  I’d only been to Fran’s home once, but I’d seen enough to know she had exacting standards. So we’d not just given the maisonette a lick and a promise, but polished the wooden surfaces, put everything away, even scrubbed the tiles in the bathroom. The air was thick with the smell of beeswax and air freshener.

  As I heard Fran’s voice in the hallway below, trepidation gnawed at my stomach; we could not afford another misunderstanding or argument. In that spirit, I’d thrown myself into the arrangements for today. I’d wanted to make my signature dish – a fabulous seafood linguine – but Seb reminded me his mother had a life-threatening allergy to seafood. Trying to kill her was probably not the best way to build bridges, he’d advised. I had to agree. Chicken lasagne was her favourite, so I’d sourced top-quality ingredients and spent the morning chopping up lean breast meat, adding fresh tomatoes, basil and Parmesan. I’d not made the dish before and was now worried it might come out dry, or even burnt.

  About an hour before Fran was due, the doorbell had rung. Triss had bounded up the stairs, laden with carrier bags. She’d been doing her high-street shopping and needed to use our bathroom. When she returned from the loo, she inhaled the glorious smell of the lasagne filling the kitchen. I had visions of her following the smell from the street below like kids and the Pied Piper.

  ‘Room for one more? Lasagne’s my fave.’ She’d flashed me a wide grin then pulled something out of one of the bags she’d left on the table. ‘I’ve brought dessert!’ She brandished a box of cupcakes.

  Caught on the hop, I’d decided deflection was the best tactic. ‘Not this time, missus. I’m trying to impress my mother-in-law, not put her off.’

  Thankfully, Triss had just made a face and promptly left.

  Punctual as ever, Fran appeared at the top of the stairs, at three minutes to one o’clock. I noted that she stood tall, shoulders swept back, stalwart, though she seemed to be holding herself stiffly, as if in discomfort. I knew she would not admit to it though, so I didn’t ask whether she was okay. I complimented her on her outfit instead. As ever, she looked immaculate, dressed not in her customary black and red, but a deep peacock blue. Her shoes and handbag matched, as did the shadow on her eyes and the clip in her hair.

  ‘Lily. Wonderful to see you again.’ Fran picked her way across the tiles on her blue-suede wedges. She air-kissed my cheeks and presented me with a very expensive bottle of red and a paper bag full of artisan bread rolls. ‘Just my little contribution.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’ I felt a little wrong-footed. I’d wondered if first we’d have to address what had happened previously, but apparently not. It was as if her last visit and the issue with the phone had been erased. Well, if that was the way Sebastian’s family dealt with conflict, fine. I could forget about it and move on, too. Everyone was making an effort, after all.

  After excusing herself to ‘freshen up’ in the bathroom upstairs – it was like Paddington Station up there today – she eventually returned to the kitchen-diner, approached the table and sat down next to Denny.

  ‘This looks delicious, darling.’ She inhaled the rich smell of tomatoe
s from the lasagne on her plate.

  As I sat down myself, I beamed, then realised Fran was looking across at Sebastian. I felt sharp irritation that Fran was attributing the meal to Sebastian, rather than me, but decided to let it go. Sebastian was fetching glasses and didn’t notice. What was one little misunderstanding over who cooked?

  ‘Quinoa, Fran?’ I picked up the bowl to pass to her. I noticed a reaction I couldn’t discern flicker across her face. ‘…What?’

  Fran smiled. ‘Nothing, dear. Lovely, thank you.’

  She took the bowl as Sebastian set the glasses down on the table and laughed at my perplexed expression.

  ‘It’s pronounced, “keen-wah”. Not “qui-noah”!’ Sebastian chortled.

  Embarrassment engulfed me. How was I supposed to know? I’d only ever seen it written down. Besides, it wasn’t like I’d grown up with this kind of stuff. The Okenodos’ had been a ‘meat and two veg’ house when my mother was alive. She’d served plain food and plenty of it. When she’d died, my dad hadn’t felt much like cooking, so it had been beans on toast or ready meals on trays in front of the TV most nights. He made sure I never went hungry, but I was an adult before I learned to cook for real. It seemed like I still had plenty of culinary blank spots though.

  ‘I bet you think it’s “chi-pottle” too!’ Amusement sparkled in Sebastian’s eyes as he poured me a large glass of red. He took in my blank face. ‘You know, chip-oht-lay? As in the Mexican pepper?’

  I shrugged, grabbing my glass of wine.

  ‘Oh, don’t be horrible to the poor girl,’ Fran tutted at her son.

  Sebastian at least had the grace to look suitably chastised, though he didn’t apologise to me.

  As I cleared the plates, I noted Fran hadn’t eaten much again. For a moment, I fretted that perhaps she hadn’t liked the meal, or the way I had cooked it. Maybe I was a bad cook, as well as an ill-informed one? I banished the thought: she was a thin woman. Perhaps she had never been much of an eater.

  Feeling slightly better, I loaded the dishwasher, then brought out dessert. It was just a shop-bought pavlova, but an expensive one: dark-red and purple summer fruits stained the pure-white meringue, which crumbled in thick flakes, a gooey texture underneath. I’d also bought a pot of clotted cream. Everyone loved meringue and clotted cream, right?

  Chatting away, I carved crumbly slices onto plates, pushing them towards Sebastian and Denny. As I moved a third one over to Fran, she gave me a tight-lipped smile and held one hand up.

  ‘None for me, Lily, thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, go on. Just a little slice?’ Perhaps it was because of the quinoa, or the two glasses of wine I’d had with lunch – I wasn’t used to drinking during the day – but I passed it to her anyway.

  Fran’s face seemed to crumple as she took in the small slice of pavlova. Her head bobbed, birdlike towards Denny, who was now shovelling the pudding into his mouth without waiting. She looked next at Sebastian, who nodded encouragement, like she needed his permission or something. This was weird. Finally, almost uncertainly, Fran took the plate.

  Wanting to chase away the strange atmosphere, I dug a spoon into the clotted cream. ‘Some cream with that, Fran?’

  ‘Oh … no thank you, dear,’ Fran said, picking up her own spoon. ‘There’s quite enough cream in it already.’

  ‘You can’t have pavlova without extra cream!’ I forced jolliness into my tone, reaching across the table.

  ‘I said no!’

  In an instant everything seemed to escalate. Fran grabbed her plate and held it out of my reach, just as I went to dump a great blob of clotted cream where the pavlova had been. As if in slow motion, the cream left the spoon and deposited itself on Fran’s lap, all over her beautiful – probably dry-clean only – peacock-blue skirt.

  Both of us, plus Sebastian, stared at the cream, as Denny looked on, his smile a mile wide, with the kind of delight only small children can muster in situations where adults are having a socially induced heart attack.

  ‘Not to worry, Mum! We’ll soon get that sorted.’ Sebastian leaped up from the table, grabbing a sponge from the sink.

  Before I could stop him, he’d lunged at his mother with the sponge, dabbing at her crotch with it. Fran grabbed the sponge and gathered her skirt in her hands, hiding the damp patch and the horrible, white stain. There was a dead hush in the room; even Denny’s sniggers behind his stubby fingers were silenced by the look of angry mortification on Fran’s face. To her credit, she took a deep breath and composed herself, grabbing her handbag.

  ‘I’d better be going,’ she said.

  Offers of a hairdryer, to pay for the cleaning, or even a new skirt went unheard. I wrung my hands as Fran insisted it was just an accident. Ten minutes later she was gone and I was pouring myself a large gin, with very little tonic.

  ‘Could have been worse,’ Sebastian announced airily, sitting down on the sofa next to Denny, who was still trying to finish his homework.

  ‘Are you serious?’ I grimaced as the alcohol made its way down my throat. I slammed the glass back down, ready to pour another.

  Sebastian shook out the Saturday paper, disappearing behind it. ‘Yes. Even Mum has a sense of humour, deep down. We’ll all laugh about this, before long. You wait and see.’

  I stretched my neck, feeling a crack of pent-up stress. Maybe I was overreacting. No one could deny I’d had a lot on lately. Between getting married, trying to get to know my mother-in-law, overwork and Maxwell’s campaign to get between me and Sebastian, maybe I wasn’t thinking straight. I decided against another gin and screwed the lid back on the bottle.

  I couldn’t just sit down though, so I started picking up the various things we’d scattered about in the course of the afternoon. Clearing shoes back in the cupboard, grabbing discarded jumpers and toys, I made my way through the maisonette.

  Opening Denny’s bedroom door to fling his belongings back inside, I stopped in my tracks, wrinkling my nose. A musty smell wafted out at me. Though the bedroom was tidy, as I’d instructed that morning it should be, it was dark; the thick curtains still drawn and the bed unmade. Hadn’t I told him to do those things? Obviously not. Denny was too young to look at everything that needed doing; instead he’d taken me literally, putting the toys away as I’d asked. I should have checked.

  Sighing, I crossed the threshold and pulled open the curtains to let the early-summer afternoon light in. I opened the top small window, to get rid of some of the musky smell.

  The duvet was spilling off the unmade bed onto the floor. I grabbed it without thinking … then stopped. The sheet on the bed was missing. And on the bare mattress was a dark stain. I bent down and sniffed it.

  I shuddered. Urine.

  ‘Oh, Denny,’ I muttered under my breath.

  I glanced around the room: where was the sheet? I noted the closed doors of the wardrobe: an immediate red flag in a child’s room. I wrenched one open and, sure enough, at the bottom of the wardrobe was the sheet, a bright-yellow stain – still damp – right in the middle. With it, Denny’s crumpled pyjamas, the crotch still wet.

  Maxwell’s words ricocheted in my skull, even stronger now: It’s every single time, Lil.

  ‘It wasn’t me!’

  Caught in the act, I looked up. Denny stood in the doorway, eyes wide with horror. I groaned.

  ‘It’s okay, darling.’ I took a step towards him, attempting to take him in my arms.

  But he thrashed in my grasp like a fish on a line. His little fists were clenched, his face bright red with fury. I’d never seen him like this, but then I’d had no idea he was so upset by everything that had been going on. A sense of trepidation bloomed in my stomach. Sebastian was wrong. Maxwell was right. Oh, God.

  ‘You don’t have to be embarrassed. It happens to lots of little boys … Ow!’

  I let go of Denny, appalled.

  He froze, shocked at his own actions.

  I regarded my forearm: indented on it was a row of teeth marks. My son h
ad bitten me. I couldn’t believe it. Denny was just like his namesake, my dad: gentle, caring, loving. He’d never hurt me before, not even as a wilful toddler.

  Denny recovered more quickly than me. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he insisted.

  Blinking back tears, I watched him race back out again.

  ToTheMax1972 has joined the LIVEchat

  Shelly86 has joined the LIVEchat

  Shelly86: Hello, how may I help you today?

  ToTheMax1972: I need some help downloading some software to my son’s phone.

  Shelly86: This is no problem for me. Please tell me the name of the software?

  ToTheMax1972: Well, this is it. I’m not sure which is the best one. I need a recommendation?

  Shelly86: I’m good at recommendations. What do you need your son’s phone to do?

  ToTheMax1972: I need an app that will keep my son safe, so I can always find him.

  Shelly86: I understand. Do you want free apps or paid-for apps?

  ToTheMax1972: Money is not a problem.

  Shelly86 is typing …

  ToTheMax1972: Actually, no. I need a free one. I prefer no bank record of the transaction.

  Shelly86: Is this android or iPhone?

  ToTheMax1972: First one.

  Shelly86: Is your child frequently away from you, or with you most of the time?

  ToTheMax1972: He lives with his mother.

  Shelly86: I understand. So you will need safe and stable location monitoring by combining GPS, GSM and Wi-Fi hot-spot triangulation technologies?

  ToTheMax1972: If you say so!;)

  Shelly86: I can recommend iSafeTrack, v4.0. Available on all app stores and for all platforms. You can set up geofences and assign an administrator and users from your own devices, so you can always know your son is where he is supposed to be, even when he is not with you. Total peace of mind.

  ToTheMax1972: Thank you so much, Shelly86.

  Shelly86: You are most welcome. Can I help you with anything else?

  ToTheMax1972: No, that’s it.

  Shelly86: Have a great day!