by Helen Black
Under cover of her bag and the pew in front, she eased off her boot to assess the damage. Too late did she notice Luella moving towards her.
‘Is it true?’ Her voice was shrill. She shrugged off the arm of another mother. ‘I just want to know if what they are saying is true.’
Lilly felt all eyes upon her. ‘That depends on what they’re saying, Luella.’
‘That you’re representing the girl who murdered Charlie.’
Lilly took a deep breath. How the hell had Luella found out? ‘I don’t think this is the place.’
Luella snorted, her nostrils wide like a horse’s. ‘Tell that to Maddy, here.’ She pulled the dead boy’s mother from her seat. Her eyes were lifeless. ‘Explain to her why her boy was killed.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that.’
Spit flew from Luella’s mouth. ‘But you can defend the monster who did it?’
‘I really think we should all calm down,’ said Lilly. ‘After all, this is our children’s school.’
‘A place where they’re no longer safe. Thanks to your client and people like her.’
‘My work,’ said Lilly, ‘is a private matter that doesn’t concern anyone else.’
‘You’re quite wrong. Charlie was one of our own, and this is a matter that is important to us all.’ Luella drew a circle with her arm. ‘Every single one of us.’
There were murmurs of assent.
Luella raised her chin. ‘This isn’t a time to sit on the fence. Charlie is dead and his friends are scarred for life. Did you know Luke Walker hasn’t been back to school because he’s so disturbed?’
Lilly could say nothing in response. It stood to reason that some of the boys would be traumatised, but that was Artan’s fault, not Anna’s.
‘We all need to decide where our loyalties lie,’ Luella continued. ‘And you have made it very plain where you stand.’
Her eyes challenged Lilly, willing her to dispute her case. ‘I think you should leave,’ she said.
With the eyes of the entire congregation on her, Lilly moved along the aisle and stood in front of her tormentor. Luella looked her up and down. Lilly’s jacket had fallen open and revealed the thick smears of dried mud. A few flakes fell onto the bare toes of her left foot. The other boot, now two-toned, pushed her hip into an almost comical gait.
‘Lilly Valentine, is this a joke?’
‘I can’t see anyone laughing.’
‘Do you know the meaning of the word respect?’
‘Yes, but if you’re not sure I’ll lend you a dictionary.’
Lilly heard Luella’s slap before she felt it. The stinging crack of flesh on flesh. She put her hand to her cheek, heat burning her fingers.
Lilly turned to Charlie’s mother. Her face was as white and dry as paper. ‘I can’t begin to imagine how you must feel,’ she said. ‘Please believe me when I say I meant no disrespect to you or your son by coming here today.’
Then she stalked out of the chapel with as much dignity as she could muster, considering she was wearing one three-inch heel and a pair of footless fishnets.
Luke breathes hard through his nose, trying to quell the nausea that has gripped him for almost an hour. He tries to think of babbling brooks and lambs gambolling in fields, but to no avail. He bends from the waist and heaves, the contents of his stomach rushing to meet his mouth.
He’s already purged himself of the cider he necked last night and all that is left is an empty pulling that hurts his muscles and brings tears to his eyes.
‘You all right?’ says Caz.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Do I look all right to you?’
She makes a small noise somewhere between a cluck and a tut and rubs his back. He shrugs her away.
He doesn’t know what has made him so sick. Maybe the drink, though he’s had plenty at parties before. Maybe the adrenalin from kicking that piece of shit, though he’s had fights before. Or maybe it’s the thought of Caz with her knickers round her ankles.
He groans and retches again.
‘You need something to eat,’ she says.
‘Fuck off.’
‘A bacon sarnie with plenty of sauce.’
He turns to Caz and shouts: ‘I said, fuck off.’
She looks into the middle distance and sniffs like a sulky child.
‘You don’t get it, do you?’ He shakes his head. ‘You think it doesn’t matter, that nothing matters.’
‘I know what really matters, soft lad. Making money, staying alive, that’s what really matters.’
‘There are better ways than that,’ he says.
She snorts through her nose. ‘How about I walk into that shop over there and ask for a job?’
‘What about begging? We make money that way.’
‘It takes fucking hours to get a few quid, and when it rains we make nothing at all. I can make a ton in half the time and it keeps us going for a couple of days.’
Luke can’t accept that it’s the only way. He remembers the fat old man with his dick hanging out of his trousers. The filthy moans he made in the shadows.
If Caz is prepared to go with someone like that she must be the lowest of the low.
‘What you did, what you do, it disgusts me.’
She eyes him coolly. ‘Is that right?’
‘It makes me sick.’ He nods to the pool of bile at his feet. ‘You make me sick.’
For the first time since he met Caz, she looks at him like he is a stranger. She opens her mouth to speak, but changes her mind. Instead she pulls the hood of her parka over her head and walks away.
Luke watches her tiny figure and is overcome by sadness. Caz has been his eyes and ears since he arrived. Without knowing anything about him she took it upon herself to watch out for him, and when she found out he was on the run it didn’t matter. She stood by him.
When he told her what he’d done, what sort of scum he really is, she didn’t turn on him.
It was never like this with Charlie and Tom. He’s never had a friend like Caz and he’s certain he never will again.
‘Caz!’ He legs it after her. ‘Wait.’
She must have heard him but she doesn’t stop.
‘I’m sorry,’ he calls out. ‘I’ve been an arsehole.’
She stops but doesn’t turn around.
‘A total arsehole,’ he continues. ‘The biggest arsehole that ever lived.’
She swivels on her heel to face him, her hand on her hip, one eyebrow cocked.
‘There never was a bigger arsehole in the history of the world,’ he says.
She’s trying to keep a straight face but he can see she’s chewing her cheek.
‘Or the history of the universe,’ he says.
At last she laughs and Luke feels the weight of the world lift. He puts down his rucksack and leans his head on her shoulder.
‘Fucking hell,’ she says. ‘You really stink of sick.’
Chapter Nine
Dr Leyla Kadir washed her hands at the sink in the corner of the consultation room, her slim brown fingers sliding through the water. She dried them carefully on a paper towel and covered them in hand lotion. Her precise movements creamed the area between each finger.
Her cream trouser suit was simple yet elegant against the bronze of her skin. When she sat down she slid open the jacket button so that its tailored lines remained unwrinkled.
She wasn’t what Lilly had expected. But then how had she pictured a psychiatrist from Kurdistan? A full veil with a copy of Freud under her arm?
‘Thank you for seeing me, Dr Kadir,’ she said.
‘Thank you for coming.’ She motioned Lilly to sit in the chair at the other side of her desk, which was empty apart from a snow globe. Inside the glass dome a fairy cast its wintry spell. ‘Where is the child?’
Lilly nodded towards the reception area outside, where Anna was flicking through a copy of Grazia magazine. Lilly wondered how much of it her client could understand, and whether the tribulations of a
reality star’s boob job held much fascination to a girl who had seen her family burnt alive.
The doctor pushed highlighted hair behind her ears. ‘So?’
‘It’s difficult to know where to start,’ said Lilly.
‘At the beginning usually works well.’
Okay, smart arse, thought Lilly. ‘My client is from Kosovo.’
‘Yes.’
‘She came here seeking asylum.’
‘Yes.’
‘And she’s been accused of conspiracy to murder.’
Dr Kadir tapped her finger against her desk. ‘I have read the papers you sent over, Miss Valentine.’
So not the beginning then. ‘I was wondering if my client could be suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.’
‘Naturally, I will need to assess her to make a diagnosis.’
Lilly’s hackles began to rise. ‘Naturally. But before I commit my client to that process, I wanted to know if this was a likely scenario or if I’m whistling in the wind.’
Dr Kadir wrinkled her nose. ‘Guesswork is not how I do things, Miss Valentine. I’m a psychiatrist, not an NHS helpline.’
Lilly sat forward in her chair. She’d dealt with enough shrinks to know what she could and couldn’t ask them to do. ‘Listen, Doctor, I’m not asking for anything definite, just some theoretical discussion.’
The doctor opened her mouth to speak, but Lilly put up her hand. ‘You know full well that the taxpayer will only give me one shot at a psych report, so I can’t spend my money in the wrong shop.’ Lilly waved at the door. ‘I’ve a kid out there staring down the barrel of a life sentence, so I cannot piss about.’
Dr Kadir ran her finger over her snow globe. ‘Okay then.’
Lilly sat back in her chair. ‘Okay then.’
‘Put simply, PTSD is a brain injury caused by a traumatic incident.’
‘Such as?’ said Lilly.
Dr Kadir opened her arms. ‘An accident, a violent attack, a disaster of some sort.’
‘A genocide?’
‘Almost certainly’
‘And this disorder affects people how?’ asked Lilly.
‘There are many symptoms.’ The doctor reached for a book from her shelves. ‘This is the leading research study of victims from the Gulf War, which showed that veterans suffered in hundreds of different ways.’ She ran her finger along a list that filled a whole page. ‘Nightmares, flashbacks, depression, headaches, panic attacks.’
‘Anna couldn’t breathe at the police station,’ said Lilly. ‘The police doctor thought it might be a panic attack.’
Dr Kadir continued with her list. ‘Chest pains, insomnia, detachment.’
‘Detachment?’ Lilly felt her heart leap. ‘Tell me about that.’
‘Patients are often overwhelmed by the symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, so they suppress their feelings about the trigger. They avoid all conversations about it, all contact with anything that may be a cue.’
‘Does it work?’ asked Lilly.
‘Dr Kadir gave a wry laugh. Of course not. They simply become detached from normality.’
‘Delusional?’
‘No. They become numb both physically and mentally,’ said Dr Kadir. ‘Many describe living as if on autopilot.’
‘Anna says she has no idea why she went to the school with a gun,’ said Lilly. ‘I think most people will find that very hard to believe.’
Dr Kadir smiled. ‘Most people don’t understand PTSD.’
‘Posh,’ snarled Steve, ‘this is genius.’
Alexia leaned back in her chair, hands behind her head, while Steve read the transcript she’d handed to him. ‘Exclusive access to the service,’ she said. ‘I recorded the whole thing.’
Steve let out a cackle that would have frightened Lady Macbeth.
‘Never mind the fucking prayers, what about the fight?’
Alexia couldn’t resist a smile. That had been the proverbial icing on the cake.
When she arrived at Manor Park she’d assumed police would be patrolling the perimeter, but as the parents arrived, the other journos swarmed in with their microphones and flashbulbs—consequently the police’s job was to surround the parents as best they could. It was an unedifying sight but it left Alexia’s secret entrance entirely unguarded. As she slipped through, she was sure she would be spotted but the weather was foul and the parents dashed from their cars to the school.
All was nearly lost when an officious-looking woman demanded her invitation but then her attention was drawn to someone parking a Mini in the wrong place. Alexia had seized her opportunity and dived into the back row. When the head had announced refreshments she intended to leg it back to the car before anyone could ask awkward questions—but then the entertainment really started. One of the inmates from Camp Boden had accosted some woman about what she was wearing. To be fair, footless tights were a bold move best left to the fashionistas on Bond Street. Then, bosh, she smacked her so hard it echoed around the chapel.
A ladette with ten Bacardi Breezers inside her couldn’t have done better.
Though it made for great copy, it had all seemed a bit of an overreaction to Alexia, but she recalled that her father had once fired someone for wearing the wrong coloured socks.
She finished the piece and mailed it to Steve. While the big boys were scrabbling around printing pictures of cars pulling into the school and conjectured pieces about what may or may not have been said, Alexia’s story was the real deal. She could quote what was said about Charles Stanton in full tearjerking glory. And the cherry on top was the argument among the parents. Within seconds her inbox was alive.
To: Alexia Dee
From: Steve Berry
Subject: Not bad
Shame you didn’t get a picture.
* * *
Lilly sang along to the radio all the way home. The drivetime chart music suited her mood. She had the beginnings of a defence, just a seed, but with Dr Kadir’s help it had begun to germinate.
She reached into her bag and found half a tube of Rolos. Life was sweet.
When the front door glided open as if on wheels, she kissed its wooden frame.
‘I thought I was the crazy one,’ said Anna, and they both laughed.
‘I can’t see anything funny’
Sam stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips, his beautiful face pressed into a scowl.
Anna evaporated up the stairs.
‘Hello, big man,’ said Lilly. ‘Do you fancy making a cake?’
Sam narrowed his eyes.
‘I’ve tons of chocolate.’ She headed for the kitchen. ‘Or carrot. That’s a healthy option for my favourite footballer.’
She heard his heavy footfall follow her. Baking was definitely not high on his agenda.
‘Everyone at school says you made a total show of yourself at the service.’
Lilly reached into the cupboard for flour. ‘I’m in the mood for muffins.’
‘The boarders called you a laughing stock.’
Lilly sighed and began to weigh the ingredients. ‘Why don’t you get the eggs?’
‘Cara says you weren’t even wearing shoes.’
Lilly pushed her hair out of her eyes, leaving a white powdery patch across her forehead. Why didn’t the bitch from hell mind her own business? Jesus, Lilly hadn’t even seen Botox Belle at the service.
‘The heel snapped off my boot. Not the end of the world.’
Sam shook his head in utter disgust. ‘Why does everything you do get so difficult?’
‘Because there’s only one of me, Sam.’
Luke shakes the shoe box and mentally counts the change. Just over eight quid, not bad.
Caz says the punters feel sorry for him, with his big eyes and floppy hair. Like he’s someone nice who’s just hit hard times. They don’t even look at Caz. She says it’s because she looks like this is the life she deserves. Luke thinks it might have something to do with the stuff she shouts at them.
His mum always
insists on finding educational value in everything, and he wonders what she’d make of his newfound talent. Five games of Sonic the Hedgehog was proclaimed ‘good for fine motor skills’. An hour reading the Arsenal programme was an ‘excellent practice of foreign pronunciation’. What would she make of blagging money from total strangers? ‘Ah, Luke, begging is just a form of advocacy. A great start for a budding lawyer or politician.’
His laughter gives way to a stab of guilt as he thinks of his mother worrying about her only son’s whereabouts. Does she spend each night crying and ringing round the hospitals?
Though surely everything’s come out about the girl in the park by now? She’ll be glad he’s disappeared. Francesca Walker cares what people think. She’d be mortified if Luke was on the telly or in the papers. And he certainly would be if the police caught him.
At first he’d been convinced they’d be searching for him and that every officer would have his old school photo tucked in their pocket. Now he realises the authorities don’t give a shit about kids like him and Caz. There are hundreds like them on the streets, living in derelict houses, dossing in tube stations. The police don’t even pull them in for begging. They might ask a few questions, but usually they just tell them to move on.
‘But don’t rely on it,’ says Caz. ‘You might get one with a cob on, like he’s just caught his missus having it away with the next-door neighbour’s dog. You might get away with a kicking…or worse, you might get nicked.’
Caz’s instructions in the face of the latter are clear: ‘Run like fuck.’ She prides herself on seeing the inside of a cell only twice. On both occasions she convinced the coppers she was eighteen. Whether they believed her or whether they didn’t care is unimportant. She got bail and they got rid.
Luke slides the coins into his rucksack and tosses the box into the gutter. A woman passing by with a toddler on reins tuts her disapproval. Luke gives her the finger and heads off to find Caz.
She pockets her share. ‘Ta very much.’
‘You’re welcome,’ says Luke, an automatic response that still makes Caz laugh. He always hands over half of whatever he gets, even though she doesn’t reciprocate. She says she will but then she blows it all on smack. She’s doing more and more and it doesn’t come cheap. He doesn’t care. He’d give her everything he owns to stop her doing the other thing.