Risk of Harm

by Jane Renshaw

  She closed her eyes.

  Neil seemed determined to take it at face value. But he hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen the looks those thugs had given her. The way Ryan Johnson had made his hand into a gun and mimed shooting her and Caroline...

  It hadn’t all been about the alcoholic father.

  She snapped her eyes open and sat up, away from Neil’s hands.

  Beckie was jabbing her fingers into Jed-Bag’s face, bouncing in front of him, and Caroline was bouncing next to her, whooping encouragement.

  Flora pushed herself out of the lounger and turned to face Neil, who was regarding her with a wariness that might have been funny in other circumstances.

  ‘Of course it wasn’t genuine! God! You’re so gullible!’

  ‘No,’ he said, obviously choosing his words, as he’d started to do, as if she was some sort of mental case he had to be careful not to upset. ‘I don’t think I am. I’m looking at the facts here, Flora, and so should you.’

  ‘I am looking at the facts!’ She belatedly lowered her voice, although, given the amount of noise Beckie and Caroline were making themselves, they were unlikely to notice if she started screaming like a maniac. But she kept her tone as reasonable as his. ‘The facts are that the Johnsons know where we are, and that they’re psychopaths. What does your evidence-based approach to your daughter’s safety have to say about that?’

  ‘They’re not “psychopaths” – other than possibly the old man, and he’s hardly a threat any more. They’re a disadvantaged family, yes –’

  ‘They’re drug dealers and murderers.’

  How was she going to get through to him? She’d always loved this live-and-let-live attitude of his: no matter how cynical-scientist he might be when talking in the abstract, in practice, in his actual dealings with actual real-life people, he would always give a person the benefit of the doubt. Which was fine, provided that that person wasn’t a danger to their child.

  He threw up his hands. ‘Even Saskia had to admit that they loved Beckie.’

  ‘So? They’re still dangerous, Neil, and the fact that you won’t admit that is putting Beckie’s safety at risk. Okay maybe I’m going over the top, maybe I’m being ultra-paranoid, but that’s partly because I feel I’m on my own here. Because you’re not taking it seriously.’

  ‘Of course I’m taking it seriously. It’s just… You have to admit, Flora. Jed Johnson – when he said we’ve stolen Beckie from them… Well. There’s some justification to that. Beckie was removed from their home in a horrendous miscarriage of justice.’

  Flora put a hand to her mouth as she felt the bile rise in her throat.

  ‘Think about it from their point of view. Isn’t it incumbent on us to at least let them have some contact with her? Supervised contact?’

  Oh God.

  She swallowed. She groped for the nearest lounger and sat on it. ‘No,’ she got out. ‘It isn’t incumbent on us to do anything that could put Beckie in danger.’ A shiver ran right through her chest and up into her shoulders. ‘How can you even say that? God, Alec!’

  ‘But –’

  She had to hold it together. She had to make him understand. ‘Beckie’s safety has to come first. Surely we agree about that?’

  ‘Of course we agree about that. I’d do anything to keep her safe – you know I would. The question is, how do we achieve that?’

  ‘Not by letting the Johnsons back into her life!’

  ‘You think I actually want to? But this isn’t about what we want. It’s about how to minimize the harm done to Beckie. Do we do that by making enemies of the Johnsons? Or by acknowledging what’s happened and being reasonable about it?’

  ‘Oh, you think they’re reasonable? You think they’re reasonable human beings now, do you? Murderers? A “family from hell”? That’s what their neighbours call them. That’s why Saskia did what she did, to get Beckie away from them.’

  ‘They obviously have problems…’

  ‘No, Neil. They are the problem. You’re so naïve! Poor family from hell, it’s society’s fault they make the lives of everyone around them a misery, they can’t help it…’

  ‘There are usually two sides to any neighbour dispute. We don’t know what’s been going on there, maybe the neighbours are equally to blame, maybe there’s some sort of vendetta against them –’

  ‘Okay.’ She took a long breath. ‘Okay. So you want to go and tell Beckie she has to see the Johnsons? The people she’s so terrified of that she’s learning martial arts to protect herself?’

  They both looked over at Beckie, who didn’t at that moment look exactly terrified. She had collapsed against the tree in hysterics.

  Neil said, ‘That’s because you’ve told her that the Johnsons are bad people.’

  For a long moment, Flora could only stare at him. When she spoke, she couldn’t keep the fury from her voice. She felt like she was choking on it, that it was all she could do to force the words through it. ‘No, that’s because they assaulted us in the street and scared her so much she wet herself.’

  ‘They didn’t assault you.’

  Flora stood. She walked past him and through the open doors to the kitchen.

  He followed her.

  ‘Ruth.’

  She went to the sink and ran water into a glass, then turned to face him, leaning back against the cool porcelain of the butler’s sink, gripping the glass in her hand.

  He didn’t say anything. He came and stood in front of her, and then he smiled, just a little, and gently, gently, pushed his fingertips into the hair above her ear, smoothing back a sweaty tendril that had become stuck to her skin.

  She felt her face collapse.

  He took the glass from her, set it on the draining board, and pulled her into his arms.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She pulled back. She groped behind her for the glass and took a sip of water, all she could force through the tightness in her throat.

  ‘It was horrible, what happened, and I’ll never forgive them for it,’ he said. ‘For putting you and Beckie through such a terrifying experience. But… I really think you’re wrong about them. I think I always knew there was a disconnect between what we were being told about the Johnsons and the way Beckie is. Intrinsically… She’s so… she’s just so naturally sweet, Ruth. That’s not just down to environment, that’s not just down to us.’

  ‘That’s down to her genes?’

  ‘In large part, yes, I think so.’

  ‘Nature versus nurture?’

  ‘Obviously nurture plays a part, obviously she’s having a much easier time of it than her biological family…’

  ‘You’re saying the lovely but disadvantaged Johnsons have produced a child whose nice middle-class environment is revealing the true genetic Johnson saintliness?’

  He smiled. ‘Yeah, I guess that’s –’

  ‘Have you forgotten that she’s been bullying a disabled child?’

  Okay, the disabled bit was maybe an exaggeration.

  He gaped at her.

  ‘Your little paragon is a bully!’

  He was looking at her as if at a stranger. ‘So just because she’s had some issues at school you’re suddenly saying Beckie isn’t a nice kid? You’re looking at her now and thinking that’s her Johnson genes coming out, that’s the real Beckie –’

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘Is it any wonder Beckie’s playing up at school, after being uprooted from her home and all her friends and not able to even contact them?’

  ‘That’s no excuse for cruelty.’

  ‘Ruth. Every kid gets into arguments, scraps – Christ. I can’t believe you’re looking on this as evidence of Beckie’s… what? Genetic original sin? Is that why you’ve been watching her like a hawk – not because of the Johnsons being a supposed threat but because you think she’s some sort of danger herself?’

  ‘You’re the scientist. You know mental illnesses can have their onset around puberty or before… Of course I’m worr
ied she might have inherited a predisposition… But no, that’s not why I’m watching her like a hawk. The supposed threat from the Johnsons is actually the reason for that, believe it or not.’ She set the glass down on the worktop, so abruptly that water sloshed over its rim, and pushed past him, making for the open doors to the garden.

  This time, he didn’t come after her.

  She had to call Saskia. She had to get the Johnsons’ address from Saskia, and go and speak to their neighbours. He wanted evidence? She’d get it. From the neighbours, and anyone else Saskia could point her towards, maybe other victims of the Johnsons, if they were willing to speak to her.

  And then maybe she could persuade Alec that they needed to disappear again.

  Where was her bloody mobile?

  Not on the table or the loungers.

  She returned to the family room, scanning the sofas, the coffee table… Neil had disappeared, thank God. She walked round the room, trying to think of where she could last remember looking at her phone.

  Maybe she’d left it in the car.

  She felt tears pricking at the back of her nose as she searched the car, the study, the front room, the bedroom – where the hell was her phone? All her numbers were in it, including Saskia’s. She needed her fucking phone.

  In the bedroom, she lay down on the carpet and flailed her hand around under the bed.

  Nothing but dust and hair.

  Sweat was trickling from her armpits down her sides.

  She sat back against the bed and closed her eyes against the tears.

  ‘Flora? Hey, Flora?’ It was Caroline’s voice, Caroline’s steps on the stairs.

  Flora took a big breath, opened her eyes and got to her feet, like an old woman, supporting herself on the bed. What now?

  ‘In here.’

  Caroline grinned at her from the door. Her hair was up in a jaunty ponytail and her face was flushed from the exercise. ‘I’m just off… Hey, are you okay?’

  ‘Still can’t find my bloody phone.’

  Caroline made a sympathetic face. ‘Where were you when you last used it?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to remember.’ Flora sank down on the bed. ‘I thought I had it in the garden. I thought I checked it and put it down on the table…’

  ‘Have you tried ringing it?’

  I’m not stupid! Flora wanted to snap. ‘It’s turned off.’

  ‘Well, it’ll turn up, eh? Gimme paper and I’ll write my number down for you.’

  Flora reached for a Post-It pad on her bedside table, and opened the drawer for a pen. As Caroline wrote down her number, Flora said, ‘Thanks for spending so much time with Beckie. It’s – I know it really means a lot to her to be able to have fun with you. You’re so good with her.’

  Caroline smiled. ‘Yeah, I’m just a big kid, let’s face it.’

  The great thing about Caroline was that she was so easy to have around. And somehow Flora knew she could trust her with Beckie. It seemed that Neil could have been right, and Caroline may well be the friend Flora needed. The difference in their ages didn’t seem to matter at all.

  ‘You don’t need to thank me, Flora. I love hanging out with Beckie. She’s a little sweetheart.’

  Flora smiled, and puffed out a laugh, feeling hysteria rushing up behind it. She clamped her lips together and turned away from Caroline to replace the pen and the pad, shoving the yellow Post-It with Caroline’s number on it into the pocket of her jeans.

  ‘Ahhhhhhh!’

  The door behind Caroline was flung back against the wall and Jed-Bag burst into the room, legs flying out in front of him, sinister grinning Mr Blobby face wobbling. All she could see of Beckie was her trainers and some of her jeans behind Jed-Bag’s. At his crotch, bits of flaky onion skin were poking out of the mesh bag, and the carrot was in bits.

  ‘She’s my fucking granddaughter, you bloody buggering bitch!’ Jed-Bag jiggled across the room towards her.

  ‘Beckie!’ Flora said weakly.

  ‘You have to hit him, Mum.’

  Flora looked at Caroline, who grinned and shrugged.

  She had always found Mr Blobby disturbing. She aimed a feeble punch at his shoulder.

  ‘Go for his face!’ came Beckie’s muffled voice.

  Flora whacked at the lipstick grin, sending the head on its thin neck bouncing around satisfyingly.

  ‘Go for his balls!’

  ‘Beckie,’ she said again.

  ‘Sorry,’ Caroline muttered through her grin.

  ‘The willy’s broken but the balls are still good. Kick him in the balls! That’s the best place to go for. Look Mum, he’s attacking you!’

  Jed-Bag flew through the air.

  ‘That’s my fucking buggery granddaughter!’

  And as he sailed through the air towards her, all the rage that had been building seemed to whoosh through her and she was conscious only of her limbs flailing, of someone shouting, of jumping, of herself screaming, and ‘Fucking old bastard’ coming out of her mouth, and when she came back to herself she was letting go of Jed-Bag’s ankles and he was flying in a centrifugal arc through the wide open window.

  Gasping, she stood in the rectangle of sun on the carpet and looked around her.

  What had just happened?

  Beckie was shrieking, grabbing the windowsill to haul herself up and look down at the patio, shrieking, ‘You’ve killed him!’ in delight.

  ‘Who?’ came faintly back. Thomas.

  ‘Jed-Bag!’ yelled Beckie. ‘My biological grandad! Mum smashed up his balls and his willy then she threw him out of the window! He’s definitely dead now!’

  Flora staggered to the window. Jed-Bag was sprawled on his back on the patio, legs and arms spreadeagled, the sorry collection of objects at his crotch pulverised beyond recognition. On the other side of the high wall, in next door’s garden, Ailish, Iain and Thomas were standing staring up at them.

  She waved weakly, shut the window, and sank down on the bed.

  Beckie flung herself down full-length beside her and started to laugh, uninhibitedly, delightedly, and Caroline was peeking out of the window and saying, ‘Her mouth is literally hanging open,’ and then Flora was laughing too, and Caroline flung back her head and joined them, the three of them howling like a pack of wolves.

  Chapter 19

  Rolliston Avenue was usually one of the best parts of the walk to school: leafy and quiet and genteel, with its high stone walls overhung by beech and magnolia and lilac trees, so you got a glimpse of the ground floors of the grand detached houses only at their gates. Number 6 was her favourite, with its brief view up the gravel drive to a wide, white-painted front door under an elegant fanlight, and wisteria growing around a sash-and-case window. You could almost imagine the door opening and a wasp-waisted Victorian maidservant appearing, a basket swinging on her arm, to do her morning shopping in the long-vanished grocers and butchers and haberdashers on Raeburn Place.

  But today Flora didn’t slow her pace at all as they passed the gate of Number 6.

  She was cursing herself for not staying in the car and asking some nice passerby for the use of their mobile phone. No matter how embarrassing it would have been to have to admit to running out of petrol, at least they would have been safe.

  How could she have run out of petrol?

  Had they tampered with the car? Had they been watching her, following her on the route to school every day? Had they calculated exactly how much petrol to leave in it to strand them in this quiet street?

  ‘Mum –’

  ‘I said don’t look round at them, Beckie.’

  Behind, the yobs were barking like animals, scuffling with each other, laughing raucously, shouting sudden streams of obscenities.

  ‘Are they the Johnsons?’

  ‘No, they’re just some silly boys.’ She gripped Beckie’s hand more tightly, and Beckie gripped hers.

  But Flora was almost certain, the one time she’d looked back at them, that she’d recognised the one with the little
fringe plastered to his forehead.

  Travis Johnson.

  When she’d looked round, he had grinned at her.

  She scanned the street for potential saviours, but the pavements ahead to where the road curved were empty. She was walking so fast now that poor Beckie was half tripping along at her side and, despite what Flora had told her, kept swivelling her head to look behind.

  ‘Mum, are –’

  BANG!

  A plastic bottle full of bright orange liquid exploded on the wall just in front of Beckie, spattering her hair.

  ‘It’s okay, Beckie. Just keep walking and don’t look round at them.’

  Distantly, she could hear the traffic on Raeburn Place.

  But there was still no one in sight.

  Should she turn in at the gate of the house ahead? Walk briskly to the door as if this had been their destination all along, as if she knew the people there?

  But what if the Johnsons followed them into the garden, into the seclusion afforded by the high wall and the trees, blocking their exit to the street?

  No. There would be people soon, surely, on the street if they just kept walking?

  ‘Fucking snobs,’ one of them shouted.

  Beckie looked back again.

  ‘Beckie!’ Flora hissed furiously, tugging her arm and making her stumble a little. ‘Would you stop looking?’

  Now they were approaching the curve in the road. The street had never seemed so long.

  ‘It’s okay, darling, just ignore them.’

  Beckie’s face had closed, as if an expressionless mask had been pulled down over it.

  What would she do if they made a grab for Beckie?

  She would scream. She would fight. She would kick them in the balls.

  She couldn’t call 999 because she still hadn’t found her fucking phone. Why hadn’t she taken Neil’s?

  But they weren’t going to do anything, not in public like this. Surely? When they got to the school she would call the police. Call Neil. At least this was the evidence she needed that the Johnsons really were a threat.

  It seemed to take hours to reach the bend in the road. But at last the new vista opened up in front of them and there were people, a group of students slouching along, all skinny jeans and huge boots and ridiculous hair, crossing the junction with Raeburn Place.