by Susan Lewis
Grabbing her phone from the bag she’d left in the car while dealing with Daniel, she checked to see if any more texts had come in from Kylie and found that one had. The contents were grim.
Just slit open my veins. Bleeding everywhere. Fucking hate this world and you and them and every fucking one.
Quickly scrolling through to Kylie’s foster carers, Alex made the connection and was told that Kylie was on her way to hospital.
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ she assured the distraught-sounding woman at the other end. Audrey Bishop was a long-time agency carer with a rare good record for handling disturbed and violent teenagers.
Clearly Kylie was too much even for her.
Clicking over to another call she said, ‘Hi Fiona. We should be at the Fenns’ place in fifteen minutes, maybe less.’
‘Great,’ Fiona replied. She was in Family Placements at the South Kesterly hub and had organised Daniel’s emergency care, since there hadn’t been anywhere available in the north. ‘Have you got the Emergency Protection Order yet?’
‘No, he’s still under police protection,’ Alex replied, ‘but legal are on it, so it should be sorted any time. I forgot to ask earlier, are there any other children in this family, birth or otherwise?’
‘The birth kids are at uni, but the Fenns are caring for a seven-year-old boy at the moment. Oliver Barratt. He’s a Munchausen victim and misses his mother terribly, but we’re still not sure when, if, he’ll be allowed to go back to her.’
‘Is she in therapy?’ Alex asked.
‘Of course.’
‘So how long has the boy been with the Fenns?’
‘Almost a month now, and they adore him.’
Starting to worry about how Daniel might treat a child as vulnerable as Oliver sounded, Alex decided she’d have to deal with that if the problem arose, and after ringing off she made a quick call to the office, then to the legal department to find out how they were getting on with Daniel’s EPO, and lastly to a lawyer who was representing one of her teenagers in a mugging case. By the time she rang off they were pulling up outside an end-of-terrace Georgian town house in Westleigh.
As they got out of the car Alex couldn’t help wondering if Daniel had ever been anywhere like this before, with its gravelled driveway, immaculate garden beds and impressive double front door with spiralled boxwood topiaries either side of it. Realising that if he had, it would probably have been to help rob it, she immediately started worrying about what souvenirs he might help himself to while he was in the Fenns’ care.
‘Fancy place,’ Ben commented as he hauled Daniel’s bulky pillowcase from the boot. ‘Bit too good for the likes of that little shit,’ he added under his breath.
‘Why don’t you wait here?’ Alex suggested stiffly, and taking Daniel’s belongings she hoisted her own bag on to her shoulder and was about to steer her charge to his temporary destiny when Ben sniped, ‘Happy to, Your Highness. I didn’t want to come on this job in the first place.’
Refraining from informing him that she’d never have used him as backup given the choice, she went to put a hand on Daniel’s shoulder, had it shrugged off and so turned to the front door as it opened.
‘Alex, hi,’ a smiling, bespectacled Chinese girl said warmly as she came out to receive them. She was a social worker attached to a prestigious nationwide agency who only had the highest-quality carers on their books (all too few of them based in the Kesterly area, unfortunately), and so was paid way more than her council-employed colleagues. However, she was so good-natured Alex would never hold that against her.
‘Hi Mei,’ she said breezily. ‘This is Daniel.’
‘It’s nice to meet you, Daniel,’ Mei told him.
Ignoring Mei’s outstretched hand, Daniel looked down as he scuffed a toe of his worn trainers through the gravel.
Realising that he was far more upset about what was happening to him than he’d ever let on, Alex said, ‘Why don’t we go inside? It looks a really nice place, doesn’t it?’
‘I wanna go home,’ he muttered.
‘Hello, are you Daniel?’ a friendly voice asked from the doorway.
Alex looked up to find an elegant woman in her early fifties coming towards them. ‘Hello, I’m Maggie,’ she said to Alex, holding out her hand to shake. To Daniel she said, ‘I’ve just made some ice cream and there’s far too much for us to eat on our own. Will you come and have some with us?’
Tensing for the ‘eff off,’ or ‘no effing way,’ Alex was pleasantly surprised when Daniel said belligerently, ‘What do you mean, you made ice cream? I thought it came from a shop or a van.’
‘Maggie makes the most delicious ice cream,’ Mei told him gushingly.
Alex could tell that Daniel wasn’t warming to Mei.
‘I can vouch for that,’ a tall, jug-eared man with half-moon specs and a snowy white beard declared as he came out to join them. ‘Hello, young man, I’m Ronald, but you can call me Ron if you like, most of my friends do. I hear you’re going to be staying with us for a while.’
Daniel eyed Ron Fenn warily.
‘You can have your own room if you like,’ Maggie informed him. ‘Or if you and Oliver get along together ... Speaking of whom, where is he?’
As a small, frightened figure with a mop of shiny dark hair appeared in the doorway, Alex felt torn between pity and dismay. He was so tiny and looked so defenceless that she found herself worrying again about how well Daniel would treat him. She dreaded to think of him being cruel or trying to corrupt Oliver in some way. It was likely to happen, though, it often did amongst children in care – the weakest were preyed upon, used, even abused, and eventually turned into feral little creatures fighting for their lives.
On the other hand, Daniel was just a child too, and in every bit as much in need of kindness and understanding as Oliver, whether he wanted it or not. It looked as though he might get it here, but just for a while, until he was moved elsewhere. What would happen to him then?
Knowing she’d have to worry about that later, she put a hand on his shoulder and followed the Fenns inside. As soon as he was settled, she’d get Ben to drop her at the infirmary to check on Kylie, then she’d have to get the bus back to the office since she’d left her car there. Hopefully she’d be in time for a strategy meeting with an Ethiopian family who, mercifully, were welcoming the support of social services.
Sadly, not everyone was so receptive; many were actively hostile, especially in her area. But as frustrating and even devastating as her work could be at times, she’d never give up on the children who needed her protection.
Not ever.
Erica Wade was staring from the window of her tired-looking house on North Hill. It had once been a grand Victorian dwelling with smartly painted walls and windows, a garden of pleasant flowers and a welcoming driveway. It stood in its own grounds, surrounded by tall hedges, and dwarfed from behind by a towering maple. It was the kind of place a reasonably distinguished family might once have felt proud to call home.
Though Erica’s grey eyes were directed towards the end of the short drive where a dilapidated gate was open and partially lost amidst the crowding bushes, she wasn’t seeing it. Nor was she registering the brave, sun-seeking blooms springing from a tangle of shrubs and weeds that skirted the overgrown lawn. A dropping cherry tree was casting dappled shadows over an open-fronted playhouse and doll’s pram, but she wasn’t noticing that either.
Once in a while her gaze seemed to catch on one of the cars or lorries tearing up and down the hill outside, as though trying in a ghostlike way to travel away with them. Almost no one walked past the house. Her neighbours came and went from the stately B & B next door, never staying for more than a night or two. The same with the purpose-built holiday apartments the other side, and across the four-lane road.
It wasn’t possible to glimpse the sea from here, the house was on the wrong side of the hill, but it took no more than a minute to walk to the top and from there the vistas down over Ke
sterly Bay and out into the estuary were impressive. It was one of the many spots from which tourists and scenic photographers took their shots of the old-fashioned holiday town. The wide stretch of the beach sat between two rocky outcrops over which the tide flung itself in exuberant sprays; and the newly refurbished pier stretched off towards the horizon like a walkway to the great beyond.
Erica never went to the top of the hill, or to the end of the pier.
Her sore, grey eyes remained blank as they tracked a pair of swallows swooping in and out of the garage attached to the house. They’d built a nest inside and were making a mess all over her car. It didn’t matter, she never used it anyway, and Brian usually kept his parked in front, on the drive.
The skin stretched over the fine bones of her face was pallid and lined, seeming to add ten years to the mere thirty she had lived. She didn’t feel alive any more, or not often. Sometimes, after she’d taken her medication, she felt as vibrant and free as the butterflies skittering and settling amongst the wild roses, verbena and milkweed. There was a time when the butterflies had inspired her to write a melody, but she didn’t have a piano to play it on any more, or the will to try. She’d been able to name the butterflies then, and probably still could if she tried – orange sulphur, comma ... She didn’t really want to. It would mean engaging with them and she couldn’t allow herself to do that, even though her mind was like one of them, hovering over thoughts and vistas, noting them but never allowing anything to reach into the gnarled and shadowy depths of her feelings.
The postman had dropped some mail through the door a while ago. He was one of the few who came, along with other deliverymen with her online orders, and a local councillor canvassing for an election. They used to have quite a flow of visitors, mainly children coming to learn the piano, but that was when they’d lived in their other house, the one they’d bought just after Jonathan was born. It was miles from here, way up north close to the Scottish border. She’d had friends then, just a few, who’d carried on coming after Jonathan’s death, but she’d found it too hard to pretend that life could go on the way it had before. She’d had to ask the parents of her pupils to make alternative arrangements, and then she’d withdrawn from her friends too. And before long the only person she was seeing in a day was her husband, Brian.
She didn’t include Ottilie because Ottilie was only three. She might be four soon, Erica couldn’t be sure because she had no idea of the day or month.
She wished she didn’t have to see Ottilie at all; everything would be so much easier if she didn’t.
She could sense the child’s eyes on her now; they were making her feel jumpy and sick. Her heart was starting to jerk; the swallows were soaring inside her head; her eyes were full of butterflies. Ottilie was watching her from the open door at the far side of the room, waiting for her to turn around. Sweat trickled down her back. What did she think was going to happen? Did she think at all? Of course she did, but it was hard to know what went through her mind since she barely spoke. Her eyes were the colour of beech bark, her hair as soft as cashmere, wavy and as dark as the earth. It wasn’t often that Erica looked at her daughter. It was too confusing, and she, Erica, was too weak, too broken and afraid of what she might do if she touched her.
Get away from me. Get away from me. GET AWAY FROM ME YOU FILTHY LITTLE BITCH.
Was it her voice that had spoken, or one of those inside her head?
Ottilie had never known her brother; she hadn’t been born by the time he’d died. She’d come along a few months later like some sort of compensation, or maybe she was a punishment. That was how it felt, like a life sentence for what she, Erica, had done – or failed to do.
It was Brian who bathed Ottilie and put her to bed. Got her up in the morning and gave her breakfast. If he didn’t Ottilie would go unwashed, maybe even unfed, though if she was hungry she’d learned to help herself to food from the fridge. Sometimes Brian read her stories, or played games with her, the kind of games that Erica could never take part in. She’d put on her music while they were happening, Brahms or Debussy, and lose herself in the thrall of her favourite sonatas until the kindly substances reached her brain and quietly closed it down. She hated the games, despised them as much as she despised her husband, her mother, her father, her whole rotten life.
Seeing Brian’s car turn into the drive she drew back from the window before he could see her. They slept in separate rooms now and only communicated when they had to. He knew the truth and so did she; it was a secret that bound them together, so tightly that she had no idea how she managed to breathe in its grasp.
As she walked across the room she could feel the ghosts parting, past residents of the house always lurking, perhaps they were trying to shame her. Could they hear the voices inside her head? Maybe the voices were theirs. Did they listen when she spoke to Ottilie? Did they scoff at the things she told her in rambling or frenzied whispers? She wouldn’t look at Ottilie now, she couldn’t; her nerves were jumping, her eyes were waterfalls of tears. She knew Ottilie’s head was bowed. Was she waiting for her mother’s touch, or preparing to shrink from it? Her limbs were tiny, too small for her age, and white; precious few rays of sun found their way on to this wretched child. She almost never went out, not even into the garden to play with the toys her grateful daddy had bought her.
He took her out though, once in a while, but they never went far, or for long.
‘He’s home,’ she said, passing the child and going through to the kitchen. He’d want his usual whisky and soda and in this Erica was happy to please him, provided he brought what pleased her. Sometimes he’d put his little girl on his knee and tell her about his day, the children he taught at the school where he was the deputy head, those who’d excelled at drawing or sums or spelling; and those who’d had to be scolded for not trying their best.
They were aged five up to eleven. Jonathan would be seven by now, if he’d lived.
They didn’t have any photos of him around the house. In many ways it was as though he’d never existed, except his memory lingered around her conscience and tormented her soul with the same testing presence she felt from Ottilie.
Ottilie trailed her into the kitchen. Erica wished she would go away. She felt like a nemesis. Get away from me. Get away from me. GET AWAY FROM ME YOU FILTHY LITTLE BITCH.
Except Erica didn’t care if Ottilie saw what her father brought home and gave to her mother. She wouldn’t know what it was, and even if she did she wouldn’t understand.
He wouldn’t forget, he couldn’t, he knew what would happen if he did.
It was her only power, her only escape.
As the door opened she tried not to look at him, but her desperation was too great. Seeing it, he drew an envelope from his pocket and tossed it on the table, his eyes full of contempt. Then, turning to Ottilie, he opened his arms for her to come to him.
Ottilie stayed where she was, her faithful bear pressed to her mouth. Her eyes were round and frightened; her tiny frame seemed as though it might be blown away in a draught. Had Erica not been swimming in relief she might have smirked in triumph to see that Ottilie was heeding her mother’s frantic advice, doing as she said like a good little girl. Don’t go to Daddy. Don’t go to Daddy. STAY AWAY FROM DADDY YOU FILTHY LITTLE BITCH.
Brian would be furious if he knew.
But why would she want to go to Daddy?
‘Come here,’ he said shortly to Ottilie.
Ottilie looked up at her mother, waiting to be told what to do, but Erica only pushed her out of the way as she went past, eager to get to her room. Ottilie turned to watch her, then feeling her father’s arms lifting her she went limp and drew her faithful bear back to her face.
Chapter Three
‘OK, ALEX, PET, brace yourself.’
Alex turned so swiftly from the whiteboard where she was writing up her movements for the day that she almost collided with Tommy Burgess, her team leader.
‘Hey, what’s making you so nervy?’ he l
aughed, straightening her up.
Rolling her eyes, Alex said, ‘I was miles away and didn’t hear you coming.’ She was very fond of Tommy with his Geordie accent, hippy hair and rugby player’s physique, not least because he was such an effective buffer between her and Wendy, the department manager. There was a time when Wendy used to be reasonable, and definitely supportive, particularly over issues that attracted criticism or scrutiny from on high, or even bad press, but since her promotion a couple of years ago she’d become remote, superior, and definitely more interested in impressing the powers that be than in what was happening on the ground.
Tommy was grimacing as he read what she’d written on the board. Collecting Daniel Crowe from carers, Westleigh; returning to TFE. (TFE was Temple Fields Estate.) ‘Rita was saying this morning that she’d rather take a stroll through the Gaza Strip than a drive through Temple Fields,’ he commented.
Alex’s eyebrows rose. No one ever wanted to go to the estate, but her colleague, Rita, was especially unnerved by it, mainly because everything scared poor Rita. Much like Ben, she was in the wrong job. ‘Oh, it’s not that bad,’ Alex sighed, ‘or come to think of it, it probably is. Anyway, I’m definitely not looking forward to dealing with Laura Crowe again. They’ve only gone and released her with all charges dismissed. How did that happen, I’d like to know?’
‘They maybe got her off on some kind of technicality, or she’s done herself a deal more likely, but all we need to bother about is the boy. Have you found out yet how the weekend went at his placement?’
Waving out as Tamsin Green, another of her colleagues, hurried out of the door shouting cheerio to the world at large, Alex said, ‘I’m taking the view that no news is good news.’
‘Great policy.’ Then abruptly, ‘Amina, what are you doing back here?’ Amina was Kenyan by birth, and the youngest and newest member of the team.
‘Forgot to take the file,’ she cried, rushing to her desk in a fluster. ‘That would really work, wouldn’t it, standing up in court with no paperwork? Alex, did you know you’ve got a flat tyre?’