This I Would Kill For

by Anne Buist

  ‘Because of this?’ Declan asked. He put down Okeke’s article and turned to the pot of tea he had brewing. The lines on his face appeared like deep crevices in the light thrown from his desk lamp. She wondered if he saw anyone to help him shoulder the stress of suicidal patients…and fractious and rebellious supervisees.

  ‘Having Katlego Okeke breathing down my neck won’t make it any easier. But no, more that it’s a poisoned chalice. Unless the kid tells someone Malik was abusing her, what does it matter what a parenting assessment shows? And how the hell do I do that anyway? I could do it with Chris—that’s the three-year-old—but an eight-year-old? I’m not a child psychiatrist.’

  Natalie had scoured the internet and her textbooks looking for tools—frameworks or questionnaires—to help with her assessment of Malik and Jenna. The forensic assessment tool she usually used was not suited for this purpose—it focused on the likelihood of a known sexual offender reoffending, whereas Malik was denying, possibly with absolute sincerity, that he was an offender at all.

  Natalie’s clinical skill was around diagnosing mental illness—mainly schizophrenia and serious depression, mostly in women—and assessing its impact on judgment and insight. It involved factors like the side effects of medication, or whether a mother’s delusional system might incorporate the child.

  Natalie didn’t usually look at specific skills related to parenting. There were no guidelines that were helpful for cases like this, and certainly nothing that would withstand robust interrogation by the lawyers for either side.

  So it was basically down to what the opposing parties said, and whether she believed them. But with their acrimonious relationship, anything they reported on the other would be unreliable. Forensic psychiatrists like her tended to think they were less gullible than general psychiatrists, but it didn’t mean she could read minds.

  ‘One assumes that the police will be investigating the abuse and a therapist interviewing Chelsea,’ said Declan, pouring the tea. ‘Hibiscus infusion. Have one?’

  Natalie nodded, distracted.

  ‘You know how to assess whether they have the capacity to put their child first,’ Declan continued as he took his own bone-china cup and saucer and settled back in his chair. ‘You haven’t seen Malik yet; his developmental history will tell you a lot. And his attitude to the girl. If Malik can see Chelsea as a child with her own needs and desires, he’s less likely to fit the abuser prototype. And Chris is young enough that you can at least assess their relationship.’

  ‘I suppose I can hope Malik has an antisocial or narcissistic personality disorder. That’ll make it straightforward.’ But both Mickie and Jenna had said he was a good father to Chris—Natalie doubted it would be that clear-cut. ‘Is there anything I should be particularly looking for in Jenna?’ She took a sip of tea and winced. What the hell was she doing drinking hibiscus tea?

  ‘You felt some degree of her need to control in your interview?’

  ‘Yes.’ Natalie nodded. ‘Her need to control, and that Chris is challenging it.’

  ‘There may be differences because of the genders of the children, the different ages. As the older child, Chelsea will have had to adapt to her mother’s parenting style, along with her mother’s attitude to food and alcohol use—by eight she might even have become the parent in some ways.’ Just like Jenna had with Mickie. ‘That could explain her not telling her mother about the abuse. If she’s seen Jenna fall apart under stress, she’s already well versed in the dance of avoidance.’

  ‘What if…’ Natalie stopped herself.

  Declan raised an eyebrow; waited.

  ‘Wouldn’t it just be easier for the court to say no to Malik? He’s not the biological father.’

  ‘Not Chelsea’s. But he is Chris’s,’ said Declan. ‘And the court will be aware of what a difference it can make to a child having a stable, protective, caring adult around, whether related or not.’

  Could there be a scenario where Natalie could say Malik was a good father to Chris but not to Chelsea? Even if there wasn’t any evidence of abuse, surely it would be better to just lean towards safety?

  She could already see the Okeke column—or the La Brooy article. They’d have a point, too. Easy to see that approach as discriminating against all non-biological fathers, adoptive fathers, stepfathers…

  But if she got it wrong and recommended Malik be granted custody, and he was an abuser?

  The thought made her feel physically ill.

  8

  Jenna and her father were in the waiting room when Natalie arrived at work. She tapped Beverley on the shoulder; it was the only way to get her attention. Beverley—hot-pink pants-suit today—was listening to music in order to select what to choose for her big day. To be fair, she was typing reports at the same time, though Natalie wouldn’t have been at all surprised if the lyrics of ‘Walking on Sunshine’ turned up in someone’s psychiatric and drug history.

  ‘Jenna doesn’t have an appointment, does she?’

  Beverley removed the headphones, also hot pink; a metallic sounding ‘Ave Maria’ leaked out.

  ‘Jenna? No, but the poor pet was quite distraught when she rang in and I said you could probably find time.’

  Poor pet? The impending wedding seemed to have turned Beverley to mush. She had the headphones back on before Natalie could respond.

  Natalie looked at her watch—there was half an hour before the next patient. It would have to do.

  Stephen Radford stood up as Natalie approached and extended his hand. He was a big man with soft features and an earnest look. His handshake was unexpectedly gentle. ‘Just wanted to thank you,’ he said. ‘Court case was pretty tough on us all. Pleased to have you on our side.’ He seemed to have overlooked her moment of being fair to Malik. Natalie remembered how he had kept checking on his daughter in court. Father and daughter seemed to be in similar positions, wanting to protect their children.

  ‘I just want what’s best for Chelsea and Chris,’ said Natalie.

  ‘Of course,’ said Stephen, nodding and smiling at his daughter. ‘We all do.’ He looked awkward: because she was a psychiatrist or because he wasn’t sure of his role, Natalie couldn’t be certain. ‘Let me know,’ he said, ‘if I can help at all.’

  ‘I’m sure Jenna will ask for what she needs,’ said Natalie. From what Natalie had seen of her, Jenna didn’t need a psychiatrist to pass messages. She may have sounded distraught when she rang Beverley, but she wasn’t now. If anything, she appeared a little sheepish—and, though careful not to overplay it, grateful.

  ‘Thank you so, so much for fitting me in,’ she said before the door to the office had closed. This time she went for the upright chair by the desk—closer to the door, perhaps because she wasn’t planning to settle in for long. Natalie took the chair opposite.

  Jenna was in corduroy jeans, brown boots and jumper. Neat, no makeup, yet she gave the impression she looked after herself. Natalie couldn’t quite pinpoint why; perhaps the way she held herself, a little like a ballerina. A certain poise, and she was working it hard.

  ‘I want to explain,’ she said.

  ‘The abuse charges?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jenna took a breath. ‘I know I told you…that there wasn’t any reason for Chelsea not to see him other than he wasn’t her father—’

  ‘As far as the law is concerned, Malik is her father.’

  Jenna stiffened and Natalie mentally kicked herself. There had been no need to remind her of this and put her offside. It was probably annoyance at Jenna for misleading her.

  ‘I know. But he isn’t…her father. I mean, I know he took us both on and at the time I was grateful. But he’s only been there for half of her life. She’ll forget him.’ Her eyes held Natalie’s, imploring. ‘I know you can help…I was just scared.’

  ‘There’s two separate issues here.’ Natalie took a moment to look hard at Jenna. Wondered if she was being played. ‘Firstly, whether he’s safe to be a father at all. And secondly, if he is, wheth
er his relationship with Chelsea should or shouldn’t be facilitated.’ She thought of her own absent father, and knew how much she had suffered from not having him around when she was growing up. But better for a father to be absent than abusive.

  ‘He isn’t safe so the second issue doesn’t matter.’

  ‘But that would mean he wouldn’t be safe to be Chris’s father either.’

  A wave of irritation crossed Jenna’s face. ‘He’s fine with Chris. Chris might not do a thing I ask, but he knuckles under without a word if Malik tells him something. And… surely if Malik abuses girls it just means he’s…well he isn’t gay, I can assure you of that.’

  ‘Being interested in children sexually is about attraction to children, sometimes but not always gender related. It’s nothing to do with being gay,’ said Natalie. She leaned forward slightly. ‘I read your statement Jenna. It was… vague. Start at the beginning. How long have you suspected something might be going on?’

  Jenna’s shoulders slumped, the ballet-dancer pose gone. It was only a second before she straightened up, perhaps responding to some internalised monologue from her childhood. ‘Soon after we separated. Nearly six months.’

  Natalie nodded. Having lost his sexual partner, was Malik trying to replace Jenna with Chelsea? Natalie had had several patients who, as children, had been expected to take over their mother’s role not just in the kitchen, but in the bedroom. In cases where there was no biological connection between father and daughter—and, according to some research, no early involvement in the child’s care—an increased risk occurred of norms being distorted and relaxed to suit the man involved. It was driven by a mix of unfulfilled physical desire and a warped male-authoritarian view of their world.

  ‘When Malik left, we were both too angry to negotiate having the kids,’ said Jenna. ‘But about a week later I rang Ama—Malik’s mother. Chris was asking about his dad.’ She paused. ‘So was Chelsea.’ Jenna shrugged. ‘I said he could have them for the weekend and I dropped them off at Ama’s. Malik had moved in with his brother, Youssef, and the place was likely to be a pigsty. I thought Ama’s would be better—she wanted to see them too. I heard later they slept at Malik and Youssef’s, though.’

  ‘And how were they after they returned?’

  ‘Fine, I guess. Malik had fed them pizza and ice-cream and taken them to Luna Park so, you know, no complaints from them. I made sure he knew I was unimpressed about that, but I let him take them a few more weekends.’

  Jenna had started fidgeting. This wasn’t easy for her. Or was she lying? Natalie watched, looking for tells, well aware of studies that showed that professionals often missed them—or interpreted them incorrectly.

  ‘It was just little things,’ Jenna said in a rush. ‘Chelsea started spending more and more time in her room. Then one morning, she didn’t want to go to school. Said she had a stomach upset. I didn’t think she was all that unwell, but I called in sick, let her have a day at home, and I was right, she wasn’t ill. At first I thought something might be happening at school, like bullying or something. She denied it, school said they didn’t think so. There was a problem with one girl, Matilda, but for her, not Chelsea.’

  ‘Did she say she didn’t want to go to Malik’s? Or seem worse when she got home from seeing him?’

  ‘No,’ said Jenna. That seemed to contradict her statement to the police. ‘Which was why it took me a while to work it out—the timing you see.’

  ‘But the timing is also when you split up, Jenna. Maybe she’s been miserable about that. Afraid you might leave her as well.’ Natalie kept her voice gentle. This wasn’t about blaming Jenna in any way, but truth was, separations hit children hard—and children often thought they were responsible.

  ‘I thought that at first, but…then there was the pregnancy thing. She asked how did you have a baby, and could children have babies.’

  ‘It’s normal for children to be curious.’

  Jenna shook her head. ‘No, it wasn’t that.’ She had that I know because I’m her mother look. ‘I’m very close to Chelsea. I know her, and something is wrong. I mean, really wrong. Suddenly she’s not talking to me, secretive, wanting to sleep with me. We used to do that, before Malik came to live with us, but that was a long time ago.’

  ‘Has anyone else noticed any changes?’

  ‘I’m the one who knows her, who sees her the most.’

  ‘I understand that,’ said Natalie, ‘but the more corroboration the better. I’ll need your permission to talk to her teachers, and her grandparents.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Jenna bit her lip, and Natalie saw tears welling in her eyes. ‘I know he’s abusing her. Please, please help me protect her.’

  ‘You have to be well enough to have them in your care,’ said Natalie. ‘Tell me about your eating disorder and the lack of food at home.’ Natalie made sure her expression said: And no bullshit.

  ‘It’s okay. Truly. Come and look in the cupboards; Protective Services already have.’

  ‘You’re saying Malik lied?’

  Jenna hesitated, saw Natalie’s face. ‘It was a bit like the frump said. But only for a while, after I had Chris. I was depressed, looking back—I had to look after two children by myself until Malik got a visa. Breastfeeding, I lost weight and it seemed to trigger all that stuff from my teens. Took me a while to get on top of it again. But I am on top of it. I’m not the issue—Malik is.’

  In a jerky movement, she picked up her handbag and rummaged. After a moment, she carefully laid down three large photos, one after another in front of Natalie. Natalie kept her eyes on Jenna, who looked directly back at her. ‘I can’t…I won’t let him have my daughter.’

  Natalie was in no doubt that Jenna thought her daughter was being abused. But Jenna’s certainty didn’t mean it was actually happening. If Malik was innocent and had to live with the suspicion, or indeed, label, of paedophile, it would have an effect on his employment prospects, affect where he lived and who he could be with. A stain on him for the rest of his life.

  The assessment was going to have a lot riding on it. If Chelsea didn’t come out and talk about the abuse, Natalie would need to come up with something definitive.

  Jenna left the three photos of Chelsea behind on the table to remind her: one as a baby, eyes bright and alive laughing for the camera, another when she was about four in an embrace with Jenna, a poster for motherhood. And the final one—Chelsea, probably taken recently, sitting still and solemn, chin jutted out in tentative defiance. The sorrow and fear in the hazel eyes reminded Natalie of herself as a child.

  9

  How the hell had she ended up making an appointment with a male obstetrician? Let alone one located in a major teaching hospital where there were bound to be hordes of medical students hovering around. Was her mental acuity going to be on a downhill slide all the way to the delivery date?

  Alex Lascelles, Natalie decided, was gay; camp anyway, and that might be his saving grace. Blond hair with foils and a button-down shirt that looked like it was meant to go with a velvet jacket and fob watch.

  ‘You appear to be in excellent health,’ he said after giving her written instructions about what to eat, where to deliver and what to take with you when you did. His secretary had already outlined the costs, which seemed an exorbitant price for one mistake—with a climax that was going to actually hurt. After paying for the bean to enter the world she might need to break into Blake’s cartons of toys so it would have some entertainment.

  Then there was the fact that the metal plates in her hips from the bike accident might cause problems, and the scars across her abdomen might not stretch: she’d need to see a plastic surgeon about that. This man was a bundle of laughs.

  ‘Is there anything else you would care to know?’ he said.

  ‘I need a paternity test.’

  Alex’s expression didn’t change; she could have been asking what her blood group was. ‘There’s now a non-invasive technique—a blood test. It’s more expensive
but safer.’

  ‘I’ll pay.’

  ‘You need to be at least ten weeks…as you aren’t sure of dates, best to wait a week.’

  Only a week? Natalie felt a moment of panic; was she worried? Was not knowing easier?

  ‘Here’s the information brochure for the possible fathers,’ said Alex. ‘How many do you need?’

  Riding home, she found herself out of breath on the slight incline past the university and made an illegal shortcut through Carlton Gardens. The No bikes signs made an exception for parents with children under the age of twelve; hers was under the age of zero, and its mother needed to get home. Mother. Natalie pushed the idea down—it didn’t sit comfortably next to any version of herself.

  The warehouse that had always been her sanctuary seemed unusually quiet. The lane seemed dark and even the graffiti looked faded—more pathetic than edgy. Someone with a can and no talent had decorated the cul de sac beside her warehouse with red squiggles and she hadn’t got around to calling the council about it. They’d only do it again anyhow.

  She still hadn’t replaced the globe in the garage. She bruised a shin on one of Blake’s boxes, trudged upstairs, threw her bag across the room in frustration and nearly knocked Bob off the stand he had flown up to.

  ‘Sorry.’ She ruffled his feathers. ‘Looks like it’s you and me again tonight.’

  Bob was more interested in his food container.

  ‘It’s not like I want a man living here,’ Natalie told him. ‘But it’d be nice to have one sometimes, you know?’ She opened the fridge, closed it again. ‘Actually, maybe more than just sometimes. Pregnancy doesn’t seem to have decreased my libido.’ She thought of how Liam had suggested keeping in touch. Thought about Damian’s chicken casserole, and the way he did fish on the barbeque. Thought about going to the supermarket to get some real food—self-care as much as for the bean.

  Instead, she opened a can of baked beans and sent a brief, to-the-point text to Liam. The speed of his response suggested his thoughts had been along the same lines as hers—and neither of them wasted any time when he did arrive.