Bitter Fruits: DI Erica Martin Book 1 (Erica Martin Thriller) by Alice Clark-Platts Page B
Authors: Alice Clark-Platts
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but when I snort coke on a weekend, that’s just a hobby.
Stephanie wiped one hand across her mouth, removing the spittle, and looked at her watch on the other hand. She really needed to go home. She swivelled around in her chair and opened up a filing cabinet behind her desk. Stephanie put the Brabents file in front of her and opened it at the same time as picking up a half-eaten Daim bar and finishing it off. Emily Brabents. A sweet girl who reminded Stephanie of her own daughter in many ways. Rosena wasas naive, possibly as sexually precocious – although Stephanie would never say this out loud to her husband – and had an essence of Emily, a quality which had the effect of ensuring other girls hated her.
Stephanie sighed: why was it that girls turned on each other in this way? It never happened with boys. They could eke out their frustrations on a football or in a boxing ring. Girls found solace in coming top of the pile, it seemed. Rosena had had to be homeschooled for a time, the bullying had been so bad. And then there was Emily. Stephanie swung around in her chair, thinking about the last time she had seen her. They had been having regular sessions for the whole of the Epiphany term. Emily had come to her distraught one afternoon after a hockey match. She had been sitting outside Stephanie’s office door, quietly weeping, and had told her carefully and with no malice in her voice, merely a bewildered self-pity, that her life had become a living nightmare.
The last time they had seen each other had been only two weeks ago. Stephanie had felt confident that the cutting had waned, if not stopped entirely. Emily had told her about the self-harming just before the Easter holidays. She had been wearing a shirt with long sleeves but had reached up to push her hair off her face, and Stephanie had noticed the marks, raw and red down by her wrists.
‘Shall we talk about that, Emily?’ she had asked, gesturing towards the scars.
Tears had flooded from Emily’s eyes. ‘I can’t,’ she had sobbed. Stephanie had said nothing. Eventually the crying had ceased, and Emily had sniffed loudly, her tissue a sodden ball in her hand. She had taken a deep breath.
‘I do it because I deserve it,’ she had said.
‘Why do you deserve it?’
A shudder had passed through Emily, and she struggled to keep control.
‘Because of what I’ve done. With the photos. Bringing all this disgust on myself.’
Stephanie had remained silent.
‘I know, I know. I haven’t really brought this on myself.’ She had scoffed. ‘Whatever. I
have
, though, because I did it. I’m the one who’s responsible.’
‘And Nick?’ Stephanie had asked quietly, after a pause.
Emily had shifted in her seat, pulled her sleeves down further.
‘Yeah, yeah. I
know
he’s responsible too, But they don’t care about him. It’s all right for boys. If I had just kept control, I wouldn’t be in this mess. I wish I was just normal. A normal girl who’d never slept with anyone.’
‘Is that what normal girls do? Not sleep with people?’
‘It’s not just that, though, is it?’ Emily had said. ‘It’s like, it’s not enough, you know? To have them talk to me. To know they like me, or they fancy me or whatever …’
Stephanie had spun her pen slowly between her fingers, waiting for more, as Emily’s brown eyes had flittered from the counsellor to the window, trying to pin down the meaning of it all. Then Emily had looked closely at her hands, at her nails. She had spoken in a near whisper.
‘If they don’t like me, then I’m nothing. If I can’t get them to want me. And …’ Her eyes lurched violently to Stephanie’s, seeking a lifebelt which the counsellor refused to toss. At bay, Emily had continued, forcing the words out. ‘And that’s why I cut.’ She had swallowed. ‘Because I’m so disgusted at my neediness.’ Swallowed again. ‘You know Annabel, right?’
Stephanie had inclined her head. Annabel Smith was also a
Stephanie wiped one hand across her mouth, removing the spittle, and looked at her watch on the other hand. She really needed to go home. She swivelled around in her chair and opened up a filing cabinet behind her desk. Stephanie put the Brabents file in front of her and opened it at the same time as picking up a half-eaten Daim bar and finishing it off. Emily Brabents. A sweet girl who reminded Stephanie of her own daughter in many ways. Rosena wasas naive, possibly as sexually precocious – although Stephanie would never say this out loud to her husband – and had an essence of Emily, a quality which had the effect of ensuring other girls hated her.
Stephanie sighed: why was it that girls turned on each other in this way? It never happened with boys. They could eke out their frustrations on a football or in a boxing ring. Girls found solace in coming top of the pile, it seemed. Rosena had had to be homeschooled for a time, the bullying had been so bad. And then there was Emily. Stephanie swung around in her chair, thinking about the last time she had seen her. They had been having regular sessions for the whole of the Epiphany term. Emily had come to her distraught one afternoon after a hockey match. She had been sitting outside Stephanie’s office door, quietly weeping, and had told her carefully and with no malice in her voice, merely a bewildered self-pity, that her life had become a living nightmare.
The last time they had seen each other had been only two weeks ago. Stephanie had felt confident that the cutting had waned, if not stopped entirely. Emily had told her about the self-harming just before the Easter holidays. She had been wearing a shirt with long sleeves but had reached up to push her hair off her face, and Stephanie had noticed the marks, raw and red down by her wrists.
‘Shall we talk about that, Emily?’ she had asked, gesturing towards the scars.
Tears had flooded from Emily’s eyes. ‘I can’t,’ she had sobbed. Stephanie had said nothing. Eventually the crying had ceased, and Emily had sniffed loudly, her tissue a sodden ball in her hand. She had taken a deep breath.
‘I do it because I deserve it,’ she had said.
‘Why do you deserve it?’
A shudder had passed through Emily, and she struggled to keep control.
‘Because of what I’ve done. With the photos. Bringing all this disgust on myself.’
Stephanie had remained silent.
‘I know, I know. I haven’t really brought this on myself.’ She had scoffed. ‘Whatever. I
have
, though, because I did it. I’m the one who’s responsible.’
‘And Nick?’ Stephanie had asked quietly, after a pause.
Emily had shifted in her seat, pulled her sleeves down further.
‘Yeah, yeah. I
know
he’s responsible too, But they don’t care about him. It’s all right for boys. If I had just kept control, I wouldn’t be in this mess. I wish I was just normal. A normal girl who’d never slept with anyone.’
‘Is that what normal girls do? Not sleep with people?’
‘It’s not just that, though, is it?’ Emily had said. ‘It’s like, it’s not enough, you know? To have them talk to me. To know they like me, or they fancy me or whatever …’
Stephanie had spun her pen slowly between her fingers, waiting for more, as Emily’s brown eyes had flittered from the counsellor to the window, trying to pin down the meaning of it all. Then Emily had looked closely at her hands, at her nails. She had spoken in a near whisper.
‘If they don’t like me, then I’m nothing. If I can’t get them to want me. And …’ Her eyes lurched violently to Stephanie’s, seeking a lifebelt which the counsellor refused to toss. At bay, Emily had continued, forcing the words out. ‘And that’s why I cut.’ She had swallowed. ‘Because I’m so disgusted at my neediness.’ Swallowed again. ‘You know Annabel, right?’
Stephanie had inclined her head. Annabel Smith was also a
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