anything to protect you. I thought you might be cross about that too.’
‘Don’t be silly. I wasn’t in any danger.’ Trish drank and felt the thin, bitter liquid cleaning her tastebuds. ‘But you were and you didn’t flinch. You’re more of a dark horse than I’d realized, Will.’
‘I learned how to hide fear when I had to a long time ago.’
‘What happened, Will?’ she asked gently.
His eyes were changing as she watched. There was no pleading in them now, and no boyishness either. His jaw clicked, with a sound audible even over the pinging and squeaking of the one-armed bandit in the corner. She was about to ask her question again in a different form when she remembered a piece of advice from her first instructing solicitor, in the old family law days, ‘Never push an angry man. That’s what tips them over. They hate it from anyone, but from a women it’s like a match in a box of fireworks.’
Chapter 7
The children’s interview room at the local psychiatric unit was a cheerful yellow colour, although the paint was beginning to flake and there were the marks of small grubby hands in a dado around the walls. Above it, at right angles to the window, was a huge one-way mirror, which hid the observers with their video camera and recording machine. Anatomically correct dolls were kept in one of the cupboards and other less carefully designed toys were strewn carelessly about the room so that a roaming child could pick them up and use them to tell unbearable stories. There were paints and crayons and a generous supply of paper piled casually in one corner.
Having read Kim Bowlby’s file yesterday evening, Trish had known she must choose clothes that would look unthreatening. She’d picked a pair of faded jeans and an old droopy cotton sweater, which George disliked for its dishcloth colour and texture. She was sitting in a low chair and had crammed her long legs under the child-sized table so that she would not seem overpoweringly tall when Kim Bowlby first saw her. She wished the interview were already over.
This place was better than many of the rooms in which she had waited to unravel the secrets of brutalized children. A few had come with one parent or the other, but most of the escorts had been social workers, under-funded, under-supported and protecting themselves in the only ways they knew from too
much horror. No one could give the children what they most needed: one-to-one care in an atmosphere of unstinting and unconditional love. In many cases they couldn’t even guarantee the basics of decent nutrition, physical safety and adequate education.
They were not holding hands, the child and her foster mother, when they eventually appeared. Kim walked with an unnaturally stiff gait and straight back. Trish didn’t stand up to introduce herself because of wanting to stay as small as possible. Instead, she smiled, hoping it would make her black eyes look soft, and said that her name was Trish Maguire.
‘I’m Kim,’ said the child, holding out her right hand with stiff formality, while the woman who’d brought her moved quietly back to the other end of the room. ‘My surname is Bowlby.’
‘May I just call you Kim?’ Trish waited a long time for an answer, but eventually the child felt safe enough to nod. ‘Thank you.’
Name, rank and serial number, she thought, wondering whether the ex-army stepfather had coached Kim in what to say during interrogations. It seemed better to ask nothing difficult now. Kim had already been questioned into exhaustion. Instead Trish waited, interested to see which toy would attract her attention. None did. She simply stood where her foster mother had left her, waiting in silence. In spite of the stuffy heat, her skin was quite dry and her hair so tidy it looked like a wig.
‘Would you like to sit down?’ Trish asked, and saw Kim’s eyelids lift briefly. The eyes themselves were a wonderful blue, but they held no signs of either warmth or
‘Don’t be silly. I wasn’t in any danger.’ Trish drank and felt the thin, bitter liquid cleaning her tastebuds. ‘But you were and you didn’t flinch. You’re more of a dark horse than I’d realized, Will.’
‘I learned how to hide fear when I had to a long time ago.’
‘What happened, Will?’ she asked gently.
His eyes were changing as she watched. There was no pleading in them now, and no boyishness either. His jaw clicked, with a sound audible even over the pinging and squeaking of the one-armed bandit in the corner. She was about to ask her question again in a different form when she remembered a piece of advice from her first instructing solicitor, in the old family law days, ‘Never push an angry man. That’s what tips them over. They hate it from anyone, but from a women it’s like a match in a box of fireworks.’
Chapter 7
The children’s interview room at the local psychiatric unit was a cheerful yellow colour, although the paint was beginning to flake and there were the marks of small grubby hands in a dado around the walls. Above it, at right angles to the window, was a huge one-way mirror, which hid the observers with their video camera and recording machine. Anatomically correct dolls were kept in one of the cupboards and other less carefully designed toys were strewn carelessly about the room so that a roaming child could pick them up and use them to tell unbearable stories. There were paints and crayons and a generous supply of paper piled casually in one corner.
Having read Kim Bowlby’s file yesterday evening, Trish had known she must choose clothes that would look unthreatening. She’d picked a pair of faded jeans and an old droopy cotton sweater, which George disliked for its dishcloth colour and texture. She was sitting in a low chair and had crammed her long legs under the child-sized table so that she would not seem overpoweringly tall when Kim Bowlby first saw her. She wished the interview were already over.
This place was better than many of the rooms in which she had waited to unravel the secrets of brutalized children. A few had come with one parent or the other, but most of the escorts had been social workers, under-funded, under-supported and protecting themselves in the only ways they knew from too
much horror. No one could give the children what they most needed: one-to-one care in an atmosphere of unstinting and unconditional love. In many cases they couldn’t even guarantee the basics of decent nutrition, physical safety and adequate education.
They were not holding hands, the child and her foster mother, when they eventually appeared. Kim walked with an unnaturally stiff gait and straight back. Trish didn’t stand up to introduce herself because of wanting to stay as small as possible. Instead, she smiled, hoping it would make her black eyes look soft, and said that her name was Trish Maguire.
‘I’m Kim,’ said the child, holding out her right hand with stiff formality, while the woman who’d brought her moved quietly back to the other end of the room. ‘My surname is Bowlby.’
‘May I just call you Kim?’ Trish waited a long time for an answer, but eventually the child felt safe enough to nod. ‘Thank you.’
Name, rank and serial number, she thought, wondering whether the ex-army stepfather had coached Kim in what to say during interrogations. It seemed better to ask nothing difficult now. Kim had already been questioned into exhaustion. Instead Trish waited, interested to see which toy would attract her attention. None did. She simply stood where her foster mother had left her, waiting in silence. In spite of the stuffy heat, her skin was quite dry and her hair so tidy it looked like a wig.
‘Would you like to sit down?’ Trish asked, and saw Kim’s eyelids lift briefly. The eyes themselves were a wonderful blue, but they held no signs of either warmth or
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