The Child Who by Simon Lelic

grow a chin. He had been lacking one before so it was a good thing in terms of the boy’s health. Leo, though, could not help but think immediately of the jury. Waif-like was good. Emaciated better. Ruddy, well fed, portly: each suggested slobbery, contentment – a lack, above all, of contrition.
    He was well turned out, though, and that was something. Much like the guards tacked to the common room walls, the boys all wore smart shirts and trousers, and Daniel looked respectable, as though his mother had assembled him for a family occasion. His posture needed work – he seemed cast, by default, in a slump – and his hair would look better rinsed of gel but with a few minor adjustments he would seem almost . . .
    Leo touched his cheek. He was getting ahead of himself.
    ‘Daniel?’ said Bobby.
    The boy was seated in the corner of a sofa furthest from the wall-mounted television. There were several older boys around him, their eyes pinned slackly to a nature documentary, and Daniel seemed more watchful of them than of the programme. He had set himself at a distance, his knees drawn to his chest and his arms wrapped around his shins. At the sound of his name, he gave a start.
    ‘They’re allowed thirty minutes in here before lessons,’ said Bobby as they watched Daniel slide to his feet. ‘Another hour in the evenings but no TV after eight. They can read, play board games, listen to certain music. No cards, though. No gambling.’ Tough but fair, he seemed to want to imply, but Leo thought again of the morning papers. The tabloids, he suspected, would have blown their budgets for an image of the scene before him, irrespective of the type of programme and the ennui of the boys who watched. They would have had these children breaking boulders, even before they had been convicted of a crime.
    Bobby fell silent as Daniel approached. The boy shuffled. He seemed conscious that the other inmates were watching him and managed, somehow, to make himself seem smaller standing up than sitting down.
    ‘Mr Curtice is here to see you, Daniel. You have something to say to him, I believe.’
    Daniel had stopped several paces away. He flushed, glanced across his shoulder at the boys around the television. He muttered a sentence that Leo did not catch.
    ‘Again please, Daniel. Express yourself clearly.’
    There were sniggers. Daniel’s flush deepened. ‘I’m sorry about what I did to your face,’ he said, his gaze reaching no higher than Leo’s chin. Another boy had drawn close and Garrie, Leo’s guard, stepped forwards to usher him away.
    ‘Better,’ said Bobby and he looked expectantly at Leo.
    ‘Oh,’ Leo said. ‘It’s fine, Daniel, really. It was an accident. There’s no need to apologise.’
    Someone, from somewhere, made kissing sounds. Several of the older boys laughed.
    ‘That’s not quite the message we’re hoping to get across, Mr Curtice,’ said Bobby, ‘but I’m sure Daniel appreciates your good grace. Don’t you, Daniel?’
    Daniel seemed to realise that he was not, this time, expected to answer.
    ‘We’ve set out some sandwiches for you,’ said Bobby. He turned and held out an arm and Daniel sloped into the lead. ‘Daniel helped prepare them. We no longer allow hot drinks outside the staff areas, I’m afraid, but I’ll have someone bring in a jug of water. Unless you’d prefer orange squash?’
    The sandwiches – crustless corners on a tray – were waiting for them in Daniel’s bedroom. The room, to be fair to the papers, was a long way from being a cell. It was larger than Leo would have expected: maybe two thirds the size of Ellie’s bedroom. The space was Daniel’s own – there was just a single bed in the furthest corner – and included what the newspapers would have described as an en suite bathroom, though the washing facilities were basic and boxed off by barely more than a screen. There was a built-in desk, on which the sandwiches had been set, as well as a CD player and an