little about it that unless you tell me you . . .’ I stopped myself, then finished the sentence. ‘Were directly
involved, then it seems unlikely.’
‘What, you mean if I’d pushed her?’ he said, words laced with grim humour. ‘I assume you know about the bruising on her body?’
‘I do, yes.’
He shook his head. ‘It still feels completely unbelievable. It’s like it’s a horrible practical joke, and someone’s going to jump out with a camera and it’ll all be
over.’
‘Of course it does,’ I said gently. ‘It’s only just happened. You’re in shock.’
‘Shock’s one word for it.’
It seemed like a strange response. Was he shooting for a fake kind of nonchalance? I see it sometimes, particularly in men – an attempt to distance themselves from their feelings to
self-protect.
‘If shock’s one word, what would be another?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You said that was one word for it, as if you were thinking about a word which might better describe your feelings.’
‘Feelings.’ He almost spat the word out.
‘Well – how did it feel when you found out? Did the police tell you face to face?’
‘Dunno,’ he said, jaw rigid under the doughy flesh that covered it. ‘I felt – angry, if anything.’
‘Angry with who?’
‘Angry about all of it,’ he said, an answer to a different question. His voice dropped at the end of the sentence, like the ‘all’ was infinite, a stone thrown down a
well, a distant splash. Was he skirting around the incident at the school that Krall had made mention of? ‘I mean obviously I felt terrible for the family. For Max.’
His postscript had none of the emotion of the first half of his reply.
‘Ian, can I ask what you mean by “all of it”?’
‘The whole thing is obviously a huge mess. Lives have been devastated.’ He was depersonalising my questions, keeping me at arm’s length, but all the time he was laying down
breadcrumbs, encouraging me to venture closer. ‘A child’s life has been destroyed,’ he added for good measure.
‘Of course. I appreciate all of that. I just wondered about how it felt for you, specifically. In your role.’
‘What? Potentially having recruited a murderer? Fabulous, Mia, as I’m sure you can imagine.’
I laughed. I needed to take him at face value, break the tension.
‘I’m sorry if that sounded trite.’ He gave a smile that felt real, present in a way that he hadn’t been up until now. ‘You want the truth? I’m not sure
I’ll ever be the person I was a month ago. He seems like a fool.’
Again, it wasn’t so much the words as the delivery.
‘A fool?’ I was going to continue but he cut straight across me.
‘Can we talk practicalities?’ he said, suddenly acid. ‘Or is this all going to be deep and meaningful?’
‘The session’s for you, Ian. It’s about what you find most useful.’
He drew himself up in his chair, ramrod straight. He suddenly felt like a headmaster, like he could dole out lines or a suspension without breaking a sweat.
‘How do we come back from this?’ he demanded. ‘How do my children, my staff, ever start to feel normal again?’
‘I think the truth is, that normal will have to become something different now.’
His gaze was intense. ‘OK, so how do I make this place feel safe again?’
‘By telling the truth,’ I said, watching how his face moved downwards at the sound of the word. Did it sound more glib to his ears than I’d intended it to be? ‘Or rather
– by acknowledging what’s happened instead of spreading a layer of fake normal over the top. Children are very resilient, but they’re also very sensitive. They know when
they’re being lied to. I would encourage the parents to tell them that Peter’s died, not feed them stories about him having gone away.’
‘Really?’
‘They read fairy stories, see pets die, lose grandparents. They’re much better off knowing he’s died, and then having lots of support to
involved, then it seems unlikely.’
‘What, you mean if I’d pushed her?’ he said, words laced with grim humour. ‘I assume you know about the bruising on her body?’
‘I do, yes.’
He shook his head. ‘It still feels completely unbelievable. It’s like it’s a horrible practical joke, and someone’s going to jump out with a camera and it’ll all be
over.’
‘Of course it does,’ I said gently. ‘It’s only just happened. You’re in shock.’
‘Shock’s one word for it.’
It seemed like a strange response. Was he shooting for a fake kind of nonchalance? I see it sometimes, particularly in men – an attempt to distance themselves from their feelings to
self-protect.
‘If shock’s one word, what would be another?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You said that was one word for it, as if you were thinking about a word which might better describe your feelings.’
‘Feelings.’ He almost spat the word out.
‘Well – how did it feel when you found out? Did the police tell you face to face?’
‘Dunno,’ he said, jaw rigid under the doughy flesh that covered it. ‘I felt – angry, if anything.’
‘Angry with who?’
‘Angry about all of it,’ he said, an answer to a different question. His voice dropped at the end of the sentence, like the ‘all’ was infinite, a stone thrown down a
well, a distant splash. Was he skirting around the incident at the school that Krall had made mention of? ‘I mean obviously I felt terrible for the family. For Max.’
His postscript had none of the emotion of the first half of his reply.
‘Ian, can I ask what you mean by “all of it”?’
‘The whole thing is obviously a huge mess. Lives have been devastated.’ He was depersonalising my questions, keeping me at arm’s length, but all the time he was laying down
breadcrumbs, encouraging me to venture closer. ‘A child’s life has been destroyed,’ he added for good measure.
‘Of course. I appreciate all of that. I just wondered about how it felt for you, specifically. In your role.’
‘What? Potentially having recruited a murderer? Fabulous, Mia, as I’m sure you can imagine.’
I laughed. I needed to take him at face value, break the tension.
‘I’m sorry if that sounded trite.’ He gave a smile that felt real, present in a way that he hadn’t been up until now. ‘You want the truth? I’m not sure
I’ll ever be the person I was a month ago. He seems like a fool.’
Again, it wasn’t so much the words as the delivery.
‘A fool?’ I was going to continue but he cut straight across me.
‘Can we talk practicalities?’ he said, suddenly acid. ‘Or is this all going to be deep and meaningful?’
‘The session’s for you, Ian. It’s about what you find most useful.’
He drew himself up in his chair, ramrod straight. He suddenly felt like a headmaster, like he could dole out lines or a suspension without breaking a sweat.
‘How do we come back from this?’ he demanded. ‘How do my children, my staff, ever start to feel normal again?’
‘I think the truth is, that normal will have to become something different now.’
His gaze was intense. ‘OK, so how do I make this place feel safe again?’
‘By telling the truth,’ I said, watching how his face moved downwards at the sound of the word. Did it sound more glib to his ears than I’d intended it to be? ‘Or rather
– by acknowledging what’s happened instead of spreading a layer of fake normal over the top. Children are very resilient, but they’re also very sensitive. They know when
they’re being lied to. I would encourage the parents to tell them that Peter’s died, not feed them stories about him having gone away.’
‘Really?’
‘They read fairy stories, see pets die, lose grandparents. They’re much better off knowing he’s died, and then having lots of support to
Similar Books
