‘I really think there has been a terrible misunderstanding,’ I said, half-laughing, trying to convey how risible I thought them being here was. But I didn’t move to let them in. My brain’s messages to my body weren’t working.
‘Can we come in please?’ The officer said, more sternly this time. ‘We need to see your children to make sure they’re safe.’
‘They are absolutely safe. I’ll get them for you,’ I said, incredulous, standing aside to let them in. They followed me through the house to the kitchen. ‘Rosie! Noah! Come in here, please!’ I called out the back door, high-pitched, near hysterical.
They ran in, flushed, grinning from ear-to-ear, a little scruffy in their outfits contrived for Mira. They looked happy and well cared for, and I had a stab of pride.
‘This is Rosie,’ I said, noticing how both officers immediately clocked the bandage on her hand, ‘and this is Noah.’
The children stared up at them agog, and looked over to me for reassurance.
‘It’s okay, the officers are here to make sure everyone is safe after the accident with the picture.’
‘What’s that?’ Noah asked, pointing to the square black device in PC Connolly’s hand.
‘It’s an MDT. A Mobile Data Terminal. We write in it,’ PC Connolly said.
‘Can I see?’ Noah said.
‘Noah,’ I admonished.
‘It’s okay. Here.’
PC Yorke showed Noah the screen briefly, but his eyes were on the move, up and down the children’s bodies, around my house, scanning for something. Neither officer made eye contact with me for more than a second.
‘Hello,’ PC Connolly said. Her blonde bob was flicked under either side of her wide jaw. She bent down to Rosie. Her voice was gentle and relaxed. ‘What happened to your hand, Rosie?’
Rosie looked down at her hand and bit her lip, nervy and timid, she wouldn’t answer.
I leapt in to save her. ‘It is just a small cut under that big bandage! The picture frame fell off the wall and it shattered all over the floor, didn’t it Rosie?’
Rosie was wide-eyed at me, as though I had lied, which was true, I had lied, sort of, to protect her. The picture frame hadn’t just ‘fallen off the wall’. When do picture frames just fall off walls? It sounded like the domestic abuse cliché, ‘she just walked into a door’.
The female officer stood up and addressed me sternly. ‘Could you please remain silent. We need to hear from your daughter.’
Taken aback, I looked searchingly at PC Yorke, whose finger seemed to point briefly at PC Connolly as he brushed it under his nose awkwardly. His flat, grey face was unreadable, like a concrete wall.
‘Let’s hear from you, Rosie? Tell me what happened,’ PC Connolly said.
Rosie just stood there frozen to the spot, holding a strange faraway expression.
Both police officers glanced at one another, an all-knowing click of recognition giving away their obvious concern, and I wanted to smack them.
In spite of my fear of PC Connolly, I stepped in and wrapped my arms around Rosie. ‘Come on, darling, it’s okay,’ I said, coaxing her. ‘Go on. Tell them exactly what happened.’
‘I don’t want to,’ she said, looking up at me. Her chin was dimpling.
‘You have to, Rosie.’
‘Am I in trouble?’ she whispered, as though she and I were alone in the room.
‘No, no, poppet, you are absolutely not in trouble. Just tell them how you cut your hand. Nobody is going to be cross with you.’
‘I tell you what, why don’t you show me where it happened? It might be easier to explain,’ PC Connolly said, and she held her hand out to Rosie, who, much to my amazement released me, took it and led PC Connolly up the stairs. I could hear the beginning of what she said, before their voices were quiet.
I felt heady. My separation from her was a wrench I could hardly believe I was allowing. Everything about letting her walk upstairs with this stranger felt unnatural and wrong.
Noah pulled at my leg. ‘Why is that police going upstairs with Rosie, Mummy?’
I was just about to answer, when PC Yorke did it for me. ‘She’s just making sure everything is safe for you and your sister.’
PC Yorke’s portable radio let out a crackle of voices, distracting me from the angry retort that was building in my head. I was aggrieved by the imposition of these two officers in my home.
‘Sorry about that.’ He turned the volume down. ‘Right, I’ll need to take down a few details from you, if that’s okay?’
I felt angry prickles cross my chest, which was probably flashing red, highlighting my discomposure. I placed my hand there, feeling my skin’s heat throb into the pads of my fingertips.
‘Noah, do you want to play outside?’ I said.
Noah scampered off.
‘Is it okay if we sit down?’ I said.
His black uniform was thick and heavy with equipment around his belts, and his coat dwarfed my upholstered chair where he hung it. He shuffled far back from the table, as though giving himself space for the important task ahead. I pushed my torso tight into the opposite side of the table, prim, ready for a test. I had to adopt a practical approach, as I would in a boardroom meeting at work. I would answer his questions efficiently and without emotion. The facts would be gathered and they would leave us alone.
It was easy to do at first. He began by asking me for exact spellings of our names, our dates of birth, telephone numbers, the children’s school, and lastly, our doctor’s surgery. I didn’t tell him I was pregnant. I’m not sure why. Perhaps because it was none of his business. Perhaps because I didn’t want his sympathy. Perhaps because I wanted to protect my baby from his scrutiny.
‘So, now we’ve got all that out of the way, let’s talk about what happened,’ PC Yorke said. ‘We have established that Rosie has cut her hand, which you say doesn’t need any medical attention?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘We have reason to believe the incident with Rosie happened in her bedroom, is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you with Rosie at the time?’
‘No.’
‘Where were you at the time?’
‘I was in the study with Noah.’
‘Could you please show me where that is?’ he said, standing up.
We stood in the book-lined room and my eye was drawn through the French windows to the stone patio, where I caught sight of a robin dart from the hydrangea bush to a limp, wilting leaf on the dead rose vine. It bounced for a second and flew off.
‘And what were you doing in here?’
‘I was listening to music with Noah.’ I pointed to the computer on the leather desk.
‘Were you aware that Rosie was screaming while you were listening to music?’
‘Yes. Well, yes.’
‘But you decided not to check on her?’
‘I’ve read that it’s best to ignore a child when they’re having a tantrum.’
His eyes flicked up from his device. Under his questioning stare, the advice I had read online shrivelled up as namby-pamby nonsense.
‘At what point did you know that the picture fell off the wall?’
‘After I heard the crash, and when her screaming sounded different.’
‘At what point did you decide to go upstairs?’
‘When I heard the crash.’
‘So, you heard the crash, and her screaming sounded different. When you say “sounded different”, can you describe the scream to me?’
‘It became really high-pitched, I suppose.’
‘And then what did you do when you heard this high-pitched scream?’
‘I ran straight upstairs to check on her.’
‘Could you call Noah in here, so I can talk to him please?’
‘Is that really necessary? He’s only six.’ Stay calm, stay calm, I said to myself, co-operate, I have nothing to hide.
‘I’m afraid it is important I talk to him. Could you get him please?’
I called Noah in from outside. ‘Jump up onto the swivel chair a minute, poppet. PC Yorke has a few questions for you too,’ I said, trying to sound upbeat, as though it was such a big treat to be interviewed by a police officer who suspected your mother might have intentionally harmed your big sister.
Noah sat twisting back and forth on the chair while I hovered in the corner, leaning into the bookshelf, fearing that my insignificant life was about to become as meaty as those behind the book spines.