Katya found herself quickly falling for this stranger. She felt a desire to please her, to be pleasing, so she tried, pushing her mind into the maze of memories, hoping to avoid the dangerous ones. It was hard to remember a time before it got bad, but it was there all the same. Her memories were like petals, beautiful but too fragile to hang around for long. She remembered holding her mother’s hand. She remembered her mum crouching down to hug her and the scent of her fine blonde hair. She remembered the earrings Linda wore; gold hoops in different sizes. Then that changed and she saw the mess in their flat, the clothes strewn across the floor, the dirty ashtrays and the beds that smelt like school dinners.
She was an orphan now; or as good as one since she had no idea who her dad was and doubted he knew he was her dad. In the books, good things happened to orphans and they often turned out to be special children. Like Annie and Oliver Twist, Cinderella and Snow White. In the stories there was often someone who would see their specialness and help them find what they needed – a fairy godmother or a kind stranger.
‘She used to take me to the playground.’
She tried to conjure up an image but failed and she wondered if it ever actually existed. There was somewhere, blown with litter, where she wasn’t allowed. Linda said people left dangerous stuff there, like needles and condoms. She kept those things in the flat though, where Katya could easily get at them. So she was a hypocrite too.
‘Good. That’s good. Was it in a park?’
‘Yes.’ She stared at Maggie’s boots. They were black with laces; like the ones Victorian women wore.
They struggled for a few more minutes, Katya coming up with memories that were a mixture of truth and fable, things she thought normal families did, things she’d seen on television, when they had one. It broke when one of the boyfriends tipped his beer down the back. Smoke had come out of it. Then Maggie told her about a couple she knew; good people who fostered children short-term. The Bryants. Luke and Sally.
‘How long do I have to stay with them?’
‘Not long. A month or so. While I look for a permanent placement.’
‘Do they have a telly?’
‘Yes. That’ll be nice, won’t it?’
She wished her mother could have been more like Maggie Parrish. Even a little bit. Self-pity and a sense that she had been unfairly used brought the threat of tears. Maggie hugged her. It was unexpected and overwhelming. Katya tensed at first and then sank into her embrace.
‘It’ll be all right, Katya. I know that someone will want to adopt you very soon.’
Katya gazed at her, wide-eyed and hopeful. ‘Who?’
Maggie smiled and stroked her hair. ‘Just someone. You are a very special little girl.’
But Katya didn’t hear the last bit. Her mind had already rushed off down a new avenue. If Maggie adopted her she could be Emily’s sister and live with them for ever. She would be Katya Parrish. She could see Emily in her mind’s eye. Running across the playground, ponytail flying, turning to laugh and beckon at her. They would be best friends. Katya had never had a best friend because she had never spent enough days in a row at school to get one.
‘I’ll get things organized soon,’ Maggie said. ‘But first let’s see how you get on with the Bryants.’
The feeling she was left with, the imprint of Maggie’s body against hers, was a magic spell that couldn’t be broken. Emily. She whispered the name to herself. There was something about it that felt right. She knew that she and Emily were meant to meet one day. That they would be friends.
7
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
WE ARE HOME. In my absence, Tom has done a temporary job on the French windows. Quite a feat for him. He’s nailed a piece of hardboard over the broken window and screwed a strip of two-by-one across the bottom panels to keep them closed. Otherwise he’s been careful to leave everything as it is because we’ve been told to wait for the forensics team. I have no idea where he found the wood, but he probably asked either our next-door neighbour or Jamie Boxer. Either way, the news is spreading.
The kitchen is untidy. There’s a frying pan and a saucepan in the washing up bowl, the dishwasher is open, the racks pulled out. There are toys on the floor, which hasn’t been swept. My eyes are drawn to a baked bean lying underneath the chair where Polly normally sits. None of this matters.
Tom doesn’t say anything but I know how he’s feeling. This house was our sanctuary and now it’s been desecrated and it doesn’t matter what we do, the stain will not rub off. I wish the girls were here to distract us.
‘Tea?’ he asks and I nod, grateful to him for being one step ahead of me.
I move into the front room and collapse on to the sofa, curling up and cradling my head in my arms. I only slept a couple of hours last night, and that fitfully. I kept having nightmares about the social worker, with her clipboard and lanyard, informing me that she had a duty to share any concerns she might have with the relevant authorities and a right to remove Josh from my charge if she considered he was in danger.
Because this is how it works. Amber is right. This is what happens when a baby’s injuries cannot be explained satisfactorily. The woman was only doing her job. Her questions were detailed and intrusive but I played compliant and humble, aware of Amber sitting nearby, reading a magazine, listening to my lies.
The image changes to an X-ray of white bone against a milky fog of flesh and muscle, and I experience that shock of guilt and disbelief all over again. My son’s bones are so small and so fragile. There’s a fine line across the base of the humerus close to the elbow.
The radiologist told me he’d seen a lot worse. It was a common enough fracture in children and would mend quickly. He told me not to worry. That there was no great harm done.
But there was. How could I have left him? How could I have been so cruel and thoughtless and downright negligent? My breath was audible and the radiologist’s smile slipped. He steered me towards a chair and pressed me into it then fetched a plastic cup of water from the dispenser. I took it gratefully.
‘He won’t remember a thing, Mrs Seagrave,’ he says. ‘Please don’t blame yourself.’
‘Vicky? Are you awake? The police are here.’
A cup of tea sits on the coffee table, undrunk and cold. I must have been asleep for at least an hour.
DS Grayling is in his late thirties; black with a shaved head and craggy bone structure; handsome in a rugged outdoorsy way. I wonder if he has a wife and children and glance at his left hand, hoping he does because then he’ll understand the stresses that come with it. He isn’t wearing a ring, but Tom doesn’t wear one either. He smiles at me and pulls out his notebook.
‘Can we start from before you took the children to school yesterday morning?’