Dr Leyla Kadir washed her hands at the sink in the corner of the consultation room, her slim brown fingers sliding through the water. She dried them carefully on a paper towel and covered them in hand lotion. Her precise movements creamed the area between each finger.
Her cream trouser suit was simple yet elegant against the bronze of her skin. When she sat down she slid open the jacket button so that its tailored lines remained unwrinkled.
She wasn’t what Lilly had expected. But then how had she pictured a psychiatrist from Kurdistan? A full veil with a copy of Freud under her arm?
‘Thank you for seeing me, Dr Kadir,’ she said.
‘Thank you for coming.’ She motioned Lilly to sit in the chair at the other side of her desk, which was empty apart from a snow globe. Inside the glass dome a fairy cast its wintry spell. ‘Where is the child?’
Lilly nodded towards the reception area outside, where Anna was flicking through a copy of Grazia magazine. Lilly wondered how much of it her client could understand, and whether the tribulations of a reality star’s boob job held much fascination to a girl who had seen her family burnt alive.
The doctor pushed highlighted hair behind her ears. ‘So?’
‘It’s difficult to know where to start,’ said Lilly.
‘At the beginning usually works well.’
Okay, smart arse, thought Lilly. ‘My client is from Kosovo.’
‘Yes.’
‘She came here seeking asylum.’
‘Yes.’
‘And she’s been accused of conspiracy to murder.’
Dr Kadir tapped her finger against her desk. ‘I have read the papers you sent over, Miss Valentine.’
So not the beginning then. ‘I was wondering if my client could be suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.’
‘Naturally, I will need to assess her to make a diagnosis.’
Lilly’s hackles began to rise. ‘Naturally. But before I commit my client to that process, I wanted to know if this was a likely scenario or if I’m whistling in the wind.’
Dr Kadir wrinkled her nose. ‘Guesswork is not how I do things, Miss Valentine. I’m a psychiatrist, not an NHS helpline.’
Lilly sat forward in her chair. She’d dealt with enough shrinks to know what she could and couldn’t ask them to do. ‘Listen, Doctor, I’m not asking for anything definite, just some theoretical discussion.’
The doctor opened her mouth to speak, but Lilly put up her hand. ‘You know full well that the taxpayer will only give me one shot at a psych report, so I can’t spend my money in the wrong shop.’ Lilly waved at the door. ‘I’ve a kid out there staring down the barrel of a life sentence, so I cannot piss about.’
Dr Kadir ran her finger over her snow globe. ‘Okay then.’
Lilly sat back in her chair. ‘Okay then.’
‘Put simply, PTSD is a brain injury caused by a traumatic incident.’
‘Such as?’ said Lilly.
Dr Kadir opened her arms. ‘An accident, a violent attack, a disaster of some sort.’
‘A genocide?’
‘Almost certainly’
‘And this disorder affects people how?’ asked Lilly.
‘There are many symptoms.’ The doctor reached for a book from her shelves. ‘This is the leading research study of victims from the Gulf War, which showed that veterans suffered in hundreds of different ways.’ She ran her finger along a list that filled a whole page. ‘Nightmares, flashbacks, depression, headaches, panic attacks.’
‘Anna couldn’t breathe at the police station,’ said Lilly. ‘The police doctor thought it might be a panic attack.’
Dr Kadir continued with her list. ‘Chest pains, insomnia, detachment.’
‘Detachment?’ Lilly felt her heart leap. ‘Tell me about that.’
‘Patients are often overwhelmed by the symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, so they suppress their feelings about the trigger. They avoid all conversations about it, all contact with anything that may be a cue.’
‘Does it work?’ asked Lilly.
‘Dr Kadir gave a wry laugh. Of course not. They simply become detached from normality.’
‘Delusional?’
‘No. They become numb both physically and mentally,’ said Dr Kadir. ‘Many describe living as if on autopilot.’
‘Anna says she has no idea why she went to the school with a gun,’ said Lilly. ‘I think most people will find that very hard to believe.’
Dr Kadir smiled. ‘Most people don’t understand PTSD.’
‘Posh,’ snarled Steve, ‘this is genius.’
Alexia leaned back in her chair, hands behind her head, while Steve read the transcript she’d handed to him. ‘Exclusive access to the service,’ she said. ‘I recorded the whole thing.’
Steve let out a cackle that would have frightened Lady Macbeth.
‘Never mind the fucking prayers, what about the fight?’
Alexia couldn’t resist a smile. That had been the proverbial icing on the cake.
When she arrived at Manor Park she’d assumed police would be patrolling the perimeter, but as the parents arrived, the other journos swarmed in with their microphones and flashbulbs—consequently the police’s job was to surround the parents as best they could. It was an unedifying sight but it left Alexia’s secret entrance entirely unguarded. As she slipped through, she was sure she would be spotted but the weather was foul and the parents dashed from their cars to the school.
All was nearly lost when an officious-looking woman demanded her invitation but then her attention was drawn to someone parking a Mini in the wrong place. Alexia had seized her opportunity and dived into the back row. When the head had announced refreshments she intended to leg it back to the car before anyone could ask awkward questions—but then the entertainment really started. One of the inmates from Camp Boden had accosted some woman about what she was wearing. To be fair, footless tights were a bold move best left to the fashionistas on Bond Street. Then, bosh, she smacked her so hard it echoed around the chapel.
A ladette with ten Bacardi Breezers inside her couldn’t have done better.
Though it made for great copy, it had all seemed a bit of an overreaction to Alexia, but she recalled that her father had once fired someone for wearing the wrong coloured socks.
She finished the piece and mailed it to Steve. While the big boys were scrabbling around printing pictures of cars pulling into the school and conjectured pieces about what may or may not have been said, Alexia’s story was the real deal. She could quote what was said about Charles Stanton in full tearjerking glory. And the cherry on top was the argument among the parents. Within seconds her inbox was alive.
To: Alexia Dee
From: Steve Berry
Subject: Not bad
Shame you didn’t get a picture.
* * *
Lilly sang along to the radio all the way home. The drivetime chart music suited her mood. She had the beginnings of a defence, just a seed, but with Dr Kadir’s help it had begun to germinate.
She reached into her bag and found half a tube of Rolos. Life was sweet.
When the front door glided open as if on wheels, she kissed its wooden frame.
‘I thought I was the crazy one,’ said Anna, and they both laughed.
‘I can’t see anything funny’
Sam stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips, his beautiful face pressed into a scowl.
Anna evaporated up the stairs.
‘Hello, big man,’ said Lilly. ‘Do you fancy making a cake?’
Sam narrowed his eyes.
‘I’ve tons of chocolate.’ She headed for the kitchen. ‘Or carrot. That’s a healthy option for my favourite footballer.’
She heard his heavy footfall follow her. Baking was definitely not high on his agenda.
‘Everyone at school says you made a total show of yourself at the service.’
Lilly reached into the cupboard for flour. ‘I’m in the mood for muffins.’
‘The boarders called you a laughing stock.’
Lilly sighed and began to weigh the ingredients. ‘Why don’t you get the eggs?’
‘Cara says you weren’t even wearing shoes.’
Lilly pushed her hair out of her eyes, leaving a white powdery patch across her forehead. Why didn’t the bitch from hell mind her own business? Jesus, Lilly hadn’t even seen Botox Belle at the service.
‘The heel snapped off my boot. Not the end of the world.’
Sam shook his head in utter disgust. ‘Why does everything you do get so difficult?’
‘Because there’s only one of me, Sam.’
Luke shakes the shoe box and mentally counts the change. Just over eight quid, not bad.
Caz says the punters feel sorry for him, with his big eyes and floppy hair. Like he’s someone nice who’s just hit hard times. They don’t even look at Caz. She says it’s because she looks like this is the life she deserves. Luke thinks it might have something to do with the stuff she shouts at them.
His mum always insists on finding educational value in everything, and he wonders what she’d make of his newfound talent. Five games of Sonic the Hedgehog was proclaimed ‘good for fine motor skills’. An hour reading the Arsenal programme was an ‘excellent practice of foreign pronunciation’. What would she make of blagging money from total strangers? ‘Ah, Luke, begging is just a form of advocacy. A great start for a budding lawyer or politician.’
His laughter gives way to a stab of guilt as he thinks of his mother worrying about her only son’s whereabouts. Does she spend each night crying and ringing round the hospitals?
Though surely everything’s come out about the girl in the park by now? She’ll be glad he’s disappeared. Francesca Walker cares what people think. She’d be mortified if Luke was on the telly or in the papers. And he certainly would be if the police caught him.
At first he’d been convinced they’d be searching for him and that every officer would have his old school photo tucked in their pocket. Now he realises the authorities don’t give a shit about kids like him and Caz. There are hundreds like them on the streets, living in derelict houses, dossing in tube stations. The police don’t even pull them in for begging. They might ask a few questions, but usually they just tell them to move on.
‘But don’t rely on it,’ says Caz. ‘You might get one with a cob on, like he’s just caught his missus having it away with the next-door neighbour’s dog. You might get away with a kicking…or worse, you might get nicked.’
Caz’s instructions in the face of the latter are clear: ‘Run like fuck.’ She prides herself on seeing the inside of a cell only twice. On both occasions she convinced the coppers she was eighteen. Whether they believed her or whether they didn’t care is unimportant. She got bail and they got rid.
Luke slides the coins into his rucksack and tosses the box into the gutter. A woman passing by with a toddler on reins tuts her disapproval. Luke gives her the finger and heads off to find Caz.
She pockets her share. ‘Ta very much.’
‘You’re welcome,’ says Luke, an automatic response that still makes Caz laugh. He always hands over half of whatever he gets, even though she doesn’t reciprocate. She says she will but then she blows it all on smack. She’s doing more and more and it doesn’t come cheap. He doesn’t care. He’d give her everything he owns to stop her doing the other thing.
They’re off to the Peckham Project for a shower and some toast. To be honest, Luke can’t be arsed going over there.
‘It’s part of my routine,’ says Caz, as if her life runs on an orderly timetable.
Luke tells her that he likes the seamlessness of their days.
‘Well, it’s a bleeding holiday for you, soft lad,’ she says. ‘When your whole life’s been nothing but a fuck-up, you start to fancy a bit of order.’
She’s probably right.
On the wall outside the Project two men are playing cards. With their dark hair and leather jackets Luke can see at a glance they’re Eastern European. They look up at Caz and stare.
‘Problem?’ asks Luke.
‘Nah,’ says Caz, but the breeziness has gone out of her voice.
‘Caroline,’ says one of the men, his words sing-song, his accent rolling the ‘r’.
She ignores him and pushes the buzzer.
‘Don’t be like that,’ he says. ‘We just want to be friends.’
The other man laughs and shuffles the pack.
Caz keeps her finger on the buzzer. ‘I know exactly what you want.’
At last Jean opens the door and Caz pushes past her to get inside.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ she says, her usual fag dangling from the corner of her mouth.
Luke shrugs his shoulders but Jean’s seen the men outside.
‘Get out of here right now,’ she shouts.
‘Sorry,’ says one. ‘I don’t speak English.’
Jean comes outside, her hands on her hips. ‘Make yourself scarce or I’ll call the police.’
The men speak in their own language and laugh.
‘You’ve got five seconds,’ she says.
One walks towards them and there’s something in his manner, the way he holds his shoulders, that scares Luke.
‘We don’t break any laws,’ says the man.
Jean stands firm. ‘Go inside, Luke, and dial 999.’
Luke’s heart is pounding in his chest and he can’t move.
The man takes a step closer so he’s almost touching Jean. A plume of smoke separates them.
‘Tell them to send squad cars,’ she says, ‘and the immigration unit.’
The man kisses his teeth in Jean’s face but she doesn’t flinch. At last he turns back to his friend and once again they laugh. They collect up their cards and head back towards the high street. Luke realises he’s been holding his breath.
‘Are you okay love?’ says Jean.
Luke nods. ‘Are you?’
She laughs and ruffles his hair. ‘It’d take more than that pair to bother me.’
Later that night, Lilly was chasing the last crumbs of a freshly baked muffin around a plate.
Sam sidled into the kitchen. ‘Any left for me?’
Lilly said nothing, but opened the cake tin and poured her son a glass of milk.
‘Sorry about earlier,’ Sam said.
Lilly kissed his cheek.
Sam took a bite. ‘I just worry, that’s all.’
‘About what?’
‘You.’
Lilly was astonished. ‘Me! But I’m fine.’
Sam wiped the crumbs from his chin. ‘Bad stuff always happens to you, Mum.’
‘I can’t imagine what you mean,’ she said.
‘Dad left, for a start.’
Lilly exhaled. This was big stuff. ‘Your dad and I couldn’t live together, Sam—and you’re right, it was pretty bad for a while.’
‘You mean totally crap,’ said Sam.
‘Okay, it was indeed totally crap, but things are fine now. We haven’t argued for a long time.’
Sam licked the muffin case. ‘But what about Jack?’
‘We can’t see much of him at the moment.’
‘And that’s because Anna’s staying here,’ he said.
‘It’s not for long,’ said Lilly.
‘But why does she have to be here at all?’ he asked.
Lilly enveloped her son in her arms. ‘I know it’s hard, but she’ll be gone soon and then things can go back to normal.’
‘Oh, Mum, when are things in this house ever normal?’
‘Lilly kissed the top of his head and breathed him in. Anna isn’t as lucky as we are, Sam, and that’s something we should never forget.’
He nodded and tucked his forehead into the crook of her neck.
She rocked him in her arms, humming gently, until the peace was shattered along with the window as a stone came flying through.