Today, social services will decide if I’m hurting my son.
Needless to say, I didn’t sleep well last night. I woke up this morning with knots in my stomach. They’re still there, pulling and pinching.
‘Please,’ I tell the bus driver. ‘Can’t you just let me off here?’ We’re stuck in a slow-moving slug of traffic. I think there’s been an accident up ahead.
I’m wearing a pin striped skirt suit. It’s the smartest thing I own. The skin around my nails is now bitten to bleeding point.
‘Please,’ I beg. ‘I’m going to a meeting. About my son. I can’t be late. Please.’
The bus driver’s big shoulders sink a little. ‘There’s an emergency door handle up there.’ He looks straight ahead. ‘I never said you could pull it. But you can pull it. Just watch out for any motorbikes, all right? Sometimes they come up on the inside.’
‘Thanks.’ I pull the handle and the bus doors hiss open, freeing me to jump off and run down the street.
I’m out of breath and pink by the time I reach the Town Hall. Kate Noble waits in the foyer, arms crossed, wearing her usual black trouser suit. She looks tired.
‘We’re a little behind schedule,’ she says. ‘Usually I’d talk you through things but there’s no time. I did ask you to come half an hour early…’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t understand—’
‘We should go straight in.’
I follow Kate into a beige meeting room. There is an oval table at its centre and three people sit around it.
‘Come on in, Lizzie,’ says Kate. ‘Take a seat.’
I sit on an upholstered chair, noticing Mr Cockrun across the table. He is as immaculate and tailored as ever, fingers laced together, head cocked attentively, totally unfazed by a meeting that could ruin my life.
My brain swims, assessing the two others at the table: a large, red-faced woman and a tall, bearded man, most likely a doctor.
Kate takes a seat and hands me some paperwork from the centre of the table. Dutifully, I look down. … cause for concern … unexplained head injury … unusual pattern of illness … possible injection marks.
My eyes fix on my fingers, which are locked together in one giant, shaking fist.
‘I’ll start by reading out the report,’ says Kate.
Some words wash over me, others stab like knives.
Considered at risk of significant harm …
‘A paediatrician has confirmed that Tom’s head injury happened before he fell unconscious, Miss Riley,’ says Kate, reading from pages in front of her. ‘A few days previously, he believes.’
In the silence that follows, I realise I’m expected to comment. I lift my head, voice weary. ‘I have no idea how he hurt his head. I already told the doctors. School is the only time he’s away from me. It must have happened there.’
Mr Cockrun sits up straight. ‘This really is bordering on slander now, Miss Riley.’
Kate holds up a hand. ‘We’ll hear from you in a moment, Mr Cockrun. Please don’t interject again until you’re called upon.’
I’m a good mother. You can’t take my son away. Please, please don’t take him away.
Kate turns to the tall, bearded man. He has grey hair and an unhealthily pale face. ‘Perhaps you should take it from here, Michael?’
The ruddy-cheeked woman beside Kate, who clearly wants to be somewhere else, snaps, ‘Aren’t you going to introduce everyone first, Kate? Before you get into that? Miss Riley doesn’t even know who she’s speaking to.’
‘Sorry.’ Kate clears her throat. ‘Yes – Miss Riley, this is Dr Michael Philips. He’s a consultant paediatrician.’
‘It was another doctor who examined Tom,’ I say. ‘Mr … Mr … it began with a rom sound.’
‘Doctor Ramir, yes,’ says Dr Philips. ‘I’m afraid he couldn’t be here today.’
I sit up at this. ‘You’ve never met my son.’
‘I can relay what other professionals have told me,’ says Dr Philips. ‘Tom’s head injury was partially healed when he was admitted to hospital. Which tells us the injury happened some time before Tom fell unconscious.’
‘How?’ I demand.
‘The injury could have happened in all sorts of ways,’ says the doctor. ‘But from our experiences of head injuries, the most likely cause was being struck with something. An object.’
‘You believe he was struck?’ I say, stomach churning.
‘It’s a strong possibility.’
‘What else could have caused it?’
‘Do you have any ideas, Miss Riley?’ Kate asks. ‘Any accidents at home?’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I’ve already told the hospital this. It must have happened at school. Tom doesn’t go anywhere else without me. And it’s not me who’s doing this.’ I’m angry now. ‘Don’t you understand? I’m worried sick. My son is being hurt. No one knows why or how. And instead of helping me find answers, you’re putting me in the dock.’
I wonder if the people walking past this building realise what’s happening inside.
They’re trying to take my child away.
‘Usually the parents are the best source of information,’ says Kate.
‘Do you understand how frightening this is for me?’ I reply. ‘Tom had a seizure the moment he started this new school.’
I see Mr Cockrun bristle, but he keeps quiet.
‘Then Tom came home with injection marks on his arm,’ I continue. ‘Now a head injury. And he’s changing at that school. Why can’t anyone see how odd it all is? How many schools do you know with bars on the windows? Who don’t let anyone in during the school day? Who padlocks gates so no one can get in and out without a key? It’s like all the kids are brainwashed. And the teachers. Tom’s not himself. I’m petrified.’
Kate clears her throat. ‘Now we can hear from you, Mr Cockrun.’
Mr Cockrun fixes me with cold eyes, the fake smile long gone. ‘Children are very well safeguarded at Steelfield School. Physical injuries are recorded immediately. All our staff are DBS checked. Miss Riley has been back and forth to the school on multiple occasions accusing us of whatever she can think of. We have told her repeatedly that these injuries are nothing to do with us.’
‘You’re not in Tom’s class,’ I say. ‘Tom’s teacher can’t watch him every minute. What about playtime? There are holes in the fence.’
‘This is about a family breakdown and nothing to do with us,’ says Mr Cockrun. ‘Miss Riley won’t let Tom see his own father.’
‘If you knew about his father—’
‘Divorce can bring out the worst in people,’ says Mr Cockrun. ‘My feeling is that Tom would benefit from more discipline.’
‘Are you saying I can’t discipline my son?’
‘Two parents are better than one.’
‘Not if one of them has very serious issues.’
‘You’re not thinking about Tom,’ says Mr Cockrun. ‘What’s best for him. The boy wants to see his father.’
I suck in my breath. ‘What?’
‘Look, he’s told me in confidence,’ Mr Cockrun continues. ‘He misses his dad.’
‘His dad is a manipulator and a liar, and it’s none of your business.’
‘It’s our business if Tom has emotional problems and doesn’t behave at school.’
Mr Cockrun starts flicking through papers then, and I catch a glimpse of something – handwriting that looks suspiciously like Olly’s scrawled, spiky loops.
‘Is that … has Olly written to you?’ I hear myself shout. ‘Does he know Tom’s at Steelfield School?’ A shaky hand flies to my mouth.
The handwritten document is quickly covered with a typed sheet.
‘I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,’ says Mr Cockrun.
‘Olly.’ I turn to Kate for support. ‘Has he written to the school? It looked like his writing …’
Mr Cockrun gives a false-sounding laugh. ‘Are you talking about this?’ He holds up the handwritten letter for half a second, then buries it again under paper. ‘These are Karen’s notes. The lunchtime assistant.’
I swallow, knowing I’ve just made myself look paranoid. Unhinged. But it looked so much like Olly’s writing … and I don’t trust the headmaster.
What if they’re letting Olly into the school? Giving him access to Tom?
Divorce is terrible, Mr Kinnock. What you must be going through. Of course we’ll let you spend some time with your son during the school day. What the mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her …
I put a hand to my stomach, trying to breathe the thoughts away.
‘Let’s talk about next steps,’ says Kate, glancing at Mr Cockrun.
‘The next steps are you allowing me to remove Tom from this school,’ I say, more loudly than I mean to.
‘There’s nothing to suggest the school is doing anything untoward,’ says Kate, her voice gentle. ‘We’ve worked very hard to get Tom’s placement there and give him a smooth transition.’
‘He’s coming home injured!’ I scream, eyes furious and accusing. ‘He’s having seizures! And what if his father is getting in? What if they’re giving him access?’
Nobody says anything.
It can’t be the school, Miss Riley. Just admit something’s happening at home …
I feel sick to my stomach.
Absolutely frozen with terror, an animal backed into a corner.
‘If I moved Tom to a new school…’ I turn to Kate. ‘What would happen?’
‘We would have to step in. Especially in light of recent information. As we’ve heard, there’s nothing to suggest these injuries are happening there.’
‘So how else could Tom be getting them?’
Once again, the room falls silent.
‘Please.’ There are tears in my eyes. ‘Why will no one listen? I’m telling you – something is happening at that school. Have none of you read our history? Tom’s father was abusive. He’s getting into the school somehow.’
‘That’s simply not possible,’ says Mr Cockrun.
‘There are holes in the fence.’
‘I’ve looked into that,’ says Kate, her voice still gentle. ‘And I’m satisfied with the explanation.’
‘It would be impossible for an adult to come into our school and harm a child,’ says Mr Cockrun.
‘Then how is my son being hurt in your care?’ It all becomes too much then. I leap to my feet. ‘Excuse me,’ I stammer. ‘I need … Excuse me.’ I stride towards the door, fumbling with the door handle.
Someone calls after me.
Then I’m in a bathroom, being violently sick into a toilet.
There is soft tapping at the door. ‘Lizzie?’ It’s Kate.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, taking deep breaths. ‘I’m just terrified.’
Calm, calm.
‘We only want the best for Tom,’ says Kate, voice gentler than usual.
‘Then help me find out what is happening at that school.’