‘We’re here to talk about Tom’s broken wrist.’
It’s a female social worker this time – her name is Faye and she looks in her late twenties, with white skin and black hair like Snow White. She can’t have been in social work long because her forehead doesn’t have any lines.
Faye looks between Olly and me, clearly trying to size us up.
It must be hard to get the measure of us – we’re a mess of contradictions.
Olly, well-spoken and educated, yet scruffy in loose, surfer dude clothing, blond hair around his ears.
And me – well, who knows what I am? A skinny girl in a summer dress with DM boots. Long, brown hair. A worried little face. A real person in my own right, or just a girl pretending to be something Olly wants?
I’m not sure any more.
Olly loses his temper immediately. ‘Look, I don’t hurt my son, okay? We’re as confused as you are. Why can’t you leave us alone? We have enough on our plate.’
I put a hand over his, the placating wife, but Olly snatches his fingers away.
‘Don’t,’ he snaps. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘We’re just here to talk today, Mr Kinnock.’ Faye smiles. ‘All we want is what’s best for Tom.’
Faye’s questions become more intrusive after that. Was Tom a planned pregnancy? When did Olly and I marry – before or after the birth? Have we ever separated?
‘We’re just trying to get to the bottom of things,’ says Faye. ‘Injuries like this … they’re very unusual.’
The word hangs in the air.
‘Sometimes,’ Faye says carefully, ‘parents lose control around their children when they don’t feel they’re coping. Do you feel you’re getting enough support?’
‘We get lots of support,’ I say. ‘Olly’s mum is around. My mum visits often enough. Olly works from home now, so … he’s around all the time too. But … but …’
I don’t mean to, but I start to cry.
‘Mrs Kinnock,’ Faye asks. ‘Is there anything you want to talk about?’
I nod. Then silently, I unbutton my shirt cuff and roll up a sleeve, showing the yellow-green bruise on my shoulder and the carpet-burn cut on my elbow.
Olly sits bolt upright, staring at my arm. His eyes still have the languid look of morphine in them as they blink, confused and scared. He’s not quite here. Not quite understanding.
Faye stares at the marks. ‘Mrs Kinnock? What are you telling me?’
I swallow, taking deep breaths, summoning all my courage.
Finally, I manage to get the words out.
‘Olly did this. He threw me down the stairs.’
There’s an awful, heavy silence.
Then Olly starts shouting and swearing, calling me unhinged, psycho, a lying bitch.
Faye asks him to leave.
He won’t at first, but she threatens to call the police and he limps outside.
I see him at the doorway, a black cloud, pacing back and forth, gait unsteady. He pulls an all too familiar blister-pack of codeine from his pocket, pops out a handful of pills – four or five, probably, I can’t see – and throws them into his mouth.
In the suddenly silent room, Faye wants to know why I didn’t mention these bruises before.
‘Because I’m ashamed,’ I say. ‘Ashamed that I stay with a man who does this to me. That I had a child with him. And that I’m too pathetic to leave. But I never thought he’d hurt Tom. Never.’
‘Does your husband hurt your son? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘I’ve never seen it,’ I say. ‘I’d have left a long time ago if I had. But I’m not sure I know my own mind right now. Olly is very good at … manipulating things. Making me see things that aren’t there. And he takes so much medication these days. Then he drinks on top of that … It makes him aggressive. I never thought he’d be capable of this, but …’
‘Mrs Kinnock, do you think your husband caused Tom’s injury?’
‘It’s … possible.’ Tears come. ‘Living with Olly – sometimes it’s hard to know what to think. I didn’t want to believe it, but what other explanation is there?’ I break down again then, head in my hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ I stutter. ‘If Olly’s been hurting Tom and I’ve let it happen …’
‘It’s okay.’ Faye puts her hands over mine. ‘It’s okay.’
But it’s not okay.
Not okay at all.