Sit up straight, Annie had said. I adjusted my posture, conscious of my habitual slouch. There were people in the audience, but I could barely see them through the glare of lights and cameras. I focussed on the female interviewer, Natasha Rylands. I followed her on Instagram, but she was even prettier in real life.
“For our viewers who aren’t aware, premium bonds can be set up for people at any age. Like the lottery, if your numbers come up, you win. I must say, Ms Walker, that when most people win a significant amount of money through premium bonds, they buy themselves a mansion, a holiday home somewhere, go on an amazing holiday. But, you, you put it all into setting up The Walker Foundation.”
I nodded uncomfortably, unsure of what to say.
“That’s amazingly selfless of you,” said the male interviewer, Evan Michaels. His hair was greyer than I’d expected. Clearly the TV crew did some clever editing with the cameras.
“Oh, no, no,” I shook my head, embarrassed. “You only get that sort of money once in a lifetime, if that, and I’d always thought about setting up a charity. So, I couldn’t miss that opportunity.” I chewed on the inside of my lip, stopping myself from saying the truth. That I could never accept that money. Not after everything that had happened.
“So, why Child Sexual Exploitation,often referred to as CSE,in particular?” Evan prompted.
I straightened up again, ready to launch my pre-rehearsed answer. “CSE is a growing problem, whether we admit it to ourselves or not. Last year, nearly seventeen thousand children were found to be at high risk of losing their childhoods, of being abused.” My voice was shaking. I had remembered my speech so far, at least, but it was coming out all disjointed and jarring. I wished it weren’t live so that some clever member of the production team could edit out any of my misspoken words or hesitations.
I shuffled on the leather sofa, the fabric sticking to the parts of my leg not covered by the pencil skirt. God, it was hot. Why did they insist on shining so many lights on me? I hoped the camera wouldn’t catch the beads of sweat brewing on my forehead.
“Beyond numbers, Ms Walker, what’s been the most difficult case you’ve personally dealt with in this area?” Evan was definitely attractive. He had a friendly smile and blue eyes that contrasted beautifully with his greying hair. He was the type of man you’d easily find yourself spilling your secrets to, as he had that trusting look about him, though, he’d have to have a hell of a lot more than just a nice face for me to spill mine.
Natasha was probably about twenty years younger. She was stunning, her wide eyes decorated with expensive mascara and eyeliner, her plump lips shimmering with lip gloss. No doubt she hadn’t needed two hours and forty-five minutes with the make-up artist this morning.
I knew what Annie had said about sharing personal stories, but I couldn’t. I needed to keep my stories as broad and generic as possible, for the sake of the families. I cleared my throat as I prepared to answer.
“Well, classic long-term effects of sexual abuse include a much higher risk of mental health issues, particularly areas around control. For instance, children who have experienced this may grow up to have eating disorders, as it’s one of the only things they can keep control of. Or, perhaps OCD or anxiety relating to cleanliness, as you’ll often find victims of sexual abuse will have a desperate need to feel clean, both inside and out.”
“I believe what they were asking for was for a specific example, actually.” It was her, Nancy Thompson, finally chipping in from the other end of the sofa. Her icy voice matched her sharp appearance, which in turn honoured her infamous personality. She had black hair, slicked back into a high ponytail, making her forehead look stretched to the limit. Her face was slim, with a defined jaw and a somewhat pointy nose below piercing blue eyes. She was attractive, but in a hard way.
“Well, I’m afraid that’s not possible,” I said through gritted teeth, “due to confidentiality.”
“Yes, of course,” Evan said, with a smile. “That’s fine, thank you. So, in terms of The Walker Foundation — how does it plan to tackle the problem?”
I turned my focus back to the presenters — this was the important bit. I wouldn’t allow myself to be sidetracked by Nancy bloody Thompson. “The Walker Foundation will be focussed on two different strands. The first will focus on supporting the survivors of sexual abuse, and the second, perhaps more controversially, will focus on rehabilitating the perpetrators.”
“The paedos?” Nancy cut in, her black eyebrows raised, challenging me to respond to her.
“I don’t use that term. But, yes, the second strand would seek to prevent the abuse from happening in the first place. Both strands need financial support to employ enough support workers and to commit enough time to develop effective relationships with the clients. They’re not monsters; they’re people who can’t help their urges. They need our help not to act on them.”
“Sorry, did you just say you want money so you can pay people to have relationships with paedophiles?” It was Nancy, of course. Who else could take my words out of my mouth and screw them up into something completely different?
“No. That’s not at all what I said.”
“That’s what I heard. And I think many would disagree with you that they are not monsters, actually. I’ve had a look at your charity, and you’re not just talking about the classic paedophiles, are you? You’re talking about young men, friends who get overly friendly when drunk, gang culture, et cetera. Is that correct?”
“Yes, any type of sexual abuse or exploitation — but can I just clarify my previous statement?” My hands were going into sweaty, clammy mode.
“But let’s be honest here, have you seen how some of these young girls dress? They put it all out there, whether it’s on Snapchat, Instagram, Tinder, or whatever. They tart themselves up to look like mini porn stars. Then they get themselves in trouble, and the easiest thing to do is cry rape.”
“That really rarely happens–”
“Oh, but it does happen sometimes?”
“Look, I’m not here to argue about the tiny number of false rape cases,” I say, trying to steer the conversation back on course. I can see Annie chewing her lip nervously behind the camera. “I’m here to talk about the very real issue of children in our country being forced into sexual relationships.”
“False rape claims are a serious issue, Ms Walker.”
I ignored her. I wasn’t going to let her control the conversation any more. “I’m talking about people in positions of trust or fame abusing their power, family members who try and convince these children that ‘this is how you show love,’ young men being forced into being perpetrators through pressures from gangs, and girls selling their bodies due to drug addictions. These are all happening, right now. Charities like The Walker Foundation can make an actual difference.” I felt a swell of pride that I had regained control of the situation and made my point. Hopefully the viewers would see that Nancy woman for what she was, a devil’s advocate with an extra hit of devil.
Natasha took the lead and cut back in before Nancy had a chance to respond. “Can I ask what your views are on social networking, such as Facebook, Instagram and Snapchat?”
Nancy answered before I had a chance to open my mouth. “I think they are all platforms for these girls to pose like sluts and get attention for it. If the parents want their children to be safe, they should pay more attention to what their little darlings are posting on the Internet.”
I chewed on the inside of my lip as she spoke, deliberating over my response. “The thing that Nancy probably doesn’t understand is that the trust between a parent and their teenager is one of the most crucial things in their relationship. This is the social network generation — we can’t change that. If kids feel you respect them, they’re more likely to come to you when someone asks them for an inappropriate picture over Facebook.”
“You’re a mother, aren’t you, Ms Walker?” Nancy crossed one leg over the other, keeping her eyes fixed on mine. “A single mother, is that correct?”
Anger flared inside me at the intonation she put on the phrase “single mother.” I stared back at her in response.
“And you believe that your daughter would tell you what she puts on Facebook?”
“Not everything, but anything important. We often talk about Internet safety and the pressures girls her age come across. So, yes, I believe she would.”
“Then, you, quite frankly, are an idiot.”
My fists clenched involuntarily at the personal attack on my own parenting. How dare she? As if she knew anything about my relationship with my daughter. As the thought of Teigan entered my mind, so did the memory of the hurt on her face this morning.
Evan intervened, which was probably for the best. “We need to wrap up soon, ladies.”
“Can I just ask Ms Walker a final question?” said Nancy.
“Go ahead, Ms Thompson.”
“Thank you. Ms Walker, my information tells me that you were the case accountable social worker for Emma Beale, a tragic, fatal case that hit the news just this morning. I’m just wondering why you think promoting your own business on here is more important than dealing with this massive error of judgment you made by allowing that girl to remain in the care of her murderous mother?”
In one swift sentence, she’d made me look like the most selfish person on the planet. My pulse started to quicken, and I could feel myself panicking. I should have brought Emma up right at the start and done the “now is the time for action” bit that Hilary had suggested. It was too late now. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
“Further to that, weren’t you also responsible for the Dannot brothers?”
Oh, God. It was the case that nearly broke me just two years before. The one I put all my energy into not thinking about. My heart started to beat double time at the mention of their name. The brothers on the floor. So much blood.
“The Dannot brothers?” said Evan as he scratched his head. “I know that case.”
“It was all over the news two years ago. They were brothers who tried to commit suicide after being moved into a less-than-acceptable foster family. The younger brother, Timmy, was successful in his attempt. That’s correct, isn’t it, Ms Walker? You were the social worker for the Dannot brothers, were you not?”
Panic pierced my chest as soon as the words escaped her poisonous mouth. All I could think about was poor Carly, the surviving sister. She’d been through enough already — she didn’t need the tragedy plastered all over the news a second time.
“Individual case information is confidential. I have no comment to make on the Dannot case or any others, for that matter.”
“Oh, I think we deserve a bit more than that politician’s answer, don’t you? After all, it’s quite simple. Are you responsible for the deaths of both Timmy Dannot and Emma Beale? If so, I don’t think people would want to invest in a charity founded by someone with your track record, to be honest.”
I turned to the presenters for help. They needed to stop her, tell her it wasn’t appropriate. But I knew deep down there was no chance of them saying that. My own personal hell was making cracking television for them.
“Ms Walker? Are you responsible for the death of two children?”