There is a young police constable sitting on my sofa with a notepad and pen, and he’s trying to tell me that everything will be okay. He’s about twenty-one years of age and still thinks that the police make a difference. Even my son wants to believe him.
They were far too busy to visit the house last night, so I’ve taken this morning off work. I’m left supposing that victims of crime who can’t afford to take time off work make up the unreported crime stats each year.
‘So, we’ll take your statement…’ The constable checks his notes. ‘Ewan, and we’ll sort this out for you, all right?’
I smile at him and wonder at his altruistic passion. I don’t want to ruin it for him and I remind myself to behave. I’ve made him tea, which he sips. Jeremy is keeping out of the way because he says he’s got a headache, and Ewan will feel under too much pressure with both parents breathing down his neck, but I know it’s because he’s ashamed of the way he looks and smells. He hit the booze last night, like an Exocet missile, and it’s a good job my air defences are intact. My ability to withstand the artillery barrage comes from acute practice in the field, however, my children shouldn’t have to go to war so young. They take shelter in the refuge of their rooms – teenage caves offering sound proofing from our spats – but sooner or later, they’ll outgrow them and want to venture outside.
‘Brandon Stand,’ Ewan says bravely. I love him. His courage blinds me.
‘He’s the son of the headmaster of George Paget School,’ I say.
The constable raises his eyebrows.
‘We’ve reported him before.’
‘I see.’
No, you don’t.
‘So tell me, in your own words, what happened.’
I listen as Ewan talks the constable through the litany of pain caused by his tormentor and I know nothing will ever get done.
The constable takes notes and I can tell that this is when he’s most comfortable, like all police – writing down what they should be doing, rather than doing it. I’ve had my fair share of brushes with their lot. In my line of work occasionally I get asked to give my expert opinion on schizophrenics, or general sociopaths. ‘Nutters in need’, Tony calls them. My faith in the law is dubious. But I have to walk Ewan through the motions of what society says is best to make their processes function.
‘The boy’s already apologised, but if you want to press charges—’
‘What?’ I ask.
Ewan looks at me and his eyes accuse me of treachery.
‘The boy was visited at his address before I was notified to drop by, and the young man, and his father, have offered an apology for the mistake, and they pass on their whole-hearted regret. Sorry, I got the note as I was walking to the door. I just read it on my phone.’
I feel the carpet sucking the life out of me with its swirling pattern and I’m aware of Ewan’s knuckles turning white. I regret making him do it. I want the constable to leave. It was a mistake.
‘Right, I’ll just read this back to you and then we need your signature, and your mum’s, and we’ll open a file.’
An open file. That’s what Ewan is.
He finishes his tea and thanks me; it was perfect, apparently, and just what he needed. I’ve been hosting his break, which he no doubt deserved, having taken off his stab vest when he came in. He has no idea that he may need it now. I might have wondered at the underbelly of Cambridge that is considered his patch, and why he might need body armour, but now I understand.
‘We don’t come out this way much,’ he says jovially.
Not much call for it, I assume. The children of the rich fulfil other statistics. Or at least they cover their tracks well.
‘You have a lovely home.’
‘Thank you, officer. When will we hear from you?’
Never.
‘I’ll file my report and then I’m off shift until next Tuesday, so it’ll be picked up by a colleague.’
My heart sinks.
He stands up and Ewan is reminded how powerless he is in the shadow of such a tall man in a uniform. We both are.
We shake hands. I walk him to the door. When I return to the sitting room, Ewan is not there. Not even a minute has passed and the doorbell rings again, jarring me. It’s the young constable back, holding Ewan’s mutilated bike.
‘This was left on your driveway, ma’am.’