My Sister's Bones(57)

My heart sinks. She hasn’t reported her husband; she’s reported me.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ I shout. ‘There is a child in grave danger. I’ve seen him with my own eyes. He’s constantly crying for his mother and tonight he was in my flower bed.’

The officer smirks then tries to cover his amusement with his hand.

‘Oh, I’m glad you find this funny,’ I say, fury coursing through my body. ‘But forgive me if I don’t share the joke. That woman out there is a victim of domestic abuse. Look at her face. So is her child. I’m sure he had a black eye when I saw him. You need to go and search the house. They must have him locked up in there.’

‘Come on, Ms Rafter,’ says the officer, taking me by the arm. ‘You shouldn’t be in here.’

As we reach the door, Fida steps towards me.

‘This is happening almost every day,’ she says. ‘She just won’t stop. I don’t have a child. I fell over, that is all. I don’t deserve to be hounded like this.’

I can see in her eyes that she wants to say something. For God’s sake, why won’t she just tell them?

‘She needs help,’ she whispers to the officer nearest me. ‘She’s not well.’

I look at her and something inside me snaps. Her blank face is my mother’s face and every bit of frustration and impotence comes hurtling to the surface. I need to make her see sense.

‘Why won’t you tell them, you stupid woman?’ I shout, grabbing her scarf and shaking it violently. ‘Why won’t you just tell them where he is?’

My answer comes in the form of cold, hard metal clasped round my wrists and a male voice telling me what I can or cannot say. As they lead me back through the garden I can hear Fida sobbing and I know that this time I have gone too far.





26


Herne Bay Police Station

37.5 hours detained

Shaw has left the room and a young officer is guarding me. He’s sitting by the door with his hands clasped in front of him and, like his colleagues, he looks like he is just out of nappies. How can my life be in their hands?

I told Shaw everything she wanted to know and now my fate rests with something called a Full Mental Health Act Assessment, which, somewhere in this building, she is completing.

The clock above the young man’s head reads 16.01. I have been here for almost forty hours. Last night I slept in a windowless cell and dreamt of nothing. That is something at least. Perhaps the very act of recounting my nightmares to Shaw has rendered them obsolete. Who knows?

Paul has been called and informed of my detention. I was allowed to speak to him for a couple of minutes. He told me that he would do everything he could to get me out but they were empty words. The only person in the world with the power to release me is Dr Shaw and I have no idea what she is going to do.

While I have been detained in this tiny police station in a deserted backstreet, Fida’s husband will have unleashed his fury on the boy, there is no doubt about it.

If I’m released I will call Harry and tell him there is a story unfolding. I will draw on my contacts in child services and use all the influence I have left to get that child out of there. But I can only do that if I’m released from my own prison. And I have no idea if that is going to happen.

The door opens and the young man jumps to his feet. Shaw enters with the officer who arrested me. In her hands she holds a wedge of papers. I scrutinize her face for an answer but it is a screen of impenetrability. My heart begins to pound against my chest and my mouth is dry. Only now, at the final moment, do I understand the enormity of my situation. The woman sitting in front of me, shuffling into her seat, has the power to incarcerate me in a mental institution. My life, my career, my whole future, has shrivelled to this room, this woman and the papers she holds in her hands.

‘Kate,’ begins Shaw. She pauses to clear her throat before continuing. ‘I’ve completed the assessment form and I am satisfied that you do not pose a threat to yourself and others. Therefore I will not be recommending further detention under Section 136 of the Mental Health Act.’

My eyes water and I look down at my knees, willing myself not to cry. Not here, not in front of these people.

‘However,’ continues Shaw, ‘from what you have told me, and the symptoms you have presented, I believe that you are suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder and I would like to refer you to a relevant professional for counselling. I cannot order you to do this but I would highly recommend it, particularly at this critical point where your behaviour has resulted in arrest.’

I nod my head. I will do whatever she asks me as long as I can get back to the house and help the boy.

‘My work here is done,’ says Shaw, placing the papers on to her knee. ‘And I’ll now hand you over to PC Walker to outline the outcome of your arrest.’

I look up at Walker and he raises his eyebrows. What a pathetic excuse for a police officer. There he stood, yards from an abused child, and what did he do? He arrested me.

‘Do you have any questions before I go, Kate?’ asks Shaw.

I have many questions. I want to ask her if she has ever seen a child die in front of her eyes. I want to ask her why she keeps taking her wedding ring off then putting it back on again. I want to ask her why she flinched when I described my father’s beatings. I want to ask her if the nightmares will stop. I want to ask her if she believes me.