The Dead Ex(37)

Everyone laughed.

‘Disgusting. The sooner you’re out of my house, the better. Isn’t that right, love?’

She looked up at Mr W. Normally he wasn’t around at breakfast. Right now his black beady eyes were on her. Pinning her down.

‘Put a plate in front of her, someone,’ squealed Mrs W. ‘She’s being sick. All over the floor. Get out. Now. Go to school. Someone can clean you up there.’

When she got back, Camilla was waiting in Mrs W’s kitchen. ‘In a few days, we’re going to be moving you to another family, love. You’ll have more restrictions. You won’t be able to go to a shopping centre with the other children. The new place is in the middle of the country. There aren’t many shops there. Just lovely green fields. It will mean another school too.’

What about Mum? Scarlet wanted to ask. But the words wouldn’t come out. They’d stayed stuck inside her mouth ever since the bedroom door had opened last night. At school that day, she’d been given a black mark for ‘refusing to talk’.

‘I’m afraid there’s something else, Scarlet. Your mum did something wrong, you see. It’s to do with drugs. Never take them when you’re older, Scarlet. They wreck people’s lives. I’ve seen it over and over again.’

She stopped. When she began again, there was a funny sound to her voice. ‘You’ll have another social worker at your new home. Hopefully you’ll be able to visit your mum again before too long. But she’s not allowed to see you for a bit because of her making you bring in those drugs. If she asks you to do that again, you must say no. Do you understand?’

Scarlet nodded.

‘She’s sent you this. Said you’d always liked it.’

It was the photograph of her mother when she was little in the place called Whales with the two grown-ups and the little dog. The one that she always carried with her in her bag.

‘The prison lets people keep certain things when they go inside. Your mum got special permission to give it to you because she thought it might give you comfort.’

Scarlet held it against her cheek, pretending that Mum was still here. Right next to her. That everything was back to normal again.





17



Vicki


I’m sleepy when I come round. Although I’ve never taken drugs, I imagine this is what it feels like to be high.

‘Vicki? Are you all right?’

It’s someone in black. Slowly it dawns that this is the policewoman from earlier. She is kneeling over me.

‘Drink,’ I say. Then, because I’m dimly aware this sounds rude, I add the word ‘please’.

My wrists ache. That’s when I realize I have handcuffs on.

‘Take them off.’ The metal is cold against my skin. It chafes against my bones as I shake them furiously. I hear my voice rising in hysteria. ‘I SAID, GET THEM OFF!’

The woman’s face registers a sympathy which hadn’t been there before. ‘I’m afraid we can’t. Not until we’ve been to the station. Do you feel well enough to come with us now?’

Might as well get it over with. I stumble to my feet. She takes my arm to help.

‘We can get you checked there,’ she adds, almost apologetically. ‘Unless you want us to call an ambulance.’

‘There’s nothing they can do.’

‘Why?’ cuts in the inspector. ‘Because you’ve just pretended to fit?’

‘How dare you? Is that why you haven’t called for help already?’

The flicker in his eyes shows that I’ve hit the mark.

‘I could report you for that,’ I add.

He looks distinctly uncomfortable now. I’ve a mind to carry out my threat. But he’s not the only one to react like this. David hadn’t understood either. You can rarely cure epilepsy, one of the doctors once told me, but you can learn to live with it. The same can’t always be said for your nearest and dearest. Or your enemies.

I turn to the policewoman. ‘Can you fetch my tablets too? They’re in the high cupboard in the kitchen.’

She looks at the detective as if seeking approval. He nods abruptly. And then we’re on our way.

I was hoping not to come back to this police station. There’s a couple sitting on metal-backed chairs by the wall. The woman is red-eyed. She is silently weeping, holding a scrunched-up tissue in her hands.

Instinctively I know she’s just received bad news. A son on a motorbike? A runaway daughter? A woman on my wing was once told that her daughter had died. ‘Which one?’ she’d cried. ‘I have two.’ But no one knew (the lack of communication was often appalling), so she didn’t find out until the following day. That haunts me still. It also makes me wonder how I would have coped if that had happened to a teenage Patrick.

I smile in what I hope is a comforting gesture. In return, the woman turns away. No doubt this is related to the fact that there are two police uniforms on either side of me. At least they’ve taken off my handcuffs. Presumably they no longer think I’m going to make a dash for it.

I am led into a side room. A youngish-looking nurse is waiting. She asks me the usual stuff. Did I feel unwell before the seizure started? Yes. I was under stress because I’d just been arrested. Was I hurt in any way? Only a bruise on my right arm where I had fallen. Nothing serious, she declares. Had I had anything to drink? A glass of water but I need more. Please.