The Secret Child (DI Amy Winter #2)(37)

He winced at the sight of the red scab crusted over on his wrist. The number was tiny, the size of his fingernail, but it itched like mad just the same. He blew on the inflamed skin to cool the tenderness. Mama would go crazy if she knew. But Deborah said Mama was the ‘anxious type’, and if Luka had a problem he must go to her instead.

A soft knock on his bedroom door signalled that Deborah was on the other side. ‘Are you ready? It’s time.’

Sighing, Luka pulled on his grey sweatshirt and shoved his feet into his plimsolls. His head hung low as he followed her down the long, gloomy corridor. A bunch of keys jangled from a chain on Deborah’s hip, reinforcing Luka’s sense of confinement. Room doors were locked from the outside and people needed special permission to access this floor. Apart from his mama, there were four constants in Luka’s life: Dr Curtis and Deborah were there most of the day, while orderlies Stuart and Christina took it in turns to stay overnight. Upstairs, outside workshops ran afternoon classes ranging from music lessons to maths. It was not what Dr Curtis had promised, and Luka spent most of his days completing tests.

His glance flicked to the locked doors. More than once he’d heard crying coming from inside the rooms.

‘Today we’re going to try something new.’ Deborah’s voice dragged him from his thoughts. ‘Isn’t that exciting?’ She smiled as they approached the waiting room, but her smile was rigid, the corners of her eyes creasing as she spoke. It provided no comfort in an uncertain life.



Deborah tried to make the tests fun. Just like in the book Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, portions of food were placed before him with the words ‘Eat me’ on a card. They ranged from squares of cake to sweets coloured blue or red, but Luka could pick just one. On other days, four phials were presented with the words ‘Drink me’ on the side. Luka always picked red, until it gave him a tummy ache. His decision-making was monitored and documented each time. Since taking the tablets the doctor had given him, Luka found it easier to work the patterns out. The drink that made him sick was always top right, unless it was red and then it was bottom left. As the tests became more intricate, Luka was determined to pass each one. But the bitter tablets he swallowed made him see things that weren’t there. ‘Hallucinations,’ Deborah called them, noting them down.

Pausing outside the waiting room, she squeezed his shoulder, catching his worried expression. ‘You’ve got music lessons later. Why don’t you focus on that for now?’

Luka’s gaze fell to the floor as a sense of trepidation threatened to swallow him whole. ‘I want Mama,’ he uttered, clasping his hands together until his fingers were tied up in knots.

A soft sigh escaped Deborah’s lips as she bent to meet his gaze. ‘Sweetheart, your mother’s busy in the canteen, feeding the workshop students upstairs. You don’t want to worry her now, do you? Think how upset she’d be.’

Luka blinked away the tears beginning to form. The doctor had delivered on his promise of giving her a job, but Mama had dreamed of waitressing in a London café or hotel.

‘Now, c’mon . . .’ Deborah squeezed his forearm before straightening up. ‘Do well today, and you can see her later on.’

The waiting room was a sterile space with paint-blistered white walls and plastic chairs lining each side. In the corner, a mop lay in a bucket of stagnant water, and a selection of well-thumbed comics were splayed on a grubby, glass-topped coffee table in the centre of the floor. But Luka’s attention was drawn to the boy hunched in a seat in the corner of the room. Like him, the boy wore a grey tracksuit, but his seemed barely able to stretch over his chubby form. Sniffing loudly, the boy pushed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets to dry his tears.

‘Oh.’ Deborah frowned as Dr Curtis entered the room. ‘Why isn’t Sam . . .’ She coughed to correct herself. ‘Subject Four back in his room?’

But Dr Curtis seemed oblivious to the boy’s distress. ‘We had a breakthrough.’ Clutching a piece of paper, he waved it in the air. ‘Come. Let me show you . . .’ He gestured Deborah into the adjoining room. Tentatively, Luka stepped forward. Was he meant to go with them?

‘Where are you going?’ Dr Curtis barked, his bushy brown eyebrows knitting as he scowled.

‘I – I . . .’ Luka stuttered, looking to Deborah for support.

‘Sit down. We won’t be long.’ She guided him to a seat on the far side of the room. She looked at the other boy, but her gaze did not linger for long. ‘Christina will be with you soon.’

Twiddling his fingers, Luka sagged in the chair. He missed his friends. He missed his father too. It had been weeks since his last letter. If Papa were here, he would put Dr Curtis straight. Mama was not good at standing up for herself.

Another sniffle erupted from the corner. Slipping a tissue from his tracksuit-bottoms pocket, Luka rose from his chair and handed it to the boy. Dolefully, he accepted it, his red-rimmed eyes relaying that he had either received bad news or been through something tough. Either way, Luka had to know.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked, claiming the seat beside him. Despite the boy’s distress, it felt strangely comforting to be speaking to someone his own age. His time was often spent in isolation. He had a strong urge to befriend the other children he sometimes saw in the corridors, but they weren’t usually allowed to mix.