Adam comes out of the office, looking dazed.
In the corridor, he retches and then he runs, trying to find a loo, but he can’t find one and he’s sick on the floor. I hold him but he can’t feel me.
Mum is coming down the corridor. As she sees Addie she magicks that smile onto her face.
‘Poor old you,’ she says, giving him a hug.
Sarah has come out of the office now. She wipes his face with a Kleenex from her pocket, then bends down so that her face is level with his.
‘I’m really sorry the policeman said those things to you. Someone has lied to him and we are going to find out who, I promise. And then I expect he’ll want to come and apologise to you in person. I would, in his shoes. I’m going to talk to him right now.’
Mum takes Adam’s hand. ‘Let’s go outside and get some fresh air, shall we?’
She takes him towards the exit of the hospital and Jenny goes with them.
As I watch them leave I remember watching a history series with Addie while you were away. (It had that flirty ‘snogging-the-bloody-camera!’ presenter who irritates you.) During the ad breaks, they showed a trailer for a crime programme. It gave Addie a nightmare, so afterwards Jenny or I would grab the remote to turn it over until it was finished. It’s a little bit mad, I know, but I feel as if our old safe life is on the other channel, and we’ve been sucked into a violent and frightening one that we can’t escape.
I go with Sarah back into that hot, vile office.
DI Baker is writing notes on a form; a done-and-dusted form, I imagine, naming Adam and a caution and a job finished.
He’s irritated to see her.
‘I need to know who said they saw Adam,’ she says.
‘No. You don’t. You’re not a part of this investigation.’
‘Whoever told you was lying.’
‘I think I’m the best judge of that. Believe me, it gives me no pleasure to have to caution a child, let alone a police officer’s nephew.’
‘You said that on sports day the birthday child takes his or her cake, with matches, out to the playing field?’
DI Baker leans forward; his shirt is untucked, a droplet of sweat on his back glistens.
‘There is no point to this conversation.’
‘So the child would have to return to the school to get his or her cake.’
‘Where, exactly, are you going with this?’
‘I think the arsonist wanted to set fire to the school on sports day – maybe because the school would be virtually deserted. He chose the child who had a birthday that day, knowing that the child would go back to school to get their cake and matches – and could be made a scapegoat.’
‘This story you’re cooking up-’
‘No story. The school PTA make a calendar every year with a photo of the children who have birthdays that month.’
Adam gave her one for Christmas. All the relatives got one.
‘So this month has a photo of Adam and three other children with July birthdays,’ she continues. ‘Yesterday’s date has “Sports Day” written in large type and “Adam Covey is 8” in small type. It’s on the wall of my kitchen. I saw it last week then forgot about it.’
DI Baker is tucking his shirt back in, hiding the sweat.
‘Anyone with a calendar would know it was Adam’s birthday on sports day,’ Sarah continues. ‘Including the arsonist. He planned for the blame to fall on him.’
DI Baker turns, crossly uncomfortable.
‘Let’s suppose, for just one moment, that you’re right. Let’s go with that. So why didn’t Adam deny it? They’re guilty when they’re silent, aren’t they? In your experience?’
He’s enjoying taunting her.
‘“They” are adult criminals, not an eight-year-old child.’
‘All he had to do was shake his head. I even suggested it to him. But he didn’t.’
‘I think he could well be suffering from amnesia.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘It is another recognised symptom of PTS.’
‘You clearly learnt a lot on that secondment.’
‘Memories of the trauma, and often a little while before or afterwards, are blanked out by the brain as a means of self-preservation.’
‘So he’s conveniently wiped the whole thing?’ he asks, enjoying his sarcasm now.
‘No, the memory is there. But his self-defence mechanisms have blocked access to it.’
DI Baker goes to the door, his back to her.
‘It explains why he doesn’t respond to your questions,’ Sarah continues. ‘He can’t. Because he simply doesn’t remember. And he’s an honest child, so he wouldn’t deny something he can’t remember. I just hope he doesn’t believe your verdict on him.’
DI Baker turns.
‘The only time I’ve seen genuine amnesia is when someone is drugged up to the eyeballs or has had a bash on the head. This is claptrap and you know it.’
‘Dissociative amnesia is a recognised psychological condition.’
‘Mumbo-jumbo reserved for slippery defence lawyers, not police officers.’
‘It’s called retrograde amnesia following a traumatic event.’
Being Sarah, she probably knows all this. But she must have brushed up on her knowledge to have the terms at her fingertips. That must be why she was on her BlackBerry as she waited for Adam to arrive. I used to get annoyed at the amount of time she spent on that thing.
But I don’t think Adam is suffering from amnesia but the opposite. I think he hasn’t forgotten the traumatic event but is locked into it and that’s why he can’t speak.
I have to find him.
I leave the office, remembering Mum saying she was going to take him outside for fresh air, her cure for most ailments. ‘If it was up to you, Georgie,’ Dad had teased, ‘I’d be prescribing half a kilometre of a healthy walk.’
Jenny is in the large goldfish-bowl atrium at the entrance to the hospital, looking through the glass wall.
‘He’s with Granny G and Aunt Sarah,’ she says, and gestures to a municipal patch of grass a little distance away, where I can just see them.
‘I tried to go with them,’ she continues. ‘But it hurts to be outside. Really hurts.’
I long to go to him, but Jenny has no one with her and I can feel her unhappiness.
We watch Addie, the glass separating us from him.
‘Maybe it won’t be so bad,’ Jenny says, and I think of her at six bringing me tepid tea when I had flu; sweetly, uselessly, trying to make me feel better.
‘You and Dad and me and Aunt Sarah and Granny G, we all know that Adam didn’t do it,’ she continues. ‘If his family believe in him then-’
‘He’ll have to grow up with this,’ I say, interrupting her without meaning to. ‘He’ll be the boy who tried to kill his sister and mother. School. University. Wherever he goes, it will go first. This terrible thing that’s being said about him.’
She’s silent for a little while, watching Addie.
‘There’s something I didn’t tell you,’ she says. ‘About the hate-mailer. He threw a can of paint at me.’
My God. He was following her.
‘Did you see who it was?’ I ask, trying to sound calm.
‘No. He threw it from behind. I don’t remember anything useful at all. Nothing that will help Addie. I just remember this woman screaming and screaming. It was red gloss, the paint. She thought it was blood. It covered the back of my coat. And all down my hair.’
Was the paint meant to look like blood? A hideous warning of the violence to come?
‘It was on the tenth of May,’ she says.
That was just a few weeks ago. Just a few weeks. It hadn’t stopped at all. It had got worse. Not just posting her vicious letters, but following her and throwing paint at her. Is he still stalking her now? Attacking her for real?
‘If I’d told the police, they might have found him,’ she says. ‘Stopped him in time. And Addie…’
Guilt crumples her face; she looks more like ten right now than seventeen.
I put my hand on her, but she shakes me off as if sympathy just makes it all worse.
‘I tried to convince myself it wasn’t the hate-mailer who set fire to the school. But now with Adam being accused, I can’t…’
She’s admitting this awful possibility out of love for Adam.
‘Why didn’t you tell us, Jen?’
‘I thought it was the right thing to do,’ she says quietly.
Before the fire, I’d have told her that the right thing was to be responsible and tell us and the police. I’d have become my nanny voice and got up onto my washing-powder box and told her this wasn’t about her being ‘grounded’ or ‘policed’ but about keeping her safe, and unless she told us she was putting herself at risk.
‘Who else knows?’ I ask.
‘Just Ivo,’ she replies. ‘I made him promise me he wouldn’t tell anyone.’
You’ll think it’s unfair of me to hate Ivo now, but he should have told us.
‘When’s he coming home?’ I ask.
‘Ten days. But he’s bound to find out about this and come back sooner.’
I nod. But I doubt he’ll fly back to be at her side. And you think my doubt is unfair on him too.
As I stare out of the window, a man brushes past me.
Mr Hyman.
I feel jolted by shock. Shivery with it. What is he doing here?
He’s in shorts and T-shirt, looking so suntanned in this white place. At school he had to wear a formal jacket and trousers and I find his bare arms and legs too intimate.
He’s by some kind of vending machine now, taking a ticket.
He goes through a door I hadn’t noticed before.
I follow him.
‘Mum?’
‘I want to know what he’s up to.’
‘I’m sure he’s not up to anything.’
But she comes with me anyway.
The door leads onto steep concrete steps. It closes behind us.
We follow him down to a basement car park. After the bright sunshine of the atrium, the basement is oppressively dark. The heat smells of petrol fumes and exhausts. The concrete is stained, the roof too low. I automatically look for exits.
There’s only us down here and Mr Hyman.
‘I don’t like this,’ I say.
‘It’s just a car park. He was getting a ticket for it.’
‘You’re invisible,’ my nanny voice snaps, so much harsher than Jenny. ‘And probably half dead already. So what can possibly happen to you?’
Mr Hyman reaches an old yellow Fiat and sticks the ticket from the vending machine on the windscreen. There are three children’s seats crammed into the car.
‘What’s he doing here?’ I say.
‘He’s probably come to have it out with Tara,’ Jenny says. ‘She deserves it.’
‘But how would he know that she hangs around here?’
‘Maybe he’s a good guesser,’ Jenny says. ‘I don’t know. Or he’s just trying to get away from his wife. He used to pretend to run the after-school scrapbook-making club so he could get more time away from her.’
She smiles as if it’s funny but I don’t.
‘You can’t blame him, really. She’s horrible to him,’ Jenny continues. ‘Told him he was a loser, and that was when he still had a job. Said she was embarrassed by him. But she won’t get divorced. Says if he leaves her, he’ll never see the kids.’
I look at the three car seats in the car, a discarded teddy, a Postman Pat comic.
‘He told you that?’ I ask.
‘So?’
So, you were sixteen last summer and he’s thirty, I want to say, but don’t.
‘Perhaps he’s come to see one of us,’ Jenny continues. ‘Bring flowers or something. He’s really kind, remember, Mum? You do remember that, don’t you?’
A challenge to remember him, as I used to think him.
We follow him back up the basement steps, me staring at his back, as if I can X-ray through his body to see the inner man. He’s hot and sweating, his T-shirt sticking to him, and I see how muscular he is.
I am relieved to be back in the goldfish-bowl atrium of daylight and people and noise.
I spot Adam coming in with Mum and Sarah. As I look at him, I lose sight of Mr Hyman.
Mum has her arm around Adam.
‘Mummy will still be having a few bits and bobs sorted out,’ she says to him, reducing MRIs and CT scans and God knows what else to bits and bobs and I love her for it. ‘So let’s get a drink to settle your tummy and then we can see her later.’
When Dad died I’d found out that my parents were the roof which had been sheltering me. Icy winds of grief blew through what had once been warm and safe; terror clawing its way in. Now Mum is putting up a canopy for Adam and I so admire her strength as she tries to shelter him.
I go up to Sarah, desperate to talk to her. Because I have information that will surely exonerate Addie.
I now know that the hate-mailer attacked Jenny with red paint. It didn’t stop in February as everyone thinks, but in May, just a few weeks ago. And maybe he’s attacking her now, not symbolically with red paint, but trying to kill her.
Because I know that a man sabotaged Jenny’s ventilator – I saw him.
But I also think you’re right to be suspicious of Silas Hyman because what the hell was a thirty-year-old man doing bad-mouthing his wife to a sixteen-year-old? And what’s he doing here? Now?
And I’ve seen Donald being vicious to Rowena and I think he’s probably been violent to Rowena and Maisie for years. Both of them were in the school at the time of the fire. But they won’t tell anyone about him, not when they haven’t done so in the past.
I feel like I’ve become the keeper of the keys and one of them, surely, will unlock the truth.
It’s my job now to find out everything I can.
Then I will make sure that Adam is proved innocent.
I have to.
That is all there is to it.