Damaged Goods. Helen Black

      He turned his thoughts to Charlene. If she turned up he’d grab her while he had the chance, if not he’d try again tomorrow. It was a total pain but he couldn’t risk meeting her at the unit. Not with Kelsey there. He didn’t think he could face her, not now.

      Several residents got off the bus and made straight for Big Lynne’s burger van. Most looked over at Max and admired his gleaming BMW. He’d have been just the same at their age, impressed by the bling of a luxury car, not noticing it was nine years old and worth about a grand.

      He watched them larking around throwing chips at each other. Charlene wasn’t with them. Maybe she hadn’t come. He waited until they’d finished their lunch and set off to the arcades.

      He’d been hanging about for nearly an hour and was itching for a toot. He was about to give it up and head back to the estate to score when he saw her. She was on her own, as usual, fingering a rack of cheap trousers, the sort that hung too low on the hips. Crap like that would cost a fiver at the most so he got out of his car and approached, intending to buy them for her.

      Unaware that she was being watched by Max or anyone else, the girl slipped the trousers into her bag. As she turned to leave, the burly stallholder, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, caught her by the arm and a scuffle ensued.

      Charlene struggled to get away and clawed at the man until her false nails began to snap off one by one, sounding like popcorn in a hot pan. She screamed that she was being attacked, but the stallholder clung on, his cigarette in place, one eye closed against the plume of smoke. A crowd began to gather, amused by the spectacle, glad for a reason to put down their shopping bags on such a warm day. They pointed and tittered; even Big Lynne put down her spatula and leaned her not inconsiderable girth over her greasy counter to see what the fuss was about. She gave a fleshy thumbs-up to her fellow market worker who seemed to have the situation under control until the girl gave her captor a swift kick in the groin.

      ‘Ooh,’ cried the audience as one.

      In an effort to protect himself the stallholder let go of the girl’s arm and she instantly fled, unchallenged by the shoppers until another man caught her around the waist.

      ‘Jack Mc-fucking-Nally,’ she shouted.

      ‘Charlene Clarke,’ he answered.

      At the sight of the policeman Max cursed and slunk back to his car.

      Hermione stirs her coffee but doesn’t drink it. She already feels giddy with power and caffeine might send her over the edge.

      When central office had suggested she request a meeting with the Chief Superintendent she had not shared their confidence that he would have any interest in hearing her views, but less than twenty-four hours later here they are in his office. The inner sanctum.

      She wishes she had someone to tell, to share in the excitement. She is forty-six and doesn’t have a friend. She has never had a friend. Colleagues yes, associates plenty, acquaintances by the truckload, but no special friend.

      Even at boarding school, forced to spend twenty-four hours a day with the same set of girls, she didn’t forge any firm bonds. She wasn’t bullied nor deliberately excluded, just overlooked. In the dorm the other pupils would share her tuck and copy her prep, but she was never invited to birthday teas or slumber parties. During the school holidays the others often visited one another but Hermione was never asked. She supposes she should have done the inviting, but home was always fraught, with her father’s ceaseless moans about money and her mother’s demands that he get a better job.

      Hermione recalls one summer when her mother had told every guest passing through that her daughter had been all-round winner at sports day with a special commendation for gymnastics. When the vicar had implored the singularly un-athletic Hermione to strut her stuff she’d been forced to perform a ludicrously cack-handed cartwheel.

      ‘Actually,’ said her mother to the embarrassed assembly, ‘Hermione has sprained her wrist, but she’s too polite to say.’

      For the remainder of August her mother had suggested Hermione might like to sport a bandage.

      Hermione sighs. She would have loved to share today’s good fortune with her mother. Still, she has William.

      The policeman smiles politely. ‘You’ve been somewhat critical of the police in recent days, Mrs Barrows, and I’m wondering where you’re going with it and whether you’ve considered how damaging your comments could prove.’

      She gives him credit for his efforts to backfoot her, but William had predicted this tactic and warned against any platitudes on her part. ‘Stay on the offensive, darling.’

      ‘My comments reflect the views of my constituents, the people you and I serve. Your failure to act upon those views is damaging the police, not my rhetoric,’ she says.

      He steeples his fingers and taps his nose. She simply waits, her smile sanguine. She has outwitted more complex characters than him before. She has kept her cool in situations more difficult than this.

      ‘Does central office know you intend to pursue this issue?’ he asks.

      ‘Of course. But you already know that,’ she answers.

      He feigns innocence. ‘How could I?’

      Time for them both to lay their cards on the table.

      ‘Your press office called mine this morning. If I was skiing off-piste they would have whipped me back in line and we wouldn’t be having this meeting. Since I have party backing you are obliged to take me seriously.’

      ‘What’s your next move?’ he asks.

      ‘Interviews with the press in the next hour,’ she replies. ‘Tell me you intend to investigate the girl and what I say will be more palatable.’

      ‘She’s not fit to be interviewed at present,’ he says.

      ‘Then we’ve nothing to discuss.’ She stands up and smooths her jacket from collar to hem. When she reaches the door, she turns. ‘This is a huge mistake.’

      When he is sure she has left he picks up his phone.

      ‘Get me Jack McNally.’

      Miriam did something she hated and shut the door to her office. A closed door meant she was off limits, too busy to speak, and when people had no one to speak to bad things happened.

      ‘Did she do it?’ she said.

      Lilly shrugged. ‘She says not.’

      ‘Do you believe her?’

      ‘What the hell do I know, Miriam, I’m not a shrink.’

      Miriam watched her friend and colleague run her fingers through her hair. She knew how seriously Lilly took her job and could see how tortured she was feeling. She also knew from the fatigue etched around Lilly’s eyes that old memories, and bad ones at that, were forcing their way into this mess.

      ‘Go home and get some rest.’

      Why bother saying it when she knew Lilly couldn’t do that. Despite what her friend thought Miriam had kept a copy of Kelsey’s letter and was bound by no professional rules on disclosure. She could hand it over to Jack and put Lilly out of her misery. Let the authorities decide what should happen to Kelsey. It seemed such a sensible course of action, and yet she would never do it.

      Miriam had her own set of rules that she had adhered to since the death of her son, and they had kept her going so far. To break them now would be a betrayal, not only to Kelsey but to the life that Miriam had created. People admired her unerring commitment to the children in her care, but she was not self-deluded and accepted that without it she would be just another grieving mother, and she was not strong enough to face that prospect. She felt for Lilly, but Miriam had her own ghosts to keep at bay. By protecting vulnerable children she protected herself. What did shrinks call it? Transference? Repression?

      She put her hand over Lilly’s