The Silent Witness: Part 3 of 3. Casey Watson

sometimes we don’t want to believe what we saw. Sometimes we wish so hard for what we saw happen not to have happened … because it doesn’t quite fit with everything else we know … doesn’t fit with the bigger picture. You know, in your case, how your mum is, and how your dad is …’

      Her eyes met mine again. ‘He’s my stepdad.’

      ‘Your stepdad,’ I quickly acknowledged. I reached out to touch her hand. ‘I understand, you know,’ I said quietly. ‘I know how hard it is to tell the truth sometimes, Bella. Because though it’s what happened, it’s still at odds with the truth – the bigger truth – that you know.’

      A single tear tracked down her cheek and disappeared under her chin. ‘Sweetheart, you’re in such a horrible situation. Only you know what happened that day. Just your mum, and your stepdad – and you. But, you know, however much you think it’ll make everything worse for your mum if you say what happened, if it has come back to you – even if it’s just bits of it – it might help a lot if you feel brave enough to tell someone. It might help your mum. I know I can’t promise that, but from what I do know, I think it might. Because right now,’ I ploughed on – in for a penny, in for a pound … ‘With your mum saying one thing and your stepdad saying another, the people who have to make all these huge, difficult decisions don’t know who to believe, do they? Which is why they end up having to ask other people – friends of your mum and your dad – neighbours, whoever – what they think. And whatever you saw, however much you worry that it might be bad for your mum, it won’t make it worse than it is all the while they don’t know, will it?’

      I could have said more. So much more. But how could I begin to even hint at what I knew about the case being made against Bella’s mother? For one thing, I still felt it was a confection, at least in part. And even if there were elements of truth buried in the vitriol, what Bella had already told me put that in a very different perspective. Her mother may be no saint, but she had also been sorely tested. And if Bella didn’t paint that bigger picture, who would?

      And for another thing, it was absolutely not my place to lead or coerce her into saying anything. In that sense, I had already overstepped the mark.

      I sat back. ‘You must be exhausted, sweetheart,’ I said more briskly. ‘And hungry? How about some food?’

      She shook her head.

      ‘Well, perhaps you’re in need of a lie-down before anything else,’ I said. ‘Maybe get into your jim jams, yes? Let the dust settle. No more chat from me for the moment. Come on, how about I run you a nice bath and we –’

      ‘I want to,’ she said, surprising me. ‘I really, really want to tell the truth, Casey. They think I don’t but I do. So badly. I hate that they’re asking everyone else. What do they know about it? I told Sophie that.’ She went silent again.

      I held my hand out. She took it. ‘I just can’t.’

      Because all the kids were around, and I had no right or wish to banish them (or, indeed, scuttle off and go into a marital huddle), I had to hold off the summit talk and debrief I really wanted to have with Mike. Instead, once the little ones were in bed, I sat in front of the TV (Bella having decided on an early night in the company of her favourite wizard) where all I could do was sit and half-watch the television while having the conversation with myself.

      How bad had it been? That was what I kept coming back to. How bad could it have been that she dare not – would not – voice it? Despite all of my years studying children, of reading up on behavioural therapy and psychology, and working with troubled kids, I had absolutely no clue how I was going to help unlock the secrets this child was keeping. And until someone did, be it me, or her counsellor, or Sophie, or anyone, we were all floundering about in the dark.

      And for the first time I had to seriously entertain the thought that maybe her stepdad was the one telling the truth. That, contrary to everything I believed, he had done nothing to provoke the attack by his wife. That his story – of drinking heavily, falling asleep, of waking up to find himself being violently attacked by his partner – was the truth.

      Was Bella just doing exactly what her mum had told her to? Pretending to have seen nothing because that same mother had told her that if she told the truth she wouldn’t even have a mother, not physically, at any rate, and potentially for years and years.

      I didn’t need Mike to speak to hear his voice in my ears. Perhaps that was the truth of it, and it was giving me one hell of a headache.

      Mike and I were still sitting in front of the telly, Tyler playing a game on the laptop, when Bella reappeared. Woken from a doze, I looked at the clock, and was surprised. After our conversation I’d made a point of going up and checking on her an hour earlier (and the little ones, who’d taken over Ty’s room – he was stoically camped out in the conservatory for a few days), and at that time she’d apparently been sound asleep. But something had now woken her. Upset her. Perhaps a nightmare. Hardly surprising, given the sights, sounds and emotions her memory bank was probably now filled with.

      Seeing Tyler acknowledge her, I turned around to see her standing there in her dressing gown, her faithful Dobby hanging down from her hand at her side. I could tell from her puffy eyelids that she’d been crying.

      She didn’t speak, but it was obvious she needed me to go to her, so I got up immediately and herded her across the hall and back into the kitchen, where I sat her down once again, on one of the kitchen chairs.

      I then plucked some kitchen roll from the holder, pulled out another chair and sat across from her, so our knees were almost touching. I handed her the kitchen roll, which she put in her lap along with Dobby. Now I’d sat her down, I realised she was, in fact, dry-eyed. That whatever crying she’d been doing was now over.

      ‘What’s up, love?’ I asked her. ‘You getting stressed about what we talked about earlier? Or is it school? Have you got the jitters now? Because, you know, it’s –’

      ‘No, it’s not that,’ she said, folding the kitchen roll into squares. ‘It’s just that I’ve been going over and over things …’

      ‘Things with Mum?’ I asked gently.

      She nodded. ‘Casey, can I ask you something?’ she said.

      ‘Course you can. Anything. You know that, love.’ I waited.

      ‘It’s just that … what d’you think is worse? Is it worse to break a promise or is it worse to tell a lie?’

      Philosophy, then, no doubt related to our chat earlier on. ‘Can’t,’ she’d said. Can’t tell the truth. I re-ran the question in my head, putting it in context. A promise or a lie? I felt a prickle at the back of my neck. Was this going where I thought (and hoped) this might be going? ‘Hmm. That’s a tricky one,’ I said.

      ‘It’s not a trick question, honest.’

      ‘No, I know that, love,’ I said, reaching out to squeeze her arm. ‘It’s just a hard one so I’m going to need time to think about it. Hmm …. I suppose it depends. On what the promise is you might be breaking. And on what the lie is.’ I leaned closer. ‘Can you give me a little more to go on?’

      Clearly not. Her response was a small but unmistakable shake of her head.

      ‘Ok-ayyy …’ I said. ‘Fair enough. But, well, in that case I can only answer you hypothetically. You know that word?’ Bella nodded. I bet she probably did, too. ‘And I think you’d have to ask yourself what the consequences might be – you know, of breaking the promise as opposed to telling the lie. And who you made the promise to, of course. I suppose that’s the main thing, isn’t it?’ I went on, beginning to settle into my thinking, but still conscious of my responsibility not to lead her. ‘That and how big a thing the promise is. You know, sometimes we’re asked to make a promise to someone and, because it’s someone we care about, we immediately say yes, don’t we?’

      I paused for a response,