Fire Damage: A gripping thriller that will keep you hooked. Kate Medina

affluent family. It was a good size, a decent double, with a single oak-framed bed pushed against the wall to her right, a window opposite and a large oak chest of drawers to her left. Beneath the window were four coloured plastic toy buckets, filled with toys. The walls were a soft sunshine yellow, the same shade as Sami’s sleep-suit in the watercolour Nooria had painted of him. That was the limit of where the room met with her expectation.

      The curtain was drawn across the window, recessed overhead electric lights on full, giving the room a harsh, office-like glow. The yellow floral curtain must have been backed with blackout material, because not a single ray of natural light penetrated its folds. On his bed were a sheet and pillow, but no covers: no duvet or blanket. No Thomas the Tank Engine or Bob the Builder bed linen. There were no cuddly toys, not a single teddy bear, on the bed. It was bare, the whole room cold and institutional, similar to the Military Police holding cells she had seen last year while assessing a soldier who had broken his girlfriend’s jaw in four places with his fist and was on suicide watch.

      Sami was sitting underneath the window playing with some toys, his back to her. Next to him on the floor was the huge, black metal Maglite torch. Even though the room was flooded with light, the torch was switched on, its beam cutting a pale cylinder to the wall, lighting floating motes of dust.

      Jessie remained in the doorway. If she had learnt anything from her experience yesterday it was to maintain her distance until he was entirely comfortable with her presence. The dull thud from her temple reminded her of that.

      ‘Sami, it’s Jessie Flynn. I’ve come to see you.’

      For a moment, she thought that he hadn’t heard her: he made no movement, no sound, no indication that he had done so. Then, slowly an arm reached out, a hand closed around the shaft of the torch. Shuffling around on his bottom, dragging the torch with him, the little boy half-turned towards her.

      Jessie smiled. ‘Hi, Sami.’

      His face showed no expression. He didn’t smile back. He didn’t frown.

      ‘Can I come in?’

      No expression still, his huge dark eyes fixed on her face. The scrutiny intense, unwavering. Then a barely perceptible nod.

      ‘Thank you.’

      Stepping through the doorway, Jessie pushed the door closed behind her. She wanted privacy, a physical barrier to the sounds of their interaction floating down the stairs. Though she knew that she was putting her reputation at risk shutting herself into a room with a child, she had a strong sense it was important they weren’t overheard. For his freedom of mind; for her own.

      ‘What are you playing with?’

      ‘Dolly.’

      ‘Can I play with your toys too?’

      Severe or not, she had secured her hair in a bun this time, but had softened her look with a pale blue V-neck jumper, white jeans and trainers.

      Again, an almost imperceptible inclination of his head. Jessie crossed the room, lowered herself on to the carpet next to him.

      One of the four plastic tubs lined in front of him was full of dolls: four or five of various sizes, plus their accessories: a pink potty, a couple of milk bottles, plates, bowls and spoons, bibs, a few changes of sleep-suits in pastel colours. Sami, cradling one of the dolls in his lap, was halfway through changing her clothes.

      ‘Could I play with one too?’

      No verbal reply, but another tiny nod.

      Jessie reached into the bucket and retrieved a doll. It was large, the size of a real newborn, dressed in a baby pink sleep-suit with a fairy castle embroidered on the front in lilac, underneath the castle the words ‘Baby Isabel’ stitched in gold cursive script. A glittery pink plastic dummy was jammed in her mouth; glassy pale blue eyes stared fixedly back at Jessie. She had not been a ‘dolly’ girl, or into princesses either, preferring Scalextric, or arranging her cuddly toys into intergalactic battle groups based on snatched episodes of Dr Who, lying behind the sofa, watching through her father’s feet, when she was supposed to be in bed.

      ‘Do you like dolls?’

      He nodded. ‘Sami like dolls.’

      He had finished changing the doll, was looking longingly at Baby Isabel. Jessie passed the doll to him.

      ‘The girl likes dolls.’

       The girl.

      ‘Which doll is the girl’s favourite?’ Jessie asked softly.

      Without hesitation, he held up Baby Isabel.

      ‘Why does the girl like Baby Isabel best?’

      He shrugged.

      ‘Is it because she’s got beautiful blue eyes?’

      Another shrug.

      ‘What about her sleep-suit? The castle? It’s very pretty.’

      He ran his fingertips gently over the silky castle, but still didn’t reply.

      ‘Sami, who is the girl?’

      He looked up, his brow furrowing. ‘The girl,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘The girl likes dolls.’

      ‘Is the girl you?’

      He met her gaze blankly. She resisted the instinctive temptation to repeat the question with her hands spread, palms upwards, body language that would have tapped into an adult’s subconscious, urging them to respond.

      ‘Are you the girl, Sami?’

      ‘Grrrrrr.’ The growling sound, deep in his throat, a faint rumble.

      Reaching out, he started gathering together his doll things, shoving them back into the plastic bucket, tossing each one in quickly as if it had become too hot to handle. A deep furrow had entrenched itself in his brow.

      ‘Sami, are you feeling frightened? There’s no need to be.’

      ‘The dolls are the girl’s.’ There was a quiver in his voice.

      Hugging Baby Isabel tight to his chest, he stroked her hair, dipped his head and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek, and then tucked her carefully back inside the plastic tub.

      For a long time, Sami remained silent, the torch clutched to his chest, light radiating out from him like a lighthouse beam. His gaze was hooded, turned inwards on itself. Jessie had no idea what he was thinking, what emotions were churning through his fragile mind. But at least she had the sense that he felt more comfortable with her, was beginning to trust her.

      Psychology with children was like watching a toddler learning to walk: a few baby steps forward, a totter backwards, a fall. Endless frustration. It couldn’t be rushed. Children’s minds were not robust enough to be actively delved into, forced, in the way that many adults’ could. Play was the only way to access the trauma a child of this age had experienced. Play enabled the child to reveal themselves at their own pace, as and when they felt comfortable to do so. It required extreme patience, not one of Jessie’s strongest points despite her chosen profession, and she sometimes wondered how she had ended up doing a master’s in Child Psychology at all.

      No. She knew why.

       7

      ‘What would you like to do now, Sami?’

      He didn’t respond. Clutching the torch to his chest, he stared rigidly at the floor.

      In one of the buckets was a plastic play-mat with fields and fences, winding lanes printed on it. There was also a farmhouse, and a collection of plastic farm animals.

      ‘How about we play farms?’ Jessie suggested.

      ‘Yes,’ Sami murmured. ‘Play farms.’

      Jessie