‘They are. It’s – it’s just procedure . . . for this type of injury, they say. Apparently they have to file some kind of report—’ Before he can get any further, a knock sounds and a large woman with a head of frizzy ginger hair enters.
‘Hello there. The doctor told you I’d be coming in to have a word? I’m Alison – from the Child Protection Agency.’ She extends her hand towards Lochan.
A small sound escapes me. I turn it into a cough.
‘Lochan Whitely. N-nice to meet you.’
He knew!
I’m aware I’m being addressed. I take her podgy hand in mine. For a moment I literally cannot speak. My mind has gone blank and I’ve forgotten my own name. Then I force a smile, introduce myself and take a seat in the small triangle.
Alison is rummaging about in a large bag, pulling out a folder and pen and various forms, chatting as she does so. She asks Lochan to confirm the situation with Mum, which he does in a surprisingly steady voice. She appears satisfied, scribbles a few things down, and then looks up from her notes with a broad, artificial smile.
‘Well, I’ve already had a word with Willa about what happened. She’s a delightful little girl, isn’t she? She explained she was in the kitchen with you, Lochan, when she fell. And that, Maya, you were still at school, but your two brothers were at home.’
I look across at Lochan, willing him to make eye-contact with me. But he seems to have deliberately turned away. ‘Yes.’
Another of those fake smiles. ‘OK, so in your own time, explain to me how the accident occurred.’
I don’t understand. This isn’t even about Mum. And surely Lochan gave the details of the fall to the doctor in charge when he brought Willa in.
‘R-right. OK.’ Lochan leans forwards, elbows on knees, as if desperate to tell this woman every detail. ‘I – I came into the kitchen and Willa was up on the counter where she’s not allowed to be because it’s – it’s really quite high, and – and she was on tiptoe trying to reach a box of b-biscuits on the top shelf—’ He is speaking in that manic, staccato way again, almost tripping over his words in his hurry to get them out. I can see the muscles in his arms vibrating, and he is scraping at the sore beneath his mouth so hard that it’s starting to bleed.
Alison just nods, scribbles some more, looks up again expectantly.
‘I t-told her to get down. She refused, saying her brothers had each eaten some and had then d-deliberately put the biscuits up there out of her reach.’ He is panting, staring at the form as if trying to read what’s being recorded.
‘Go on . . .’
‘So I – I repeated what I’d just said—’
‘What exactly did you say?’ The woman’s voice is sharper now.
‘J-just – well, basically just: Willa, get down now.’
‘Was that spoken or shouted?’
He seems to be having trouble breathing, the air making a scraping noise at the back of his throat. ‘Um – well – well – the first time I was speaking quite loudly b-because I was worried to see her up there again, and – and the second time, after she refused, I – I suppose, y-yes, I sort of shouted.’ He glances up at her, chewing the corner of his lip, the rise and fall of his chest rapid.
I can’t believe this woman! Making Lochan feel guilty about shouting at his sister when she was doing something dangerous?
‘And then?’ The woman’s eyes are very sharp. She seems particularly attentive now.
‘Willa – she, well, she i-ignored me.’
‘And so what did you do?’
There is a terrible silence. What did you do? I repeat to myself, desperate to butt in but trapped by my promise to let Lochan do the talking, on top of the fact that I wasn’t actually there. Does this Child Protection person ask the parent of every injured child brought into hospital what it was the parent had done? Guilty until proven innocent? This is ridiculous! Children fall and hurt themselves all the time!
But Lochan isn’t answering. I feel my heart start to pound. Don’t start getting stage-fright now, I beg with him in my head. Don’t make it look as if you have something to hide!
Lochan is frowning and sighing and chewing his lip as if trying to remember, and with a shock I realize he is close to tears.
I press myself back into the chair and bite down hard to stop myself from intervening.
‘I p-pulled her down.’ His chin quivers briefly. He doesn’t look up.
‘Could you explain exactly how you did that?’
‘I went – I went over and g-grabbed her by the arm and then – and then I pulled her off the counter.’ His voice cracks and he raises his fist to his face, pressing his knuckles hard against his mouth.
Lochan, what the hell are you talking about? You would never deliberately hurt Willa – you know that as well as I do.
‘You grabbed her arm and pulled her to the floor?’ The woman arches her eyebrows.
Silence stretches out across the room. I can hear my own heartbeat. Finally Lochan lowers his fist from his mouth and takes a ragged breath. ‘I pulled her arm and – and—’ He looks up at the corner of the ceiling, tears amalgamating in his eyes like translucent marbles. ‘I know I shouldn’t have – I wasn’t thinking—’
‘Just tell me what happened.’
‘I p-pulled her arm and she slipped. She – she was wearing tights and her feet just slid off the counter’s surface. I – I kept hold of her arm as she fell to try and stop her from hurting herself and that’s when I felt this – this snap!’ He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, as if in terrible pain.
‘So you were holding onto her arm when she hit the floor and the weight of her body pulled the bone out of the socket?’
‘It was counter-intuitive to let go of her as she fell. I – I thought I’d c-caught her, not – not wrenched her arm out of its socket. Jesus!’ A tear glances off his cheek. He swipes at it rapidly. ‘I didn’t think—’
‘Lochie!’
His eyes meet mine this time. ‘It – it was an accident, Maya.’
‘I know!’ I exclaim in soft outrage.
The damn woman is scribbling again. ‘Are you often left in charge of your siblings, Lochan?’ she asks.
I recoil back into the chair. Lochan presses his fingers against his eyes and takes some steady breaths, trying to pull himself together. He shakes his head vehemently. ‘Only when our mother has to go away on business.’
‘And how often does that happen?’
‘It – it depends . . . Every couple of months or so . . .’
‘And when she’s away, I presume you have to fetch them from school, cook for them, help them with homework, entertain them, put them to bed—’
‘We do it together,’ I say quickly.
The woman turns towards us both now. ‘That must be exhausting after a long school day—’
‘They’re good at entertaining themselves.’
‘But when they misbehave, you must have to discipline them.’
‘Not really,’ I say firmly. ‘They’re pretty well-behaved.’
‘Have you ever hurt one of your siblings before?’ the woman asks, turning towards Lochan.
He takes a breath. The fight with Kit flashes through my mind. ‘No!’ I exclaim in outrage. ‘Never!’
In the cab on the way home we are all three silent, spent, exhausted. Willa is curled up on Lochan’s lap, her arm strapped up across her chest, the thumb of her other hand in her mouth. Her head rests against Lochan’s neck, spots of light from passing cars float over her golden hair. Lochan holds her tightly against him, staring blankly out of the window, face pale and stunned, his eyes glazed, refusing to meet mine.
We arrive home to a tornado-hit kitchen, the front room’s carpet embedded with crisp, biscuit and cereal crumbs. To our amazement, however, Tiffin is actually in bed and Kit is still in the house, up in the attic, music pounding down through the ceiling. While Lochan gives a groggy Willa a drink and some Calpol and puts her to bed, I climb up the ladder to let Kit know we’re back.