Afterwards

  “Have the doctors taken a look at you?” the nurse continues.

  “Yes. Does it mean I’ll have to stay here longer?”

  “It may do. We have to be so careful about infection. You know about all that, don’t you? I think I already read you my riot act?”

  “Yes, you did. Thank you.”

  “I’ll be back to see you in a bit.”

  As the nurse leaves, Sarah comes in.

  “Hello, Rowena. I’m Sarah, Jenny’s aunt. Is your mother not here?”

  “She’s gone to get me a few things from home.”

  Rowena seems at ease with Sarah, so she can’t know that she’s been eavesdropping.

  “How are you feeling?” Sarah asks.

  “Fine. Getting much better now.”

  “It was incredibly brave. What you did.”

  Rowena looks embarrassed. “You saw it in the paper?” she asks.

  Rowena’s rescue effort was hidden in the middle pages of the Richmond Post. I’m not sure if you read that far. It was in the mode of “Very Small Earthquake Not Many Killed” kind of a story—“Plain Girl Runs to Help But Doesn’t Rescue Anyone and Is Slightly Hurt.” Tara wouldn’t let anything detract from the main story of beautiful Jenny dying.

  “I saw it, yes,” Sarah says. “But a colleague told me too. I’m also a police officer.”

  “ ’Course. Mum told me. Stupid of me. It wasn’t brave though. I mean, I didn’t have time to be brave. Wasn’t thinking really.”

  “Well, I disagree,” Sarah says. She sits down next to her.

  “Mum told me about Adam,” Rowena says. “It’s just so terrible. I mean, Adam’s such a lovely boy. Well, you’re his aunt, so you know what he’s like.”

  Her way of speaking is diffident, even when she’s trying to make a forceful point. Her young face so earnest.

  “You obviously know Adam?” Sarah says.

  “Yes. I mean, he was only a baby really when I was at Sidley House with Jenny. But I got to know him last summer, when I was doing work experience there. I was his classroom assistant and he was just so … well, good. And thoughtful. Really polite. And that’s pretty rare in boys his age. And it’s just wrong what they’re saying about him. Awful.”

  I hadn’t known that Rowena was courageous, and neither had I seen that she’s become kind and intuitive, as though paper has been put on Maisie’s gentleness and Rowena is the brass-rubbing image.

  “And anyone could have gotten in,” Rowena earnestly continues. “Annette—she’s the school secretary—well, she’s pretty lax about security. Presses the buzzer to let people in without looking at the monitor on her desk. I don’t want to get her into trouble, but it’s important to tell the truth now that Adam’s being blamed, isn’t it?”

  Sarah nods. “Can you tell me what you remember from Wednesday?”

  “Yes, but, well, which part?”

  “How about from when you went to the school with Adam?”

  “OK. He wanted to get his birthday cake. I knew he’d be a little embarrassed if his mum went with him. I mean, he loves his mum to bits, I know he does, but it’s not cool in front of your friends, is it, to go with your mum? So I asked him if he’d like me to go with him. I had to get the medals anyway. I didn’t hold his hand until we got to the road. Held it just for that bit. Sorry, that’s not important, is it? Anyway, we went into the school together, and I went straight to the secretary’s office and Adam went to get his cake.”

  “On his own?”

  “Yes. He was going to meet me again in the office, so we could walk back to sports day together. I should have gone with him, shouldn’t I? If I had …”

  She trails off, upset.

  “Which floor is Adam’s classroom on?” Sarah asks.

  “The second. But it’s the other side of the hallway from the art room. That’s where they said the fire started, isn’t it? I mean, it’s on the second floor too, but not close.”

  She seems young and not terribly convincing as she tries to help Adam.

  “So you were in the office while Adam went to his classroom?” Sarah prompts.

  “Yes. Annette was in there, and she chatted to me about something silly. As per usual. And then the alarm went off. It was really loud. I went out of the office, calling for Adam. And then I heard Mum calling for me.”

  “So you were with Annette in the office when the alarm went off?”

  “Yes.”

  Sarah must be crossing people off her list of suspects. The office is two floors beneath the art room. Neither Rowena nor Annette could be the witness who supposedly saw Adam. And neither of them could have started the fire. Though I can’t imagine Annette—let alone Rowena—as an arsonist.

  “I saw Adam running out of the school,” Rowena continues. “Mum told me to go outside with Addie, and then she went to help with the reception children.”

  “Do you remember if Adam was holding anything?”

  “No. I’m sure he wasn’t. I’d have noticed. Do you want me to tell someone that? Is it important?”

  Sarah shakes her head. Presumably because DI Baker would say that Adam could easily have discarded the matches by then.

  “Did you see anyone else?” Sarah asks.

  “I’m not sure. I mean, I wasn’t looking. I think I might have. It was only a glimpse. I’m sorry, that’s not helpful at all, but I can’t remember any more.”

  “If you do—”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll tell the police. Straightaway. I am trying to remember, but the more I try and think about it, the fainter it becomes until I’m not sure if I saw anyone at all and just imagined it.”

  “OK,” Sarah says. “So you went outside to join Adam. Can you tell me what happened then?”

  “He was panicking, looking for Jenny. He said that she wasn’t out at sports day. When I saw Annette come out, I asked her if she’d brought the office register. You know, the book where you sign in and out? But she hadn’t. She said it was OK because there was no one else in the building. I asked her if she was sure and she said that she was. The fire was really bad by then. I mean, there’d been this big bang, and loads more smoke and flames.” She looks upset. “I never even thought that Jenny might still be in there.”

  “Because Annette said everyone was out?”

  “Not just that. I wouldn’t have thought she was still up there in any case. I mean, I don’t know her well, never have actually, which is silly really when we were at school together, but I’d have thought she’d gone outside. I mean, it must have been broiling up there and it was such a beautiful afternoon. Well, I don’t think anyone would have expected her to sit in the medical room all afternoon in the baking heat. But she did.”

  Was it because I’d implied she wasn’t responsible enough to be school nurse?

  “Then Adam saw his mother running into the building shouting for Jenny,” Rowena continues. “He tried to go after her. I had to stop him. It was terrible.”

  “And that’s when you went in?”

  She nods. Sarah seems about to say something else, then sees the awkwardness in Rowena’s face.

  “Before you went in, when you were still outside the school with Adam, do you remember how long it was until Annette came out to join you?”

  “I suppose, yes, she wasn’t there straightaway. I mean, I remember Mum helping Tilly, the reception teacher, and I was with Addie. I suppose if I had to guess, it would be a few minutes.”

  “Your mum said she had lipstick on.”

  “I don’t remember that. Is it important?”

  “It’s a little odd to put on lipstick,” Sarah says, “in the circumstances, don’t you think?”

  I think she’s confiding in Rowena to win her trust a little so that Rowena will confide more in return. Maybe she’s sensed Rowena is keeping something from her.

  “I don’t know if it’s odd,” Rowena says stiffly. “And I didn’t notice. I’m not much good at things like makeup, actually.”

  She’s so awkw
ard and I feel for her. I bumped into her and Maisie in Westfield a couple of months ago. Her clothes were dowdy, and despite being spotty she had no makeup on. I thought she was a plain girl who wasn’t helping herself look prettier. I’d hoped that Maisie was going to try and get her some nice clothes or makeup. I wince as I remember how superficial I was about appearances.

  “You said you were Adam’s classroom assistant last summer,” Sarah says. “Does that mean you were assisting Silas Hyman?”

  “No. Addie was still in year two then. Mr. Hyman teaches year three.”

  “Did you get to know him?”

  Rowena shakes her head. “He wouldn’t have talked to someone like me. Wouldn’t have noticed me.”

  “But you noticed him?”

  “Well, he’s very good-looking, isn’t he?”

  “What did you think of him?”

  Rowena hesitates a moment, then looks away from Sarah. “I thought he could be violent.”

  “Was that because of what he said at the prize-giving?”

  “I wasn’t at the prize-giving.”

  “So what made you think that?”

  I think it’s the years of violence by her father that makes her more perceptive to viciousness—like bruised skin being more sensitive to touch.

  “I used to watch him sometimes,” Rowena says. “It was easy because he never looked at me, so he didn’t notice me watching him.”

  “You saw through him?”

  “I don’t think it’s like that, like he’s hiding the real person inside. More like he’s two different people.”

  “One good, one bad?”

  “I know it sounds strange, silly, but if you read about it, I mean literature going way back when, it’s something that’s been happening for centuries. You know morality tales in the Middle Ages, the good angel and the devil? And the Jacobean plays with fighting for someone’s soul. It’s not the person’s fault the devil is there. You have to help that person get rid of him.”

  Was she talking about Silas Hyman or her father? She wasn’t doing English for A level so must have scoured books looking for something to make sense of it all—to make things better. Because if there is a devil and an angel in her father, then one day the devil can be banished and the angel will win out and her dad will love her.

  “You said to me that you weren’t really thinking,” Sarah says. “When you went into the school.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You were thinking enough to get a towel and soak it in water.”

  “I should have taken three, shouldn’t I? And I didn’t do any good. Didn’t help.” She starts to cry. “Sorry. Being a twit.”

  The same word that Maisie uses about herself, a middle-aged, self-denigrating word.

  “Don’t say that, please don’t,” I say to her. “It’s not a word that any teenager should use. Especially not you. You went into a burning building, for God’s sake.”

  “Mum?”

  I see Jenny has come in.

  “She did. And don’t tell me it was all about Donald, and some wish to make her father proud.”

  “OK …”

  “You’re not a victim, Rowena, you listen to me! You’re gutsy and resourceful. And whatever made you do it—whatever the reason—you’re extraordinary. And I will not let your father’s abuse blind me—or anyone else—to your bravery.”

  “Blimey, Mum, you socked it to her. In a good way, I mean.”

  “Shame she can’t hear me.”

  “I’m sure she will, one day. Everyone will. In stereo. I’ll tell them too.”

  Sarah is looking through her notes. “If I could just go back to the secretary for a moment?” she says. “Are you sure that she said everyone was out?”

  “Yes. Definitely. Later, I mean after Jenny had been brought out, she said that Jenny had signed herself out. Said she remembered her doing it.”

  “It would explain why your phone was outside,” I say to Jen.

  “Maybe,” she says, her voice unusually quiet. I see that she looks pale and tense, her fingers knotting together.

  “I can’t remember, Mum. I can’t fucking remember. Sorry. It just doesn’t make sense. Why would I sign myself out, then go in again? But why would Annette lie?”

  20

  Sarah finds the nurse who was with Rowena earlier.

  “The injuries to Rowena White’s hands, do you think they were an accident?” she asks. “I mean, the more recent damage?”

  So she’s guessed.

  “You’re Jenny’s aunt, right?”

  “Yes. I’m also a police officer.”

  “Have you got ID?”

  Sarah digs in her bag for her warrant card and shows it—Detective Sergeant McBride. “My married name,” she says.

  “OK. I don’t think the injuries were accidental. At least, I can’t see how she could have gotten them if she tripped. The blisters on the tops of her hands have been damaged too.”

  I remember Donald brutally gripping hold of her bandaged hands. Rowena’s quiet scream of pain.

  “Do you know when the injuries happened?”

  “No. But the blisters were undamaged at four thirty yesterday, because I changed her dressings myself. But then I went off shift at five.”

  “Do you know who was on after you?”

  “Belinda Edwards. I’ll find her for you.”

  Ten minutes later, Sarah is with Belinda, the briskly competent nurse who showed Donald to Rowena’s room yesterday. She carefully checks Sarah’s warrant card.

  “It was after her father visited,” she says.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m not saying it was him. But I spoke to her when I arrived on my shift and she was fine, cheerful even. Her father came to see her shortly afterwards, about five fifteen. He wasn’t with her long. When he’d gone, I went in to give her her drugs. She and her mother were distressed. Rowena was trying not to show how much pain she was in, but it had clearly increased. I took the dressings off her hands and saw that the blisters had burst on both hands.”

  “She told you she tripped …?” Sarah asks.

  “Yes, and that she put her hands out to save herself. But that wouldn’t explain the damage on the tops of her hands too. I asked a doctor to examine her, and she gave him the same story.”

  “Do you have Rowena’s past medical record?”

  “We’re not computerized yet—well, not successfully, so I’ll have to chase up the hard copy from records.”

  “And can you get Maisie White’s, her mother’s?”

  Belinda’s eyes meet Sarah’s and an unspoken accord passes between them.

  “I’ll chase that up for you in the same way,” she says.

  “Thank you.”

  “We’re concerned about the infection risk,” Belinda says. “So she’ll be remaining with us for a few days yet.”

  Sarah is going to go to the police station. Jenny and I go with her towards the exit of the hospital. I don’t want Jen to go outside.

  “We need to know everything in case we’re the ones who have to put it all together,” I say to her. “Can you stay here in case Donald comes back? We need to watch him too.”

  Giving her a job to do, as I used to years ago—sifting the icing sugar so she wouldn’t mind that it was me taking the cake tins out of the too-hot-for-children oven.

  “You’re sure it doesn’t hurt you?” she asks.

  “Hardly at all.”

  She looks at me, unconvinced.

  “Apart from colds, I’m actually very resilient.”

  “I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry. God, you went into a burning building and—”

  “It’s fine, Jen, really.”

  She looks at me, and there’s something else. I wait.

  “How long d’you think it takes, from Barbados?”

  “About nine hours,” I say.

  She smiles a shy, happy smile and I hate Ivo for making her smile like that and for what will happen when he gets here.


  I leave the hospital with Sarah, shedding the protective skin of its walls, but for a little while, maybe a minute or more, I feel all right. Then the pain hits. The gravel path leading to the car park cuts into my unprotected feet. It’s still early, but the sharp sun reflects off the cars with dazzling, migrainous intensity.

  In the car Sarah talks to Roger on her hands-free, finishing their earlier argument; words starched, voices stiff. He accuses her of forgetting it was “your son’s” deadline for his course work this week. She tells him that you need her more. He says she should start allocating her time “more carefully.” She tells him there’s a call waiting. She hangs up and blares her horn—too loud, too long—at a van hogging a box junction. She drives the rest of the way in silence.

  For the first time I feel like an eavesdropper or spy.

  She parks and we walk to Chiswick police station along a heat-baked concrete pavement, the road sweating tarmac. Next to the police station is the Eco shop, with its growing roof and plant-covered walls. I want to stop outside and breathe its newly made oxygen and windowshop, as I often have with Jenny, at the eclectic display.

  I used to think that in the police station next door Sarah would be in her element. She was ideally suited, I thought, to a job that had uniforms and numbers and name badges and ranks clearly marked. Everyone and everything labeled; strict protocols to be followed; rules and laws to be adhered to and implemented. I’d think that if Sarah hadn’t been a police officer (she drummed that word into me after my first calamitous policewoman mistake), then she’d have been an officer in the army in some kind of organizational role.

  Because I didn’t want to think her brave and driven and doing something worthwhile.

  And it was easy to believe myself because up until now the police didn’t seem important or connected to us. Yes, they keep criminals off the streets, but Chiswick hardly has any litter, let alone muggers or murderers on the newly widened, Bugaboo-friendly pavements. The worst vandalism we get is fly-posting for music festivals and the occasional poster for a missing cat. From newspapers and TV, I thought the police were, on the whole, bolters of doors when the murderers and bombers had already done their worst and left in their stolen cars.