‘The court hearing kept getting put back. Twice, reports weren’t ready. Once the social worker didn’t turn up, and another time Mr Ingram said we weren’t ready. I suppose he had a job to do and wanted to get everything perfectly right. All this time I had Britney. Sometimes I’d look at her and burst into tears. I treated her special, as though every day was Christmas Day.
‘Finally Mr Ingram called me to say there was a court hearing. It was listed for five days. Britney was almost three by now.
‘I had two lawyers, Mr Ingram and his barrister friend, and we sat on the right. The Social had two lawyers that sat on the left, and even Britney had her own official solicitor, a serious-looking bearded man who sat between our side and their side. Behind us sat the social workers, Cafcass officer, and doctors. Two young men, dressed in tight suits with short trousers like something straight out of Oliver Twist, wheeled in two trolleys full of papers. The judge had a plait wound on top of her head like a blond crown. She carried a bronze leather holdall, and before she said a word she pulled a lipstick out of her bag and smeared it on.
‘The other side’s barrister stood up and listed all the people he would be calling to give evidence, their jobs and qualifications. He finished with, “Ma’am, our position is fully stated in the paperwork.”
‘The judge briefly took off her glasses. “You really expect me to read all that, Mr Ellis? This court is concerned with expediency and outcomes. I have read the pertinent documents, but really, Mr Ellis, any more paper and I fear the floor beneath us will collapse!”
‘My side stood up and spoke for ages about how the system sought to sever the link between a daughter and her mother. After another five minutes of non-stop talking, he said, “Therefore, ma’am, we seek not to rely on the Cafcass reports, those of the psychiatrist, and the medical reports prepared on behalf of the child.”
‘The judge frowned. “Mr Duncan, what are you saying? In a nutshell?”
‘My side went very red, mumbled something about taking further instructions, and sat down.
‘Britney’s barrister said only a few words. He described her as a bright, mostly happy child, but then he said, “There is, however, an overwhelming body of evidence that the child repeatedly presents with injuries not consistent with unexplained spontaneous bruising, if indeed such a condition does exist.”
‘I had to stand up. “Your Honour, my daughter had blood given to her. ”
‘The judge took off her glasses and smiled at me. I stopped talking and smiled back. “Miss Booth,” she said in a soothing voice, “you will get your chance to tell the court your side of the story. I know this is hard, but please be patient.” Abruptly she seemed to change her mind. “Why don’t we start with our first witness.” She turned to the usher. “Escort Miss Booth to the witness box, please.”
‘The usher took me to a small wooden enclosure and with the Bible in one hand, I read an oath written down on a card in front of me.
‘“You may sit,” the judge told me.
‘My side stood up. He called me Grace and asked me my name, address, and if I had an occupation, and I said no. He then asked me about the birth and I was allowed to talk about the blood transfusion that Britney got in her first hour of life. I told them that had started all the trouble. I described our house, what we did each day, what I ate, what I fed Britney. Her room, toys and books. It was like having a pleasant chat with a friendly uncle.
‘The other side was next. Even though the barrister was asking me personal questions his eyes were cold. “Miss Booth, what impact does your mental illness have on your relationship with your daughter?”
‘Britney and I were okay so I really didn’t know what to say to him. Don’t they tell you not to say anything in court? Keep silent? Deny?
‘“I do apologize. Perhaps if I word it differently? Do you sometimes lose control?”
‘I shook my head vigorously.
‘“Is it possible that sometimes you lose it, and you’re in some sort of daze, and afterwards, even though you were never asleep, you seem to wake up? Is it possible that you don’t even remember losing your rag?”
‘I was trying desperately not to cry. I stammered, “I-it’s something to do with the blood she got.”
‘“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, Miss Booth. I’ll change my line of questioning.”
‘I breathed a huge sigh of relief.
‘“Miss Booth, is it true that between the ages of seventeen and twenty, you sought clients for sexual services?”
‘I shook my head. What else could I do?
‘“I refer the court to page six hundred and thirty-one of bundle four.’ He had a really good memory of his files. “It was recorded on the police database as a non-crime.” He bit his lip and waited for an excruciating amount of time. “No further questions, ma’am.”
‘I slumped back in the chair.
‘Britney’s barrister was last. “Miss Booth, if I was Britney, your precious, beautiful little girl, and I could talk honestly and like a grown-up, what would I say to you? Would I say, ‘Mummy, please stop hitting me’?”
‘I was crying my eyes out.
‘The judge spoke. “Miss Booth, I am sorry for you but you will see that there is a compound of evidence against you. No one here is thinking anything bad about you. We are simply here to decide what is best for Britney.” She turned to the others in the room. “I think that’s enough for now. Adjourn for one hour.”
‘In the waiting room outside, Mr Ingram put an arm around me. “You shouldn’t have to sit through that all week. They’re offering two hours a month supervised. It’s better than losing her altogether.”’
*
I have never known a comfort such as this and never will again. It has come late, and even now, as I squeeze her hand, I wonder if her warmth is a comfort I can own. Does not this scene, Grace’s hurt and pain, which I can do nothing to alleviate, and she with it, belong to Adrian Hartley? Could Adrian, Britney’s father, have helped her? Adrian, where all seemed to begin, my earliest memory, and all will end.
It is not a picture of Adrian that comes to me but that of another fighter wrapped in an ISAF-branded body bag, cold and waxy, scrubbed clean and smelling of rosewater. After finishing Faisal’s ghusl, I was near to collapsing from exhaustion. Somehow, by mid-afternoon, I had limped home. I scrubbed myself for half an hour, then without a word to my new wife I fell fast asleep. I didn’t wake for eighteen hours; when finally I did, I was in pain far worse than the previous morning. My thumb throbbed sharply. I shrank back from the sight of it as though it offended me. The pad of my thumb was hot and swollen around the laceration by the glass bead, and yellow-green pus oozed from the wound. I recoiled at the thought that it had become infected from contact with Faisal’s body.
As my eyes adjusted to the morning light, I saw Azra standing beside the bed and leaning over me. She buttoned up the face part of her burqa, her eyes staring at me through black mesh. That small act seemed to stir the air around her, and I caught a waft of her scent, containing oud and something else, a reminder of Afghanistan, something I couldn’t place.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We have a duty.’
I dressed quickly and followed her outside. She walked fast and I struggled to keep up. I felt light-headed and thought I might also have caught a fever. The exertion brought the throbbing in my thumb to an awful, sickening intensity.