Otley started to come down, very slowly. “Jimmy, this is crazy… we just want to see the girl. Just let us see she’s okay.”
A shadowy figure appeared on the landing above.
“She’s up here,” Vera Reynolds said.
Jackson’s eyes glittered. His fleshy lips drew back against his teeth. “You’re dead, Vera,” he said, icy calm. Savagely, he swung Hall around and pushed him into the banister post and charged down the stairs, his thudding boots making the house shake.
Anthony had made the tea. Tennison and Dalton drank, both watching the slender young man standing at the glass-fronted bureau full of china figurines and cut glass knickknacks. He picked up a black-and-white photograph in a gilt frame from several on top of the bureau and showed them.
“This was my dad, my little sister. They were killed in a car crash when I was five. After that, Mother…” He looked to the closed door. “She had a mental breakdown. That’s why I was sent to the home.”
He spoke without any emotion whatsoever.
Tennison said carefully, “Can you tell me about the court case, Anthony? I know how difficult it is.”
“Really?” He stared at the photograph.
“I need to know about the man who ran the home, Anthony. You see, I believe that the man who assaulted you is still…”
She hesitated, trying to choose her words.
“At it?” Anthony said. He replaced the photograph and turned toward them, drawing in a deep breath. “His name was Edward Parker, and my case never even got to court.”
11
Otley sat on the edge of the narrow bed, his hand resting gently on the shaking mound under the smelly gray blanket. There were three other beds crammed into the small back room. A teddy bear with only one arm, the stuffing sprouting out, lay on one of them. Otley got another blanket and pressed it around Billy Matthews’s shivering little body. The boy was burning up with fever. His wet face was buried in the grimy pillow, spiky hair sticking up over the blanket.
“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay…” It went on and on, a meaningless dirge. He whimpered suddenly-“Don’t leave me on me own. Please… please.”
“Billy?” Otley said, patting the blanket. “Billy? I’ll stay with you.”
Hall appeared in the doorway. “I called an ambulance. The other kids are being taken in now.” He looked along the passage. “And Vera asked if she can go.”
Billy’s hand crept out and fastened tightly around Otley’s fingers. His head came up, eyes drugged and filled with a vacant terror. He wouldn’t let go of Otley. “Don’t leave me…”
Vera came in. She looked dowdy and defeated. There was a deadness in her eyes, as if nothing mattered anymore and never would again.
“I’m doing the club tonight, can I go? Doin’ the cabaret.”
She looked at Billy, hanging onto Otley like grim death, and slowly shook her head. “You won’t get any sense out of him, he’d tell you anything just to stay here.” In a flat, weary voice she started to sing, “ ‘Life is a cabaret, my friend… come to the cabaret.’ ”
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Billy said, staring at nothing. “Everythin’ okay.”
Vera sighed drably. “No, you’re not, Billy, love. You’re not okay at all. Can I go?” she asked Otley, who nodded.
Vera went along the passage and down the stairs, high heels clacking. Otley put his arm around the shaking mound of gray blanket, hugging it. He turned his head to Hall. “Where’s the bloody ambulance?”
“They said there was about a fifteen minute delay.”
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Billy insisted in a voice so thin it was barely a mouse’s squeak. “I’m okay.”
It took twenty-five, not fifteen, minutes for the ambulance to arrive. They put Billy Matthews inside and off it went, lights flashing. Otley walked over to Hall, who was leaning against the hood of their car. It was growing dark, and there were spits of rain in the air.
“I’m just going for a walk,” Otley said. He patted Hall on the shoulder and carried on walking.
“Jackson’s car’s gone.”
“He won’t get far.” Otley turned on the pavement. “Vera’s at the Bowery Club, isn’t she?” His eyes were narrowed slits in his craggy, gaunt face. “Get somebody watching the place.”
Hall watched him amble off in his unmistakable round-shouldered slouch, hands stuffed in his raincoat pockets. Was he going to get pissed out of his skull? He’d shown no emotion over Billy Matthews, but Hall wouldn’t have been surprised if the Skipper got ratarsed.
“It hurt, and I screamed, but he put his hand over my mouth. I bit him once, really bit his hand, but it didn’t make any difference. I was very small for my age, and he had a special name for me. He said that when he used that special name it was a code, that was when he wanted me to go to his room.”
Sitting very straight in the armchair, feet together, knees pressed tight, Anthony Field recounted his experience at the children’s home. His tone never varied, never betrayed any feeling; it was a nightmare, permanently fixed in his head, endlessly repeating itself, that had numbed him into this mechanical retelling. He was pale, however, and his long thin fingers were never still.
Tennison prompted him after a moment’s painful silence.
“How long did this abuse go on for? Before you told anyone?”
“Three years. There was no one to tell.” Anthony’s dark-lashed eyes were downcast. He had shapely dark eyebrows, his brown hair brushed and neatly parted in the approved bank employee manner.
“He always said that if I told anyone, I would have to eat my own feces. I got a letter from my mother, she said she was much better, so I ran away.” He blinked once or twice at the carpet. “I went to the police station, they called in a probation officer. A woman. I had to tell her… it was very embarrassing.”
Tennison again waited. “How old were you then?”
“Eight, nearly nine. They took my statements, and then a plainclothes police officer came in to question me.”
His hands clasped, released, clasped, released. He was leaning forward slightly, his body hunching tighter and tighter.
Tennison waited. Smoothing her knees, she said quietly, “I really appreciate you telling me this, Anthony.” And quieter still, “Can you go on?” When he nodded, she said, “Thank you very much.”
Anthony breathed in a long quivery breath.
“This police officer. I never even knew his name. He asked me if I knew what happened to boys that-that-” His hands were jerking, writhing in his lap. “That tell lies. I said I was not telling lies.” His voice went abruptly harsh. “Well-he-said-We-will-soon-know. And he undid my pants. And he did it to me. He said that if I told anyone I would go to prison.” Anthony stared at the carpet, his face drained of all color. “Hard to tell what would be worse, eating your own shit or going to prison.”
“This police officer penetrated you?” Tennison said. He nodded, head bowed. “At the station?” He nodded. “Was anyone present?”
Anthony shook his head. He shuddered. He was close to breaking. Tennison was calculating how much more he could take, and praying to God she hadn’t underestimated.
“So I said I was-that I had been telling lies. Case dismissed. And they sent me back to the home. I was there for another two years. Then mother collected me.”
“After you left, you didn’t tell anyone?”
Anthony straightened up and looked at her. He shook his head.
“Can I ask you why not?”
“My aunt told me that mother was still in a very nervous state, so how could I tell her? I love my mother very much. I always felt that if I upset her in any way, I ran the risk of being sent back. So I never told anyone, and…” He gave a listless shrug. “I just got on with my life.”
“I am sorry to make you remember, Anthony,” Tennison said, feeling the pain with him. But he looked at her as if she’d said something incredibly stupid. He stood up, and almost imperceptibly he thrust out his hip in a tiny flick of campness. I know what I am, and I don’t care that you know it too.