was certain something nasty had crawled down her top. She was cross, but she wouldn’t let her sister know she was. They both had enough of their mother being cross at them without her adding to it.
Kathleen heard a branch snap just ahead. Her eyes darted towards the sound. In the shadow of the night, she saw a dark silhouette a few feet in front of her.
‘Bron! Please stop messing, babe. I want to go now.’ There was no reply. She edged forward, feeling the ground as she stepped carefully through the bracken, when suddenly she heard the breaking of another branch. Only this time it was coming from the side of her rather than in front of her.
Kathleen listened, waiting to hear the stifled giggles of her sister. In the darkness she could hear breathing, but it didn’t sound like Bronwin’s soft breath. This breathing was heavier, and she turned in panic. The next thing she felt was the taste of blood as the stinging blow of something hard landed on her lips.
She screamed as she felt her top being torn and rough hands pushing her down into the damp cold earth, tugging painfully at her pants, under her skirt.
As she felt the hands tighten round her neck, her breath becoming short as the life seeped out of her, it was of some small comfort to the girl that the last words she managed to cry were, ‘Run, Bronwin! Run!’
Six-year-old Bronwin sat in the corner of the tiny room, watching the uniformed police officers milling about. Sitting by her was a plain-looking social worker.
‘Bronwin, you really need to tell us what you can remember.’
‘I don’t think she’s ready to answer any questions.’ The social worker intervened as the large detective leaned in to question Bronwin. Annoyed with the interruption, the detective snapped back, ‘I think that’s a matter for Bronwin, don’t you?’
‘Detective, she’s far too young to know what’s best. She’s had a traumatic experience and I don’t think these questions will help, do you?’
‘Listen, no one’s saying she hasn’t had a traumatic experience, but if we want to make sure the perpetrators can’t get out of this we need to make sure she tells us everything she can remember. She’s an important witness. Where’s the mother anyway?’
The social worker flicked through the notes. ‘We don’t know exactly where she is at the moment; we’ve tried leaving her a message but we’ve had no reply. She told us she’d meet us here, but maybe it’s all too much for her.’
‘She’s got responsibilities. This kid for one, and another one lying cold.’
The social worker bristled, furrowing her brow angrily as she took a sidewards glance at Bronwin.
‘That’s enough, Detective. Not everything is so clear cut. The family are well known to us and there are problems. The mother’s very young and, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, things can get difficult for her.’
The detective sighed.
‘Fine, no more questions, but we need to take her to see the line-up. It’s important; we can only hold the men for so long.’
The line-up room was dark and Bronwin wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. The woman who kept insisting on holding her hand smelt funny. A bit like the dusty old cupboard in the kitchen at home. She didn’t like the smell and she didn’t like the woman. She wanted to go home. Where was her mum anyway? She hoped she’d come and get her soon.
‘All we want you to do is tell us if you remember any of the men’s faces. We want you to have a good look and if you remember any of them, tell us.’
‘Can I have a word, Detective?’ A man with a loud booming voice appeared out of the shadows, making Bronwin step back behind the social worker. She couldn’t really make sense of the words he was using, but he seemed to be so cross; like everyone else around her.
‘Detective, my clients feel it’s unfair they’re not only being forced to be in the line-up, but that the “guilty” party will be decided on the say-so of a child. We all know what children are like. They choose things on a whim. I want a stop to this.’
The officer in charge rubbed his top teeth with his tongue. ‘If they’ve nothing to hide, they’ve got nothing to fear.’
The man grinned nastily at the detective, his eyes reflecting the coldness in his smile. Bronwin took a sharp intake of breath. She didn’t like this at all. Why wasn’t anybody taking her home to bed? She was tired and wanted to snuggle up with Mr Hinkles, the teddy bear her sister Kathleen had got her. Where was her sister anyway? She’d heard people talking about her and they’d asked her a lot of questions, but she hadn’t seen her since the woods. She didn’t want to think about the woods; thinking about them gave Bronwin a funny feeling in her tummy.
Big tears began to spill down Bronwin’s cheeks. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she watched them fall onto the floor, right next to the man with the booming voice’s foot. Cautiously, Bronwin looked at him from underneath her shaggy fringe. He was smart and clean and smelled nice.
Bronwin quickly dropped her gaze as she saw the man looking at her. Her eyes wandered to his shoes. They were black shoes. Shiny black shoes, apart from the bottom parts of them, which were dirty with mud. She looked up again, edging back as the man bent down to meet her stare.
‘Would you like a hanky?’
Bronwin shook her head but the man insisted.
‘Here, take it.’ As he pushed the crisp white handkerchief into Bronwin’s hand she noticed some letters embroidered onto it, but she wasn’t good with letters, especially fancy ones that swirled and curled like those did.
‘Now, is everybody ready? We need to get on with this.’ The detective’s voice had a tone of weariness. He was tired and didn’t expect much from this line-up, even though in his gut he felt he had the right men; he knew only too well that with slick high-powered lawyers; like the one standing opposite him, even if the suspects had been caught with bloodstained knives in their pockets and the words ‘guilty’ written on their foreheads, there was still a possibility of them walking free.
‘Are you ready, Bronwin?’ The social worker pulled Bronwin up from her seat as the lights on the other side of the mirrored line-up room went on.
Bronwin nodded.
‘All you have to do is pick out the men who you think you saw in the woods. Do you think you can do that, Bronwin?’
Again, Bronwin nodded. She stood on a chair and in front of her a procession of men began to walk in through the door on the other side of the glass.
‘Don’t worry; Bronwin, they can’t see you or hear you.’
The men stood with their backs against the wall, staring ahead, holding up the boards they had been given. The detective adjusted the microphone as he spoke into it.
‘Can you step forward, number one, and then turn to the left and to the right, slowly.’ The tall man with dark hair stepped forward, nervously turning as instructed in both directions before stepping back to the wall.
‘Number two, can you step forward and then turn to the left and to the right, slowly.’ Without taking his eyes off Bronwin’s reaction to the men the detective stood up slightly as he realised
