give a relaxed, homely atmosphere. From the outside, it looked friendly and inviting, but if walls could talk they would tell a different story. Here, parentless children were comforted; victims of rape and sexual abuse were given tea and sympathy; and elderly victims of brutal crimes were consoled by fresh-faced WPCs with soothing tones and a never-ending supply of tissues.
Sitting on the floor was a blond, blue-eyed eleven-year-old boy dressed in a grey tracksuit that didn’t belong to him. He was surrounded by blank sheets of paper and an array of wax crayons, coloured pencils, and felt-tip pens. Squatting next to him was a young PC, who, against orders from his superiors, had not changed out of uniform.
The door opened and in walked Dr Sally McCartney. Unlike the PC, she had softened her appearance. Gone were the severe ponytail and conservative jacket. She had removed her glasses and suffered the anxiety of touching her eyes to put in contact lenses. She shot the PC a look of indignation. He could have at least taken off his uniform jacket.
‘Hello Jonathan,’ she said. The young boy didn’t look up from his drawings. ‘My name is Sally. I’ve come to have a chat with you if that’s all right?’
He continued to scribble on the paper. Sally McCartney knelt down to his level and looked over his shoulder. He had drawn a house and was colouring in a large tree next to it.
‘Is this your house?’
Jonathan nodded.
‘It’s very nice. That’s a lovely tree too. Do you climb it?’ No reply. ‘Which room is yours?’
He pointed to the top right window with the blue curtains, then went back to colouring in the tree.
‘Is the room next to yours your brother’s?’
He nodded again.
‘Jonathan, we’ve been looking for your brother but we can’t seem to find him. Do you know where he might be?’
Jonathan stopped drawing and looked up as if in thought. He looked across to Dr McCartney and fixed her with an expressionless stare, then returned his attention back to his drawing.
‘Jonathan, we need to find your brother. It’s very important. Do you know any of his friends?’
The door opened and Detective Sergeant Pat Campbell popped her head into the room. She looked haggard, having been on duty for more than twenty hours. She signalled for Dr McCartney to join her in the corridor.
‘Why didn’t that PC change out of his bloody uniform as I told him to?’ she asked before the DS could speak.
‘I don’t know. He should have done.’ The DS sighed and looked to the ceiling. ‘Has the boy said anything?’
‘Not yet.’
‘It is paramount we find his brother.’
‘I heard that his mother was still alive. How is she?’
‘I don’t know where you heard that from. Both parents were pronounced dead at the scene. They were hacked to death.’
‘Jesus. Well he doesn’t need to know any of that. Not now at any rate.’
‘We’ve managed to locate a relative in Newcastle. She’s coming straight down, but it’ll be a few hours before she gets here. Look, whatever happened in that house, he saw it, or at least heard it, and I need to know.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
Pat Campbell looked over the doctor’s shoulder, through the narrow glass window in the door, and into the room at the young boy drawing as if nothing extraordinary had happened. ‘How does he seem?’
‘He’s in a complete shutdown, which isn’t uncommon. When it comes to anything traumatic sometimes our brain takes time to come to terms with it and until it does, it shuts down. It’s a self-preservation thing.’
‘So he’ll soon come out of…whatever this is, and be able to tell us what happened?’
‘In theory, yes.’
‘Why only in theory?’
‘Depending on what he saw his brain may not want him to remember.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Campbell said, leaning back against the wall for support. ‘What’s with the drawings?’
‘It’s a way of helping young children come to terms with what they’ve witnessed. Whatever they draw is usually an indication of what’s going on in their heads. Hopefully it will help to understand what went on in that house, and then we can take our therapy from there.’
‘And what’s he drawn so far?’
‘He’s drawn his house with a tree next to it.’
‘Does that tell you anything significant?’
‘Not yet,’ she half smiled. ‘It’s early days. He’s clearly looking at what happened from the outside. If his next drawing is also a house, I’ll ask him about the inside and see what he draws when I talk about the rooms in the house.’
Pat shook her head. ‘My God, the mind is a powerful thing isn’t it? I don’t envy your job.’
There was nothing the doctor could say to that. There were times she didn’t envy her job either. ‘Is there any chance of getting him in some of his own clothes? That sodding tracksuit stinks.’
‘I’ll get something brought over from the house.’
‘And how about a glass of milk and some chocolate?’
‘Whatever you want.’
‘Thank you.’
She turned and went back into the room. Jonathan had drawn two adults, a child, and was currently on a second child: his family. Dr McCartney bent down next to him and watched him draw in the details: the hair, the clothes, the eyes, the smiles. He then picked up a red felt-tip and with a forceful action that caused the doctor and PC to jump, he scribbled all over the picture. He didn’t stop until his mother, father, and brother were completely covered in blood.
Twenty years later
Matilda Darke had been looking forward to this day for nine months. In that time she had been through a painful miasma of emotions; from a deep depression where she wanted to spend the rest of her life under the duvet, to mild hysteria where tears would flow like a swollen river for no apparent reason. Now, after a long course of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, weekly sessions with a psychologist, and popping antidepressants as if they were about to be rationed, she was back to her fighting best, she told herself.
It was the first Monday in December. She’d woken two hours before the alarm, to a freezing cold house. The central heating had failed to switch on, and, according to the digital thermometer on her windowsill, it was minus four degrees
