The Child Who

to understand what led Daniel to do what he did. They owe the boy that much. We do. At least my way he has a chance.’

‘He took a life, Leo. An innocent child’s life.’

‘He took two lives. He took his own at the same time.’

‘Not in the sense that matters. And anyway it’s not about why. It’s never about why. We need to condemn a little more and understand a little less. John Major – remember? This is England, Leo, not Scandinavia.’

‘So we leave it to the newspapers. Is that what you’re saying? We let the Sun and the Mirror and the Mail take care of why?’

‘I’m saying that it’s not our job. That’s all.’ Dale paused, then added, ‘Especially when we don’t even know the answer.’

Leo opened his mouth, then clamped it tight. He was leaning forwards, he realised, reaching towards the centre of the table. He slid his hands into his lap and sat back.

Dale sighed. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m on your side. But you should consider as well the effect the trial would have on Daniel. Whether dragging this thing out is really, from his perspective, the right thing to do.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Think about it. Think about what would be involved. You’ve been to a murder trial, I’m sure.’

Leo had. Two of them. One as an observer, the other as part of the defence team. Neither had been as dramatic as he had expected but they had been long, gruelling, even for someone just watching from the sidelines. ‘It would be different, though. Wouldn’t it? Given Daniel’s age.’

Dale shrugged. ‘The barristers might take off their wigs. The judge might sit a little lower. But no, actually – it would be exactly the same. A little slower. A little more drawn out. It would be an ordeal, Leo. There’s no getting away from that.’

Leo moved in his chair. ‘Well. As you say. There’s no getting away from that.’

Dale, charitably, ignored Leo’s tone. ‘Would Daniel be up to it, do you think? If he had to testify, how would he come across? Would he stay calm? Would he seem contrite? Would he remain quiet, pay attention, sit straight: all those things he seems so rarely to have managed at school?’ The barrister’s gaze seemed to have settled on the scratches on Leo’s cheek.

Leo turned away, dropped his chin. ‘I think,’ he said. ‘I think maybe we’re getting ahead of ourselves.’

Dale said nothing. He watched Leo for a moment, then smiled and pulled himself straight. ‘Perhaps we are. I’m sorry, Leo. It wasn’t my intention to make this harder.’

‘No,’ said Leo. He looked up and said it again, this time displaying a brightness he did not feel. ‘Really,’ he added, ‘it’s fine. You’ve been a huge help. You really have.’

Dale smiled, in a way that said they both knew that was not true. He closed his folder. Leo, for a moment, stared at the table. Then he set about gathering his belongings.

‘How much youth work have you done, Leo?’ said Dale, after a moment. He was tucking his pen into his jacket pocket, not looking at Leo as he spoke.

Leo had, once, attended a seminar. He rescued himself from saying so. ‘Some,’ he said instead. ‘Not a lot.’ He had a daughter, too. That was the other reason, as Leo recalled, that Howard had appointed him their practice specialist.

‘It’s tough,’ Dale said. ‘Isn’t it? It can get to you. Affect your judgement.’ He was standing now, facing Leo across the table. ‘It can be hard, sometimes, to remain objective, to distinguish what we need to do from what we feel we should.’

Leo focused on fastening his briefcase.

They were almost at the lift. Leo cleared his throat and Dale glanced. ‘Do you…’ Leo said. ‘Have you ever…’ And now Dale was smiling and frowning both. ‘Have you ever been threatened?’ Leo spoke quickly. ‘Because of work?’

They stopped at the elevator. Dale pushed the call button and gave a puff. He folded his arms. He looked suspiciously at Leo. ‘You mean by a client? Are you talking about Dan—’

‘No, no, no. Not at all. I mean generally. By someone else. Because of a case you were involved with.’

Again Dale considered. ‘Well, I… Yes. I suppose I have.’

Leo, ludicrously, felt a surge of relief.

‘More than threatened, actually,’ said Dale and he seemed to brighten at whatever recollection was forming in his mind. ‘I was attacked. When I was a pupil. By the girlfriend of this bloke I was defending.’ Dale grinned. ‘She didn’t like my advice. She wanted to testify, you see, tell the judge what an upstanding man my client was, when the whole point was this bloke, my client, was married – twice, concurrently – and charged with bigamy. We were in chambers, just downstairs in fact, and what happened was…’ Dale fell silent. He had noticed the expression on Leo’s face. ‘It didn’t end well,’ he said, dismissing the story with a gesture. ‘I had scratch marks for a while, just… er… just like yours.’ He twitched a smile, then coughed and looked down. He reached once more for the call button.

Leo raised his fingers to his cheek. ‘I was thinking more about… you know.’ He let his fingers fall. ‘Members of the public. People not directly involved.’

‘Like protesters, you mean? Like that mob outside the Magistrates’ I saw on the news?’

‘Well. Yes. Sort of, I suppose.’

‘I’ve battled my way through a few crowds in my time. Dodged the odd egg; even got hit by one or two. The dry-cleaning bills, I would say, come with the gown. Should really be tax deductible.’

Leo smiled politely. He nodded, as though that was the sort of thing he had in mind. ‘What about letters. Notes. Things like that.’

‘Letters?’

‘Like, um… poison-pen letters.’

‘Hate mail, you mean?’ Dale, incongruously, grinned. ‘We get it by the sackload, my friend. Human-rights protesters, environmentalists, animal-rights campaigners, you name it. When they’re not writing to the Guardian, they’re writing to us.’ Dale glanced across his shoulder, made a show of leaning in close. ‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ he said. Then, in a whisper: ‘Lawyers, in this country, aren’t very popular.’ He held up his hands, backed away. ‘It’s crazy, I know. I, for one, feel misunderstood.’

Leo mimicked the barrister’s grin. There you had it. Exactly as Leo had suspected.

Dale turned and reached again for the call button but almost as he pressed it the lift arrived. There was a ping and whisper of wood and Leo, facing inwards, was greeted by an image of his smiling self. He stepped to meet it, his briefcase a little lighter in his grip.

14

Their house was on fire. In the midnight dark that had swallowed the evening, that was how it seemed. The bedroom, the kitchen, the hallway, the study: each of the windows at the front of the house was ablaze with light. It was as though every curtain had been hauled back and every bulb angled to fend off the encroaching darkness. The effect, truly, was that the house was being consumed; that Leo would open the front door and be blinded, burned. And it was Megan at home. The woman who had been parentally programmed to turn out the light in the kitchen if she were popping upstairs to use the bathroom. Had Leo come home to find flames feasting on the mock-Tudor timbers, he did not think he would have been any more alarmed.

He did not wait for his change. He spilled from the taxi and hurried up the driveway and rang the bell at the same time as fishing for his key. He found it, found the lock, but when he turned the key the door clung tight to the frame. It had been bolted on the inside, top and bottom it felt like. He rang the bell again and rapped with his good set of knuckles. ‘Meg?’ He listened, rapped again. ‘Meg, it’s me.’

Shuffling, scrabbling – the sound of the bolts sliding back. The door opened, on the chain, then shut again to allow the chain to be unhooked. Finally Megan showed herself, pale and looking frayed in the unrelenting light.

‘Leo. Where have you been!’