“It’s beautiful. I bet your mum will love it. Does she put your paintings up in her kitchen?” I try to picture their dingy flat, hoping the mess in there has long since been cleared up.
“Maybe.” Her face lights up as if I’ve suggested something world-changing. “I’ll ask her. We could tack it to the wall.”
“Or put it up in your new bedroom?” I suggest.
Her expression darkens. “We haven’t painted it yet. Mum says we’ll do it soon.”
“I expect you’ve been too busy to do much decorating. Is it nice to be home?”
Allegra nods. “Mum lets me stay up late and watch TV.”
I swallow hard. “And have you caught up with your friends? I expect they were glad to see you.”
“Yeah, it’s nice to play at the park with them.”
The park is on the far corner of the estate. It’s the same place that Darren has been hanging around, dealing to kids. “Do you go to the park often?”
She shrugs. “If the weather’s good. Otherwise we go to Shona’s house and play on her Xbox.”
“What about your mum? Does she see much of her friends?”
A blank look. Allegra turns and adds some more paint to her stars. “Dunno.” I chastise myself for being so obvious. She must think I’m crazy, shooting so many questions at her.
“Well, maybe we can all go out and do something nice soon. Go out to the cinema or something?”
Allegra stops painting again and looks up with a smile. “I’d like that,” she says.
So would I. I don’t say it, but she knows. I’m already thinking how I can bring up the whole subject of Darren with Daisy without making her defensive. The last time I saw her was outside social services, celebrating the return of her child. Would she really give it all up, put everything in danger for the sake of a scumbag like him?
For the rest of the afternoon I let Niall take the lead, while I sit at the desk and try to think things through. My mind feels full of cotton wool—soft and mushy. Trying to find clarity is almost impossible. Every so often, Niall glances over at me, and I guess there must be something in my expression that worries him. More than once his look turns into a stare that seems to see right through me.
I don’t have the slightest idea what to do. My first instinct is to run over to the estate, grab Darren Tebbit by his collar and beat the shit out of him. But it’s never going to happen—I’ll end up lying at the bottom of a ditch somewhere. I could go and see Grace the social worker and tell her about the sightings, but as soon as she starts questioning me and discovers I’m relying on the word of a thirteen-year-old kid who’s recently been arrested, she’ll probably laugh me out of her office. If I mention I’ve actually asked this same boy to keep his eye out for a criminal—and I still can’t believe I did that—she’ll probably blow her top with me. No matter what I do, I can’t see a good resolution to this situation.
“A penny for ’em?”
“I don’t want to fleece you. They’re not worth that much.”
Niall raises his eyebrows. “You’ve been miles away all afternoon. You missed an amusingly gruesome re-enactment of Van Gogh’s ear being chopped off.”
“Kids love a bit of gore. Maybe we should make it a pre-requisite that all artists chop a body part off.” I catch his eye. “Present company excluded, of course.”
He smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s too busy looking at me with concern. “Did Cameron Gibbs say something to you?”
Niall’s more perceptive than I give him credit for. Damn him.
“It wasn’t like that. He wasn’t being a pain or anything. I just asked him to keep an eye on Allegra and he was reporting back.”
He looks more confused than ever. “Keep an eye on her? Why?”
The temptation to let everything spill out is overwhelming. I’m desperate to share this information with somebody, but half of it is probably confidential, while the other half paints me in a terrible light.
“I don’t even know where to start.” When I look up, Allegra’s walking over to us, holding her painting out for me to see. It effectively silences any conversation we can have about her, still I don’t feel the relief I expect to. Instead, I experience a pang of regret. I want to hear what he has to say, because his opinion matters to me.
So when Niall turns and mouths “Later” to me, I find myself nodding in agreement.
24
An hour later, the classroom is empty of children. The white-painted walls no longer echo with their excited chatter, though the paint-splattered floor is evidence they were here. We share the cleaning as usual, with Niall pegging their starry paintings on the drying line we’ve strung across the ceiling, twelve pieces of paper swaying in a gentle breeze. We seem to have fallen back into the old rhythm of washing, stacking and making the occasional comment. It’s as if we both know we will be talking later. For now, we can just be.