Matter of Trust

‘You want children, then?’ Marsh pressed.

‘I should like to have a family,’ Debra admitted more cautiously. ‘But only within the right kind of relationship.’

She was aware that Marsh was looking at her, but she kept her gaze fixed firmly on the road in front of them, while inwardly wondering why she had made that kind of statement. Had she done it as a warning to Marsh or as a reminder to herself?

‘Surely there is only one kind of relationship that matters?’ Marsh queried. ‘The kind where two people love one another and want to express that love through the conception of their child.’

Their conversation was becoming too personal, too dangerous, Debra thought, panicking a little.

‘Sometimes when two adults... love one another their love can be too intense, too volatile to provide a secure background for their children,’ she told him quickly.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see him frown, and she had a sudden quick suspicion that her words might have betrayed more to him than she wanted him to know.

To her relief they had turned into Brian’s road, and she said quickly, ‘That’s Brian’s house. That one on the right,’ even though she could see that Marsh was perfectly well aware of their destination.

This time she took care to find a chair between two that were already occupied, flushing a little as she saw the speculative assessing look Marsh was giving her.

He was a very intelligent man. Had she said too much, perhaps betrayed too much to him tonight? But if she had, surely he must realise that there was no point in pursuing her; that she was simply not the kind of woman who wanted what he could offer?

Not that he had shown any particular interest in her as a woman on the way over here, she reminded herself. She had been the one who had been too far aware of him, not the other way around.

Because everyone seemed to have several points to raise the meeting went on longer than usual.

Debra in particular wanted to discuss her concern over the situation at the home, where one child could bully and frighten another without anyone in charge being aware of it.

He had had an opportunity now to make contact with Kevin Riley, Marsh announced. A faint shadow darkened his eyes as he paused.

‘He’s obviously having problems adjusting his behaviour to meet the standards that society expects. He’s been the victim of an extremely violent and abusive father, and I have to confess that I’m not sure it’s going to be possible to eradicate the behavioural patterns he’s absorbed from living with his father. He has a tendency to express himself through physical violence. I hate the ideas of pigeon-holing or condemning any child—’

‘He’s not a child. He’s fourteen, going on forty,’ one of the others put in tiredly. ‘The boy’s a thug, and destined to end up in trouble.’ Debra looked at Marsh. His mouth had tightened a little, but she saw from the expression in his eyes that he was aware that there was an element of truth in what had been said.

‘Isn’t there somewhere he could be moved, to another home?’ Debra asked quietly. ‘I’m concerned for Karen. She’s obviously terrified of him.’ She gave a small shiver. ‘And I must admit that I can understand why.’

‘It can’t be done, I’m afraid,’ Brian told her. ‘There just isn’t anywhere else for him to go. Not at the moment.’

It was gone half-past eleven before the meeting finally broke up. Outside, the sky was clear, the stars brilliantly sharp, the air invigoratingly cool after the warmth of the crowded sitting-room.

Marsh made several comments on the meeting as he drove Debra home, but she had learned her lesson, and this time she kept her answers brief and unencouraging.

The street where she lived was in darkness as Marsh drove along it, including her own house.

Debra tensed as she stared at the darkened sitting-room window, where a light should have been shining. She always left the lights on when she was out at night.

‘What’s wrong?’ Marsh asked her, sensing her tension.

‘The lights are off,’ she told him huskily. ‘I always leave them on.’

She saw Marsh glancing at the street-lights as she had done, checking that there hadn’t been a power failure, and then he was saying quietly, ‘Stay here.’

Debra didn’t listen to him. It wasn’t up to him to tell her what to do, and by the time he was out of the car so was she, hurrying towards her front door behind him.

It was still locked and they needed her keys to go in, but immediately they were inside she knew she had been right to be afraid.

In the glow from the street-lights she could see the words sprayed on the hall walls, the shattered pieces of her mirror, the deep scratches on her table.

More paint had been sprayed on her carpets, and as she swayed sickly in the doorway, pressing her hand to her mouth, she heard Marsh saying curtly, ‘Go back to the car, Debra,’ but it was already too late. She had seen enough to know that whoever had broken into her house had not been motivated merely by a desire to steal.

There was evidence here of malice and hatred as well. The house seemed to pulse with a violent energy that contaminated it.