Playing Nice

“Won’t be back? Why not?”

“He was involved in a traffic accident—quite a bad one. He’ll be in hospital for some time. But if you have a story, tell me and I’ll see if we’re still interested.”

“What kind of traffic accident?”

“He was hit by a car. Broke his back, poor guy. They say it could be six months before he’s on his feet again.”

A terrible notion flits into my brain. “Did they arrest the driver?”

“Usually it’s us who ask the questions,” the journalist says, amused. “But someone wrote a piece, if you’re interested. It’s on the website. Now, tell me about this story of yours—”

I’ve already disconnected.

* * *

—

I FIND THE ARTICLE in between two flickering sidebars of clickbait about the plastic surgery disasters of celebrities I’ve never heard of. MAIL REPORTER VICTIM OF HIT-AND-RUN. It’s only twelve lines long. Kieran was found unconscious by a passerby near his home late one evening. The driver had fled the scene. There were no witnesses.

Did Kieran pick up on my comment about it being a bigger story than it looked, and decide to check out Miles for himself? Coming to the end of his internship, he’d be desperate to make his mark with a big story. And had Miles decided he’d rather not have whatever Kieran found out published?

I have to be wary of reading too much between the lines, I know. But I feel, in my heart, that any one of us could be in danger.

95

MADDIE

THREE DAYS BEFORE THE hearing, we go to a small, anonymous building in Camden to see Theo. The place looks not unlike a nursery or a small school, with rooms full of toys and play mats. But the sign outside says CAMDEN CHILD CONTACT CENTER, and the reception area is plastered with posters saying things like AT CCCC THE MOST IMPORTANT PERSON IS THE CHILD! and PLEASE LEAVE YOUR DISPUTES AT THE DOOR. WE WANT THIS TO BE A POSITIVE PLACE FOR OUR CHILDREN! along with advertisements for women’s refuge centers and Childline.

We’re led down a long corridor, past room after room of lone dads playing awkwardly with their kids. Despite the drawings on the walls and the jaunty, pastel-colored furniture, it feels like we’re walking ever farther into some bureaucrat’s version of hell—a surreal cross between a privatized prison and play school. This is where the detritus of broken families ends up, I think, looking around. They should send anyone who’s contemplating getting divorced here for an afternoon, not to couples therapy. Any marriage, however bad, would surely be more bearable than seeing your child somewhere like this.

Eventually we come to a door marked PENGUIN ROOM. AGE 2–4. Through the glazed panel we can see Theo squatting on the floor, engrossed in a marble run. A middle-aged woman with a notebook sits to one side. That must be Janine, our supervisor. Her job, we’ve been informed by email, is to write observations on “the quality of our interactions” with Theo for CAFCASS, who may then share them with the court.

I feel strangely nervous as we walk in. Which is ridiculous, I tell myself firmly. This is our son, and we’re simply going to play with him. Just like we’ve done a million times before.

“Hi, Theo,” Pete says eagerly. “How are you?”

Theo looks up briefly, then returns his attention to the marble run. “?’lo,” he mutters.

Undeterred, Pete gets down on the floor next to him. “That looks fun. Can I have a turn?”

Theo shakes his head.

“Come on, Theo. Remember we talked about taking turns?” Pete reaches toward the plastic pot containing the marbles, but Theo snatches it away.

“Mine!” he declares.

I daren’t look at Janine to see what she’s making of all this. “Theo,” I begin, getting down on the floor as well. “Daddy really wants a turn with those marbles—”

For the first time, Theo looks at Pete. “You’re not my daddy.”

I feel my blood run cold. For a moment Pete’s too stunned to react. “Why do you say that, Theo?” he asks at last.

“Daddy Moles is my real daddy.” Theo glances at me. “You’re not my mummy, too. I was growed in Mummy Lucy’s tummy. Daddy Moles told me.” He turns back to the marble run and puts a whole fistful of marbles into the top so that they skitter down, one after the other, patter-patter-patter. One bounces out and rolls under Janine’s chair.

Pete swivels to Janine. “Write that down!” he demands furiously. “Write down that those—the applicants have been talking to him about the case. When we all agreed we wouldn’t.”

But even as he says it, I realize we didn’t all agree to that. It was just something Pete and I always assumed. Because telling Theo the truth about his parentage is so irrevocable, so final, that it has literally never occurred to us to do so. We were, I suppose, sticking our heads in the sand and hoping this would somehow go away before it became necessary. And while we’d made it clear to CAFCASS that we weren’t telling him, Lyn had never actually confirmed that she agreed with our position.

Janine says calmly, “The applicants asked the CAFCASS officer for permission to undertake some structured life story work with Theo. He has a right to know, after all. The officer thought it was a good idea to do it now, before…” She hesitates, and I have the impression she was going to say, Before he leaves you. “Before the hearing,” she finishes.

“He’s two,” Pete says incredulously. “Two. Years. Old. What kind of monstrous bitch would allow—”

He manages to stop himself, but the damage is done. “I’m going to terminate this contact now,” Janine says sharply, tucking her biro into her notebook to keep her place and standing up. Her hand hovers over a big red button on the wall. “Please go quietly, or I’ll have to call Security.”

96

MADDIE

OF ALL THE THINGS we’ve endured—Pete being made to move out, Theo staying at the Lamberts’, the police investigations—it’s those few brief moments in the contact center that seem to hit Pete hardest. That Miles has managed to weaponize Theo himself in the battle against us seems to rip away the last shreds of hope in his mind.

And that’s why Miles has never bothered to kill us, I realize. Not because he wouldn’t, but simply because he doesn’t need to. The system is on his side, and all he needs to do is let the various processes play out to their conclusion.

* * *

—

THE DAY BEFORE THE hearing, Pete collects his suit from the dry cleaners and I iron a black linen jacket. Funeral clothes, I find myself thinking.

Pete watches me, waiting his turn to iron his shirt. “You know, I keep thinking about Solomon, and that baby he ordered cut in two,” he says glumly. “If CAFCASS had existed back then, they’d probably have taken away his children, on the basis he’d threatened violence against a child. As for the women, when the real mother said let the other one have it, they’d have written a report saying she clearly no longer wanted him and was guilty of neglect.”

“We shouldn’t blame CAFCASS,” I say gently. “It’s not their fault they’ve run up against Miles. Think how long it took us to see him for what he really is.”

“True,” he admits.

I go on ironing.

“Wait,” he says suddenly. “I’ve had an idea. Why don’t we divide the children?”

I look at him. “What do you mean?”

“We have two children between two families, yes? Why don’t we simply share them? Theo could spend two weeks at ours, say, while David spends two weeks at their house. And then we swap, so David’s here and Theo’s at theirs. That way, we each have one child at any time. We could take turns, the way we’re always telling Theo he ought to.”

He looks so excited at the idea that some kind of compromise might still be possible that I don’t have the heart to tell him Miles will never go for it. Why should he? He’s never shown the faintest interest in compromising, not genuinely. And even if he did, who would decide about schools, or holidays, or even little things like haircuts? Perhaps right at the beginning, when things were different, we could have thrashed out an agreement like this. But now, when Miles so nearly has both children within his grasp, it’s pointless.

But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I say, “Well, it’s got to be worth a try.”

97

MADDIE

“GOOD MORNING, AND PLEASE take a seat,” Marion Wakefield says pleasantly.

I still can’t get over how informal the family courts are. It’s astonishing to think that every day, in this room, parents are separated from their children.

“First, I’m going to ask you again whether you think any agreement could be reached,” the judge continues. “Mr. Kelly?”

“My clients have been open to all suggestions, madam,” the Lamberts’ barrister says. “It seems a ruling by the court is the only way to resolve this.”

The judge nods, clearly expecting that answer. “Ms. Chowdry?”

Anita says, “My clients have a proposal they would like to put forward.”