‘Yeah,’ Amber says, nodding. ‘I’ve seen them out running together.’ Amber’s voice is monotone now, mechanical, and Jess knows from experience what that means. That there’s some emotion threatening to spill out, a door that needs to be slammed shut.
Amber is good at putting on a show. Hard bitch at school. Suck-up foster kid at home. Sexy minx whenever Sean gives her a second of attention. Only Jess has glimpsed the real Amber, the one who still misses her mum, and hates the world for taking her away. It doesn’t help that most of her memories of Jacqui are bad ones. Like the smell of her after a day on the booze. All fumes and vomit. Or how Jacqui would curl up and cry when Tyler stormed out after an argument, her face a mix of blood and blue skin where he’d hit her. And then that final time.
Jess was a bit luckier than Amber. Being a year and half older means she still remembers Jacqui before she met Tyler. They were never a family like the Roses. Single mum on benefits, two young girls from different fathers, vodka in Jacqui’s coffee mug most breakfasts. But they laughed a lot back then. Jess was too young to notice how their life differed from other families, and her mum always seemed happy. Even after everything Jess’s dad had put her through, and then having another baby all by herself. They’d been through tough times and survived them.
But then Tyler came along. And despite everything he did to her, Jacqui couldn’t stop loving him. Until he killed her. On 14th August 2016, when Team GB won five gold medals at the Rio Olympics, Tyler celebrated with six bottles of Desperado and then beat their mother to death.
Ever since then, Jess and Amber have only had each other.
Jess shuffles closer to her sister. ‘Well, you can see where Lucy gets her rank looks from then,’ she says.
Amber smiles. Reaches into her bag and pulls out a joint. Lights it up and takes a long toke. ‘Yeah, two pale-faced bitches,’ she says, passing the joint to Jess. ‘I wonder who’d miss them.’
THE NIGHT SHE DIES
Friday 3rd May
Rachel
‘The first session is always the hardest,’ I say softly. It’s not necessarily true – the real issues can sometimes take a while to emerge – but I feel an urge to reassure Mrs Gray. The meeting went on for over an hour, two social workers and an assortment of other professionals crowded around her small living room, and she didn’t move from the arm of the sofa. Perched on her sit bones, knees glued together, hands interlinked in her lap. And Mr Gray didn’t hide his resentment as he watched the proceedings from the armchair.
‘I wish this was the last session,’ she murmurs as she leads me towards her front door. ‘In fact, I wish it hadn’t come to this at all. It was such a stupid thing to do, but it won’t happen again. I scared myself more than I scared Dylan, I’m sure of it.’
‘I’m sure too,’ I say. And I mean it. I know that a momentary loss of control might not even register with a 3-year-old, yet it could haunt a mother forever. But it shouldn’t be ignored either. Especially when her outburst happened in the playground of her older children’s school. I want to reach for her hand, to show her that I’m on her side, and I would have done once upon a time. But we’re too professional for physical contact these days.
‘I’m sure it must feel overwhelming,’ I say. ‘All these strangers in your house. But we really do just want to help you and Shane get through this. A diagnosis of autism is a lot to take in, for any family. And especially with other children to think about. Use us, our expertise,’ I urge. ‘The community support team is all about prevention, and I promise we’re here to make things easier for you, not harder.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispers, blinking away a tear.
My colleagues have already left, so I use the opportunity to break with protocol. I rest my hand on her arm, and she gives me a grateful smile.
‘Maybe we could do with some help,’ she admits quietly.
It’s at moments like this that I wish I was still a regular social worker. Working directly with families. But at least my promotion within LCSS means I get to train other social workers to do this job – and support them at initial meetings like this from time to time. I push my lips together to stop myself from giving Mrs Gray my phone number, and return her smile instead. ‘And that, right there, shows how strong you are,’ I say. ‘Dylan’s lucky to have you.’
I can feel my phone vibrating in my pocket, so I quickly say goodbye and slip outside. It’s a withheld number, but that’s not unusual – all our office phones are – so I click to accept the call.
‘Is that Mrs Rose? Um, sorry, I mean Ms Salter, Lucy Rose’s mum? I’m calling from Lord Frederick’s.’
My daughters’ school. I feel a prickly sensation on my skin. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Lucy is fine. Well, sort of. She’s not injured,’ she clarifies, her voice sounding more rattled with each word. ‘There’s been an incident,’ she finally settles on. ‘Ms Munroe wondered if you could come in?’
I screw my eyes closed and focus on breathing until the urge to cry recedes. ‘What incident?’
‘I think it’s better if Ms Munroe explains in person,’ the voice says. ‘Could you make it here for four o’clock?’
I look at my watch: 3.30 p.m. The Grays’ house is in Cowley to the south of Oxford. It’s a forty-minute drive home, but the school is closer. ‘Yes, fine,’ I say. Then I race to my car and head for the dual carriageway.
‘Thank you for coming in today, Ms Salter.’ The head teacher gestures to the chair opposite her desk.
‘The woman I spoke to said something’s happened to Lucy,’ I start, lowering down until I feel the thin cushion. ‘Is it to do with the bullying?’ I want her to say no. I’d even prefer her to tell me that Lucy has been misbehaving. But I know that’s just wishful thinking.
Ms Munroe sighs. ‘Possibly, yes.’
‘Possibly?’
‘Lucy had netball practice during lunchbreak. When she got back to the changing room, her sports bag wasn’t there.’ She pauses, swallows. ‘Someone had emptied its contents over the lawn, and um, hung her school clothes on the surrounding trees.’
‘What?’ My heart rate ticks up. ‘All her things?’
‘Yes.’ She sighs heavily. Ms Munroe is the archetypal smart headmistress – cropped hair, fitted suit, sensible shoes – but she looks uncomfortable now. ‘And I’m afraid that includes underwear. Lucy had changed into a sports bra for netball, and apparently there was also a spare pair of knickers in her bag. You know, just in case.’
I look away. Imagine the shame of collecting up those items with all her peers watching on, laughing, filming no doubt. The room starts to sway. I take a deep breath.
‘Most of the students were very kind apparently,’ Ms Munroe continues, reading her mind. ‘Helped Lucy gather up her things. Of course there were a few who found it funny, but they have been dealt with.’
A burst of rage rattles through me and I push hard on my knees to control it. Those stupid little bitches.
‘Her shirt had a small tear, from a branch I presume,’ the head teacher goes on. ‘But I appreciate this won’t be your main concern.’ Her voice drifts away.
‘And what are you doing about it?’ My tone is clipped, acidic. So unlike my normal voice that I hardly recognise it. ‘I assume those girls, Amber Walsh and Jess Scott, were behind it?’
Ms Munroe leans back in her chair and moves a pencil a few centimetres to the right. ‘Lucy believes so. But no one saw them do it.’
I want to shout that of course they wouldn’t, that those girls have already proven themselves too clever for that. Like the photo that went round the school, Lucy crying in the loos, taken over the door of the cubicle. Everyone saw it, but no one had a clue where it came from. Supposedly.
‘And both Jessica Scott and Amber Walsh have denied involvement.’
