The Horse Dancer (39 page)

He stood for a moment more, then walked slowly back up the stairs and opened the door to Sarah’s room.

It was impossible to enter the room of a teenage girl without feeling like some kind of seedy interloper. Mac found he had self-consciously thrust his hands into his pockets, fearful of touching anything. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, just knew he wanted reassurance that things were as they should be. Perhaps that he knew this girl after all. He opened the wardrobe, and sighed with relief. There were her clothes, her jeans, her shoes. Her bed was neatly made. He was about to leave the room when he turned back.

The framed picture of her grandfather was gone. As was the Greek book on horsemanship she had been reading. He stared at the empty spot on the bedside table where both had stood, then walked into the bathroom. No toothbrush. No hairbrush. No soap. And, there hanging over the back of the radiator, was her school uniform. The only set she had.

Mac ran back downstairs and snatched up the phone. ‘Tash?’ he said, then swore under his breath. ‘Yes, I know she’s in court. Can you get hold of her for me? It’s urgent. Tell her . . . tell her we’ve got a problem.’

 

 

 

It had stopped raining. Sarah trotted briskly along the endless grass verges towards the Royal Docks, towards City Airport, watching Boo’s coat lift in colour as it dried. He had calmed, reassured by the familiar feel of her on his back, her voice, but her heart still thumped uncomfortably in her chest and her neck ached from glancing behind her so frequently.

The spaces were greater here, the sky a flattened grey infinity above, unbroken by looming buildings. She and Boo could move faster, but they were exposed, and awareness of their visibility caused her to keep going, to stay on the verges where she could easily break away and change course if she had to. She checked for traffic then crossed a tarmac road, Boo’s hooves echoing across the empty space. When she hit the grass she began to canter again, leaping the drainage ditches.

The grey cloud was lifting, and suddenly, in front of her, she could see the airport. She had considered the London bridges, but suspected they would be too busy – a girl on a horse would attract attention – so she had headed east, out through the endless, Soviet-style estates of Newham and Beckton, crossing into the flatlands of north Woolwich, letting the shining towers of Canary Wharf recede behind her.

Rush-hour was tailing off now, and the endless stream of vehicles, the relentless automotive push towards the City was less evident. The occasional car still passed her, flying perhaps on some short-cut towards the Blackwall Tunnel, or the Isle of Dogs, but paid her little attention, a man eating a sandwich, or boy-racer lost in thumping music. She had her windcheater on, the hood up so that her face was obscured. This was not an area one would stop in unless it was necessary; with its warehouses and blocks of cheap hotels, marooned between surging carriageways, it was the kind of place one only ever travelled through, populated by travelling middle-ranking executives and salesmen.

Boo was tiring; she slowed to a walk to allow him to catch his breath, checking the road signs. A grimy pub stood solitary in a wasteland of grey grass with a few tired houses nearby. A short way beyond them stood banks of newly built apartments (they were never ‘flats’, the new ones), the dull sheen of the Thames, illuminated in mercurial strips where the sun broke through the clouds, and then, down a poorly asphalted road, flanked by concrete buildings, the ferry terminal. She slowed, glanced behind her, and pointed her horse towards it.

‘Mr Elsworth, would you please tell the court your full name?’

‘I am Peter Graham Elsworth.’

‘Thank you. And can you tell the court your profession?’

‘I run a psychotherapy and counselling practice that specialises in treating children, especially those who have suffered some form of trauma.’

‘You have been in practice for more than thirty years and are considered one of the foremost experts in this field, are you not?’

Elsworth straightened slightly. ‘I have published peer-reviewed papers in several academic journals, yes.’

Natasha looked down at her notes. Behind her, Mrs Persey was anxiously tapping a daintily clad foot, letting out barely audible sighs of annoyance and frustration.

‘Mr Elsworth, would you say that children tend to process trauma in the same way?’

‘No. They process it in as many varying ways as an adult might.’

‘So there is no standard response to a traumatic event.’

‘That is correct.’

‘Is it fair, then, to say that some children may react openly to a traumatic event – for example, crying, confiding in friends or adults – while others, who have endured equally upsetting experiences, may outwardly reveal little?’

Elsworth thought for a moment. ‘It would depend on the child’s development and their relationship with the people around them – as well as the nature of the traumatic event, of course.’

‘If they felt, for example, that revealing something bad had happened to them would upset a parent, might they choose to keep it to themselves?’ Her wig, still unfamiliar to her, was beginning to itch. She fought the urge to scratch the back of her head.

‘That has certainly been my experience.’

Mr Persey was staring at her. A tall, broad man with fleshy cheeks and a skin tone that spoke of three good holidays a year, he had a fixed, piercing gaze that in other circumstances, would have made Natasha feel quite uneasy. It was not hard to see why Mrs Persey was as fluttery and hysterical as she was.

‘Is it also your experience that in a case where parents were involved, parents, say, who were in conflict, a child might hide evidence of trauma if they felt it would prompt further conflict in the relationship?’

‘It is a well-known psychological phenomenon. The child tries to protect the parent if it believes that speaking out might cause that parent further problems.’

‘Even if that parent might have been the perpetrator?’

‘Objection.’ Mr Persey’s barrister was on his feet. ‘Your honour, we have already established that there is no evidence Mr Persey was ever abusive to his child, and to continue with this line of questioning, and with such emotive language, is deeply misleading.’

Natasha turned to the judge. ‘Your honour, I am simply seeking to establish that, in such cases, the absence of obvious material or physical evidence, or even verbal testimony from the child, does not mean that no such trauma has taken place.’

Mr Persey’s barrister, a heavyweight called Simpson with a whining tone snorted audibly. ‘One might as well argue that a woman claiming an abusive relationship should be absolved of the need to show bruises. Except in this case even the child herself is not claiming abuse took place.’ He was the kind of barrister who considered it beneath him to go up against a solicitor advocate; there was still a surprising amount of prejudice against lawyers like her.

‘Your honour, if you let me continue I will seek to show that children are an exceptional case precisely for this reason. They are far more likely to conceal trauma in an effort to protect those around them.’

The judge did not look up. ‘Continue, Mrs Macauley.’

She had bent over her papers again when Ben thrust a note over the bench and into her hand.
Call Mac urgent
, it said. Caught off-guard, she turned to him. ‘What does he want?’ she whispered.

‘Don’t know. He just said it was extremely important that you call him.’

She couldn’t possibly do it now.

‘Mrs Macauley? Would you care to proceed?’

‘Yes, your honour.’ She motioned Ben away surreptitiously. ‘Mr Elsworth, would it . . . would it then be conceivable, in your opinion, that a child who was fearful of one parent could or would conceal any problems in the relationship from the other parent?’

‘Your honour—’

‘I’ll allow it, Mr Simpson. Mrs Macauley, make sure you keep to the point.’

Elsworth glanced at the judge. ‘It’s dependent on their age and circumstances obviously, but, yes, it is conceivable.’

‘Age and circumstances. What do you mean by that?’

‘Well, among the young clients I have seen it is often the case that the younger the child the less effective they are at concealing any traumatic event. It tends to reveal itself – even if they are unable to articulate their distress – in other behaviours: bedwetting, obsessive-compulsive disorders, even uncharacteristic aggression.’

‘And at what age would you say a child is capable of hiding their distress . . . effectively? So that perhaps he or she does not display any of the characteristics you have just described?’

‘It depends on the child, but I have seen children as young as seven and eight who were surprisingly effective at hiding things that had happened to them.’

‘Deeply traumatic events?’

‘In some cases, yes.’

‘So for this to be achieved by a ten-year-old might not be out of the question.’

‘Certainly not, no.’

‘Mr Elsworth, have you heard of parental alienation syndrome?’

‘I have.’

‘This is . . . I quote, “a disturbance in which children are obsessively preoccupied with deprecation and/or criticism of a parent. In other words, denigration that is unjustified and or exaggerated”. Would that be a fair definition in your view?’

‘I am not an expert but, yes, that sounds like a fair definition.’

‘Mr Elsworth, you are, as you say, a peer-reviewed academic whose work has appeared in leading psychological journals for many years. Do you believe in the clinical existence of parental alienation syndrome?’

‘I don’t. But I’m not sure that’s an appropriate—’

‘Okay, I’ll put this another way. Can you tell me how many children you have treated?’

‘In general? In my practice? Over the years, well, it would run into thousands. More than two thousand, perhaps.’

‘And has any of your young clients ever displayed what you understand as parental alienation syndrome?’

‘I have treated many children who have been persuaded to think ill of one parent, even many who have developed animosity to a parent that lasted several years. I have treated many children deeply damaged by their parents’ divorce. But I cannot say I believe such psychological states to be evidence of a syndrome. I think that would be overstating the case.’

She let that one sink in for a bit. ‘Mr Elsworth, do you know anything about the level of false reporting of physical or sexual abuse of children during divorce or custody cases?’

‘I understand there are a number of recent papers on this phenomenon, yes.’

‘Peer-reviewed papers? From respected academics? Can you give us an idea as to the latest conclusions about how many such claims turn out to be false?’

‘I believe the latest paper, in 2005, showed that there is very little false reporting in such cases. I think a cross-section of studies taken that year showed that the rate of false allegations in a custody context was between one and seven point six per cent.’

‘Between one and seven point six per cent.’ Natasha nodded, as if confirming this to herself. ‘So, more than ninety per cent would be valid allegations of abuse. Would that echo your own experience in practice?’

He paused. ‘In my experience, Mrs Macauley, the abuse of children tends to be significantly under-reported, both during and outside divorce and custody matters.’

She caught Michael Harrington’s grin of satisfaction. It was all she could do to suppress a smile. ‘No further questions, your honour.’

Headed from north to south, the Woolwich ferry was empty. A line of benches stood forlorn and empty on the
Ernest Bevin
, their besuited occupants having departed some minutes earlier on the other side for the Docklands Light Railway. As it docked, she hesitated, then led Boo down the long ramp and on to the traffic deck, positioning him well away from the cockpit. Boo gazed around him and shifted a little on the oily surface as the engines began to vibrate, but was apparently unperturbed by this strange transport. There were no lorries, no cars aboard, just her, Boo, and this empty deck. She glanced behind her again, willing the ferry to move off, praying she wouldn’t catch sight of that pick-up truck. She knew, rationally, that there was little chance they could have followed her, but fear had embedded itself in her very bones. She saw that truck everywhere, spectral, coming around corners, parked in front of her. An ever-present threat.

As she stood, Boo’s reins taut in her hand, the conductor emerged from the cockpit. A tall, slightly stooping man with a salt-and-pepper beard, he stood very still for a moment, as if to confirm what he was seeing, then walked slowly towards her. Sarah’s grip on Boo’s reins tightened, and she braced herself for argument. But as he drew closer the man was smiling. ‘That’s got to be the first horse I’ve seen on here in thirty years,’ he said. He stood still, a few feet from Boo, shaking his head. ‘My dad worked on the ferry back in the thirties and forties. He could still remember when nearly all the traffic on here was horse-drawn. Can I pat him?’

Almost weak with relief, Sarah nodded mutely.

‘Lovely boy, ain’t he?’ The man drew his hand along Boo’s neck. ‘Beautiful animal. Horses up the top, men down the front there, it used to be.’ He pointed. ‘Course, that was before this series of ferries.’ He pointed at the huge yellow and white bridge that braced the vessel. ‘He all right, is he? Well behaved?’

‘Yes,’ Sarah muttered. ‘He is.’

‘What’s his name?’

She hesitated. ‘Baucher,’ she said, and added, not quite sure why she did so, ‘He’s named after a famous French rider.’