Just ahead the girl heard a branch snap. Her head shot up towards the sound. In the shadow of the night, she saw a dark silhouette a few feet ahead.
‘Bron! Please, stop messing babe. I want to go now.’ There was no reply. Just a strained silence laying heavy in the air. She edged forward, feeling the ground as she stepped carefully through the bracken. A breaking of another branch. Only this time it was coming from the side of her rather than in front of her.
The girl listened, waiting to hear the stifled giggles of her sister. In the darkness she could hear breathing. But not the lightness of breath of a child. From the side came a deep staggered breath. A hungry, urgent, sweet-smelling breath. Warm against her neck. She turned in panic. Almost immediately she tasted blood in her mouth as something hard hit against her lips.
She screamed as she felt her top being torn. Rough hands pushing her down into the damp, cold earth; tugging painfully at her pants under her skirt.
As she felt the hands tighten around her neck, her breath becoming short as the life seeped out of her, it was of some small comfort to the girl that the last words she managed to cry were, ‘Run Bronwin! Run!’
Bronwin sat in the corner of the tiny room, watching the uniformed police officers milling about as they came in and out of the bare room. Sat by her was a plain-looking social worker with a cup of soup in hand, oblivious to the large drop of over-stewed tomato soup sitting on her cream blouse, looking like a deep red blood stain.
‘Bronwin, you really need to tell us what you can remember.’
‘I don’t think she’s ready to answer any questions.’ The social worker intervened as the large detective leaned in to question Bronwin. Annoyed with the interruption, the detective snapped back. ‘I think that’s a matter for Bronwin, don’t you?’
‘Officer, she’s far too young to know what’s best. She’s had a traumatic experience and I don’t think the questions will help, do you?’
The officer in charge rubbed his empty stomach as he heard it growl. ‘Listen, no-one’s saying she hasn’t had a traumatic experience, but if we want to make sure the perpetrators can’t get out of this we need to make sure she tells us everything she can remember. She’s an important witness. Where’s the mother anyway?’
The social worker, putting down her cup of soup, opened her file, flicking through the notes. ‘We don’t know exactly where she is at the moment, we’ve tried leaving her a message but we’ve had no reply. She told us she’d meet us here but maybe it’s all too much for her.’
‘She’s got responsibilities. This kid for one, and another one lying cold.’
The social worker bristled, furrowing her brow angrily as she took a sidewards glance at Bronwin.
‘That’s enough detective. Not everything is so clear-cut. The family are well known to us and there are problems. The mother’s very young and as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, things can get difficult for her.’
The officer’s demeanour softened slightly as he looked at a shivering Bronwin in the corner. It passed through his mind how nicely she’d fit the image of Dickensian London. She was elf-like and looked as if she could do with a good hot meal. Her blonde, matted hair he’d bet hadn’t seen a brush for days but she was startlingly pretty, unlike her sister who lay on a mortuary slab on the other side of the building. Dead or not, the child had been no looker.
The detective sighed. It was tragic. A shocking waste of life. And what was to happen to this kid? Another care home child for society to pay for until they washed their hands of her when she was old enough to be kicked out on the street, to end up a junkie, a tom or dead.
The future, the officer decided, was more than bleak. Still, it wasn’t his problem. All he needed to do was sort out who was responsible and he’d leave the other problems for others to deal with.
‘Fine, no more questions, but we need to take her to see the line-up. It’s important; we can only hold the men for so long.’ The officer turned his head and winked at Bronwin who stared ahead, her eyes vacant and the childlike life drained out of them.
The line-up room was dark and six-year-old Bronwin wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. The woman who kept insisting on holding her hand smelt funny. A bit like the cupboard in the kitchen at her nanny’s house. She didn’t like the smell and she didn’t like the woman. She wanted to go home. Where was her mum anyway? She hoped she’d come and get her soon.
‘All we want you to do is tell us if you remember any of the men’s faces. We want you to have a good look and if you remember any of them, tell us.’
‘Can I have a word, Detective?’ A man stepped out of the shadows, making Bronwin retreat behind the social worker. She didn’t like her, but she liked the man with the booming voice even less. She listened to him, not understanding what he was saying; only understanding he was cross, like everybody seemed to be.
‘Detective, my clients feel it’s unfair they’re not only being forced to be in the line-up, but also the pick-out is going to be on the word of a child. We all know what children are like Detective. They choose things on a whim. Something as simple as the colour of a person’s jumper. I want a stop to this.’
The officer in charge rubbed his top teeth with his tongue before answering. His mouth was dry and the thought of a strong cup of coffee was becoming distracting. He’d been here since yesterday night and he wasn’t even sure how he was managing to stand up, let alone have a coherent conversation.
‘You and I both know it’s going to go ahead. And you know the saying; if they’ve nothing to hide, they’ve got nothing to fear.’
The man grinned nastily at the detective, his eyes reflecting the coldness in his smile. Bronwin took a sharp intake of breath. She didn’t like this at all. Why wasn’t anybody taking her home to bed? She was tired and wanted to snuggle up with Mr Hinkles, the teddy bear her sister had got her. Where was her sister anyway? She’d heard people talking about her and they’d asked her a lot of questions, but she hadn’t seen her; well, she didn’t think she had.
The last time she saw her was in the woods. But she didn’t want to think about the woods, thinking about them gave her a funny feeling in her tummy. But she did want to see her sister.
Big tears began to spill down Bronwin’s cheeks. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she watched them fall on to the floor, right next to the foot of the man with the booming voice. Cautiously, Bronwin looked at him from underneath her shaggy fringe. He was smart. Smart and clean. He also smelled nice. The only other person who Bronwin knew smelled nice like that was a man who had come to visit her mum before her mum had got angry and shouted at him. After that he hadn’t come back and even though Bronwin couldn’t remember his face clearly she could remember the clean, fresh smell.
Quickly, Bronwin dropped her gaze as she saw the man looking at her. Her eyes wandered to his shoes. They were black shoes. Shiny black shoes apart from the bottom part of them which were dirty with mud. She looked up again, edging back as the man bent down to meet her stare.
‘Would you like a hanky?’
Bronwin shook her head but the man insisted.
‘Here, take it.’ Pushing the crisp white handkerchief into Bronwin’s hand she noticed some letters embroidered on to it, but she wasn’t good with letters, especially fancy ones which swirled and curled like those did.
She could feel her knees trembling. And the funny feeling in her tummy was beginning to come back. Taking hold of the smelly lady’s hand, Bronwin buried her face in the woman’s skirt, squeezing her eyes tightly shut and hoping that when she opened them again she would be back in her flat with her mum and sister.
‘Now is everybody ready? We need to get on with this.’ The detective’s voice had a tone of weariness. He was tired and didn’t expect much from this line-up, although in his gut he felt he had the right men, but he knew only too well with slick, high-powered lawyers like the one standing opposite him, even if the suspects had been caught with the blood-stained knife in their pocket and the word
guilty
written on their forehead, there was still a possibility of them walking free. Sometimes the law stank. Strong and rancid like the crimes themselves.
‘Are you ready Bronwin?’ The social worker pulled Bronwin away from her skirt as the lights on the other side of the mirrored line-up room went on.
Bronwin nodded, not because she wanted to, but she understood that if she did she’d be able to get out of there and hopefully then she’d see her sister.
‘All you have to do is pick out the men who you think you saw in the woods. Do you think you can do that Bronwin?’
Again Bronwin nodded, not wanting to think about the dark horrible woods. She stood on a chair and in front of her a procession of men began to walk in through the door on the other side of the glass.
As Bronwin stood watching, the social worker whispered in Bronwin’s ear which made it tickle. ‘Don’t worry Bronwin, they can’t see you or hear you.’
The men stood with their backs against the wall, staring ahead, holding up the boards they were given. The detective adjusted the microphone as he spoke in it.
‘Can you step forward number one and then turn to the left and to the right slowly.’ The tall man with dark hair stepped forward nervously, turning as instructed in both directions before stepping back to the wall.
‘Number two, can you step forward and then turn to the left and to the right slowly.’ Without taking his eyes off Bronwin’s reaction to the men, the detective stood up slightly as he realised he was too near the mike.
‘Number three, can …’
Bronwin’s mind wandered off. Her legs were getting tired having to stand up and she thought it was funny the way all the men were staring ahead. The smelly lady had said they couldn’t see her, but she didn’t know how that was possible if she could see them. Bronwin bet she was telling lies. She knew grown-ups told lies as well as children, sometimes more. Even her mum told lies, saying she’d come home and then she wouldn’t and it would be left down to her sister to put her to bed.
‘Bronwin? Bronwin?’ The detective was talking to her. She didn’t know how long he had been but she could tell he was cross; his cheeks were red like her mum’s cheeks went red when she was angry with her.
‘Do you recognise any of them? Were any of them there in the woods?’ The detective’s voice was urgent as he stared at Bronwin who was busy chewing on her top lip.
‘Detective, let me handle it.’ The social worker cut her eye at the detective. ‘Bronwin, do you recognise any of them? Were any of them there in the woods?’
Bronwin looked first at the detective and then at the smelly lady. She didn’t know why they were asking her the same question and arguing about it.
The social worker sighed, looking at her cheap Timex brown leather strapped watch. ‘Bronwin, this is very important. If you can remember
anything,
you need to tell us. Can you remember who it was?’
Bronwin nodded her head.
‘Show us then. Can you point them out?’
Bronwin nodded again, she raised her hand and pointed, speaking in a small voice. ‘It was him.’
The officer sprang into action. ‘Number eight.’
‘Yes. And him.’ She pointed again at the line-up.
‘Number two.’
‘Yes.’
The detective’s face didn’t give anything away. In a matter-of-fact manner, he spoke. ‘Well done Bronwin. You’ve done really well.’
Bronwin looked at him, her elf-like face turned to the side. She swivelled around, turning her back on the line-up and staring towards the door where the man with the booming voice stood. ‘And him. I saw him in the woods as well.’
‘Bronwin do you understand what happens to children who keep telling lies?’
‘I ain’t lying. It
was
him, it
was
that bloke. Why won’t you believe me?’
The psychiatrist tapped his pen on his leg absentmindedly. ‘We’ve gone over this before and we both know why I won’t believe you, don’t we?’ The psychiatrist paused dramatically, then said, ‘Because it’s simply not true. How do you think a person feels to be accused of bad things, Bronwin? Heinous things. How would you feel if I accused you of doing something bad?’
‘But you are. You’re saying I’m lying.’
‘That’s
not
the same Bronwin because you
are
.’
Bronwin’s eyes were wide with fear as she cuddled Mr Hinkles, her teddy bear. ‘Please let me go home. I think I should go home now; me mum will be missing me.’
Not being put-off but seemingly more determined by Bronwin’s tired plea, the psychiatrist continued angrily.
‘Bronwin, children who tell lies,
especially
dangerous ones which cause other people harm, sometimes can’t go home. How would you like to never go home?’
Bronwin didn’t say anything but curled up tighter in her sadness as she listened to the doctor continue to talk. ‘And you know what’s happened now don’t you?’
Bronwin shook her head.
‘Now everybody thinks you’re a liar. The police, the courts, even your mum does.’
Hearing the psychiatrist mention her mother, Bronwin sat up, her tiny face scrunched up in a mixture of hurt and anger.
‘No she don’t! She never said that!’
‘Bronwin, I don’t tell lies because I know it’s wrong.’
Rubbing away a tear with the back of her sleeve, Bronwin yelled, ‘You’re a big fat liar.’
Taking his glasses off to wipe them with the corner of his starched white doctor’s coat, the psychiatrist didn’t bother to look at Bronwin as he spoke. ‘That’s why she hasn’t been to see you Bronwin, because she doesn’t like liars. No one is ever going to believe a word you say. No one trusts you Bronwin which means no one’s ever going to believe you when you tell them what happened in the woods.’
At the word
woods,
Bronwin covered her ears.
‘It’s no good doing that Bronwin. The only way to change this is by telling the truth and stop these silly lies.’
‘But I keep telling you, it ain’t a lie. I want to go home. I want to see me mum and me sister.’
The psychiatrist nodded to the white-gowned nurse in the corner of the room who stepped forward.