“Okay folks, Barry will lead the interview, Sharon,” Timms began, looking across to Detective Constable Sharon Stokes. “I’d like you in there too, maybe spell Barry a little. The rest of you, you know the drill, pull the files coordinate with the other forces – I want a daily report from everyone. If we need a psychologist on this, Kathy you’re in, Peter, I want background from you. Anything you can tell me about Jacqueline Harvey we don’t already know.” The nodding heads and eager expressions told Timms his team were motivated. It would be a long one; he understood that, even with a confession, investigating the circumstances, collecting the forensic evidence together from so many cases, a lot of which would have been lost over the course of time, would be painfully slow. He’d had his fingers burned in the past by throwing a case file together too quickly; this was too big a case to screw up. “Alright folks, lets get to work,” he announced, moving across the desk littered room to Reynolds. “Barry, take your time – I’ll have someone transcribe for you. I know you’re familiar, but I don’t see that as a hindrance, I see it as a positive.” Barry Reynolds smiled. “Thank you, sir,” he replied. He made his way back down toward the custody area via the stairs, slowly descending, his mind crowded with thoughts of how to approach the interview. Sharon Stokes was already on the ground floor, waving a packet of cigarettes at him. “These for your girl?” she enquired, a rueful smile crossing her generous face. “Tough break really,” Sharon continued, running her left hand through short rusty brown hair. “I liked her.” “Liked?” Reynolds prompted. “Well, you know – doesn’t change who she is exactly,” Stokes remarked. “But shit, twenty eight guys, she’s some piece of work.” “Who knew?” Reynolds agreed. “So,” Sharon began, betraying a heavy southwestern accent. “How did you want to handle this?” Reynolds glanced at her, his heavyset brow line furrowed. “Very, very carefully,” he sighed. “Maybe I ought to get us a coffee, sit down and discuss this first?” she offered, her features showing a degree of reservation now. “You seem a little tense.” Reynolds exhaled again. “I don’t know if this is smart,” he admitted, watching two uniformed officers walk past before continuing. “She’s playing a game here, and I’m not sure if I can handle it.” Stokes nodded placing a sympathetic hand on the man’s shoulder. “Sarge, you’ve worked with her for years, it’s got to be hard to handle.” “Yeah, it’s hard,” he confessed. “It’s worse that she doesn’t seem to give a damn what happens to her either – that’s what really bothers me. She’s hiding something, and I can’t put my finger on it.” Stokes watched the man’s features contorting, feeling a degree of discomfort. “Well, whatever happens in there – at least you know you’re giving her the benefit of the doubt.” Jacqueline listened to the sounds of doors locking, voices in the distance – the general din of the arrested coming from the holding cell as they waited to be processed. She closed her eyes, listening. The images that instantly flashed into her mind causing her to flinch; those were the images that kept her awake, the shattered faces of children subjected to the cruellest rape of their youth she could imagine. It was a constant, never ending onslaught to listen to children, and adults describing ordeals she could barely comprehend. The loss, the feeling of betrayal and ultimately the death of three or more of her charges from suicide had left scars that she couldn’t erase from her mind. Maybe that’s why she was here, sitting in a cell six feet square on a padded piece of wood she would never even loosely describe as a bunk. There was so much to think of, to remember, getting the thoughts ordered, such a challenge. She smiled then, involuntarily as she heard the key enter the lock. “Showtime!” she whispered. Barry Reynolds regarded her as she stood. “Well, you’ve got just about everybody in SCU licking their lips and eager to investigate, so shall we proceed?” he offered, his right hand outstretched and gesturing for her to exit the cell. “Let’s not keep the boys waiting,” Jacqueline agreed, flicking her eyes toward the short stocky female officer she recognised instantly. “Sharon, delightful, are you joining us?” “I am,” Stokes replied, offering her a vague smile. “Splendid,” Jacqueline exclaimed; her steely blue eyes filled with amusement. “The torture chamber will look like someone threw in a smoke bomb!” “And then some,” Stokes agreed, trying to relax herself as much as she perceived the psychologist was, it wouldn’t do to give away feelings so early in the game. The interview room, the same one they’d used that morning seemed far less familiar a second time, a little colder perhaps. Jacqueline sat in the same seat, and looked across at the two police officers, wondering which would be the first to lose patience, a mental bet it would be Stokes – she had a short fuse at the best of times, and probably hadn’t enjoyed the dressing down she’d gotten from DI Timms when her complaints over the treatment of a young offender had been issued in the strongest terms. Whatever she felt for the crimes they had committed, Jacqueline prided herself in treating all offenders the same way, with respect, courtesy and kindness. Even the hardiest of them found civility difficult to abuse. “So, where do we start?” she asked, taking a cigarette from the pack and waiting for Reynolds to lean across and light it. He pointedly placed the lighter in the centre of the table. “Twenty eight victims,” he said at length. “I guess we should resume there.” He turned on the tape recorder, advising of the interviews resumption and those present. “So, can we get all twenty eight names?” he enquired. “I’ll write them down,” Jacqueline replied. “Oh, and your consent form didn’t show. Damn shoddy!” “Thanks, I’ll make a mental note to torture the uniform charged with it!” Reynolds responded, barely managing a smile with the comment. “When did it start?” Jacqueline regarded him coolly. “With your first victim, the lawyer,” she responded. “In the bar, back to his place … would you like me to describe the crime?” “That’s not essential right now; I’d prefer you to make that list. It will at least, allow us to track down the unsolved murders in different areas,” Reynolds stated. “I’ll get that to DI Timms and we’ll go from there.” Jacqueline nodded, exhaling a lung full of smoke toward the man. “How is Harry? I haven’t seen him in weeks,” she remarked, her eyes diverting toward Stokes, who was preening her hair. “You look super!” she added mockingly, a smile when her remark caused the embarrassed Stokes to drop her busy fingers into her lap. Reynolds tried not to smirk too much; he couldn’t help himself though, lowering his eyes when Stokes regard fell upon him. “She’s right,” he confirmed. Watching studiously as Jacqueline wrote down the names. “I might be slightly out on some of the dates,” she said, without looking up from the list. “So many men, so little time!” Stokes looked across at her colleague. “Can’t argue with that thinking, Sarge,” she remarked. “What thinking would that be exactly?” Jacqueline challenged, a glint of mischievous intent twinkling in her eyes. “Having all those men, Ms Harvey,” Stokes retorted sharply. “I’m not sure they would agree,” Jacqueline countered. “Being tortured to death generally makes one frown upon such comments. But I’m relieved, and surprised you would feel that way.” Reynolds sighed heavily. “When you’re done intimidating the lowly police officers,” he urged, frowning at the prisoner. “Oh I’ve not even begun,” Jacqueline replied, placing the pencil down on top of the paper. “There are your names.” Barry looked down at the sheet of paper, pushing the pencil aside. “Three women,” he almost whispered the remark. “You really were indiscriminate weren’t you?” Stokes looked intrigued. “Did you sleep with them too?” Jacqueline’s smile was nefarious, her catlike features appearing to purr with delight at the comment. “What do you think?” she asked. “I think you’re…” “That’s enough; we’re not here to pass judgement, constable, we’re here to take a statement, a full and detailed statement!” Reynolds snapped, sensing it could get extremely ugly if left to simmer. Stokes nodded keeping her gaze on the prisoner. “Are you going to take that to the third floor Sarge?” she asked. “I’ll just be a minute, interview suspended at 2:30pm.” He stood, looking down at what he had once believed to be one of the top criminal psychologists in the country. “You’re full of surprises today aren’t you?” he mumbled. “I just thought you’d appreciate disclosure,” Jacqueline responded. As the detective left the room the two women glowered at one another. “You really are something aren’t you?” Stokes spat. “Did I offend your lesbian sensibility Sharon,” Jacqueline goaded her confident gaze unyielding. Stokes shook her head. “Oh, so clever!” she retorted. “You think you know me?” Jacqueline lent forward. “Not only do I know you, I know your type, man hating lesbians are so transparent,” she replied, her tone sweetly tinged with irony. “You are the original poster girl!” “Better than being a murderer,” Stokes blistered. “Is it?” There was something very calculated in the response, the psychologist sitting back in her seat. “You forget far too easily what you do when you drink, Sharon.” Stokes looked surprised. “That’s supposed to mean what exactly?” she demanded. The psychologist practically beamed with a menacing confidence that instantly bristled Stokes’ feathers. It showed in her eyes before ever becoming a sour expression that made the woman’s features far more pointed. “Next time you make a pass at someone you think might be in your club, remember they might not be as tolerant as I am,” Jacqueline remarked. Stokes cheeks flushed. “I wouldn’t lower myself for someone who rates herself so highly,” she spat. Jacqueline’s perfectly arched eyebrows danced gently into her forehead. “Of course not,” she mocked. “Nor would your girlfriend.” The atmosphere was laden with acrimony as Reynolds reappeared, his jacket discarded somewhere along the way. He looked at Stokes. “Are we doing okay in here?” he enquired. “Oh yeah, we’re great, Sarge,” she responded, although her clipped tone betrayed the intense discomfort she now felt. “Can we move this along, honestly, you’d think I was here for smuggling drugs instead of applying justice,” Jacqueline complained. “More coffee, perhaps your sidekick could oblige?” Reynolds shook his head. “Will you stop?” he asked, a sorrowful expression adorning his gnarled face. “I’m looking forward to sleeping tonight.” “Glad somebody is!” the psychologist retorted. “I’ll get some coffee, Sarge, I don’t mind,” Stokes responded, still seething from the verbal volleyball she’d engaged in. “No, I’ll go, female prisoner remember.” Reynolds pointed out. “I don’t want any impression of impropriety.” “Damn and I was looking forward to some of that,” Jacqueline remarked dismissively. “Shut up!” Reynolds warned. “You might be bored but we’re just getting started, so just pack it in!” “I consider myself chastised Sergeant,” she replied, her steely blue gaze mocking the man. “Great!” Reynolds groaned, as he stood once more and exited the room. Stokes glared at her from across the graffiti strewn wooden tabletop. “You think you’re so damn smart!” she said finally, unable to ignore the condescension the psychologist seemed to shower her with. “And you’re still transparent,” Jacqueline observed, lighting another cigarette. “Well, I guess you’ll be going to lesbian hell then,” the woman countered. “Should be nice for you.” “Do you know what people like me do to lesbians?” Jacqueline retorted, exhaling the smoke across the table deliberately into the face of her adversary. “I’m fairly sure you’ll tell me if I’m patient enough,” Stokes responded. “We turn them down,” Jacqueline told her, a smug expression offered. “Then we fill out reports for sexual harassment!” The constable looked at her, unsure if she was simply attempting to goad her, or if she had indeed filled in a report. She felt uncomfortable, folding her arms defiantly. “You’re fond of filling out complaints aren’t you?” she charged finally. “Only when they’re warranted,” Jacqueline answered. “Like when you abuse young offenders who correctly call you a dyke.” “You’re wounding me!” “Not exactly the way I’d planned though, damn shame I couldn’t have had just another couple of days.” Stokes glared at her. “Is that a threat?” she snapped, her hands now knotting together perched on top of the table. “Most assuredly,” Jacqueline replied, leaning back casually in her chair. “Your antics didn’t escape my attention, Sharon, the girls you arrest don’t appreciate being felt up!” Stokes’ features once more became reddened. “You making an observation, Doc, or intending to make it a complaint?” Jacqueline shrugged. “Could be either … did you want to discuss Helen?” she enquired indifferently. Stokes shook her head. “Not with you!” she answered pointedly. The psychologist smiled. “And I figured you’d be interested in Helen’s little fetishes!” she retorted. Stokes stood abruptly. “Shut up you vicious bitch!” she scalded. “You don’t know anything about me, or about Helen. Save your fucking mind games for someone that cares.” Jacqueline chuckled to herself stubbing out the cigarette she looked directly at Stokes. “So, resorting to outright aggression – are you going to continue by assaulting me now?” she chided, the devilment in her eyes radiating. “Reading the signs, I feel quite threatened.” Reynolds timely return prevented the exchange from going further. “I see you’re still determined to play with us, Jac,” he commented, shaking his head as he placed the coffee on the table in front of her. “It’s all part of the game,” the psychologist remarked casually, scooping up the coffee. “Unless you actually want to take this seriously and get on with it?” Reynolds nodded. He saw a woman who had seemingly nothing to hide, nor did she want to. Yet there was still something hidden, something she chose not to share, and that bothered him. How could he have worked with her for so long and not seen her for what she was? “Imagine you’re inside my head, how far would you go to ensure that there was no harm?” she said suddenly. Reynolds stared at her. “Sorry?” “You’re trying to work it out,” Jacqueline stated, a wry smile crossing her elfin features. “You wonder how I could just expunge them.” Reynolds looked surprised. “That’s cold, even by your standards!” he replied. “You’re enjoying this way too much. I don’t like it, I’m not sure you’re in possession of your faculties.” Jacqueline gazed at the man, unblinking. “And you’re not qualified to make an assessment,” she responded curtly. --- Searching the Past; November 21st 1979 The hallways always appeared excessively long to a child, imposing; it was a long way to the room where there would be some sweets, definitely a cold drink of some kind, and if they asked hot chocolate. Katherine Mason was 11 years old; quiet, a little too thin for her height giving the impression of being so delicate she would break if touched by the most caring of hands. She was put into the care of the centre almost a year ago, and no one had been able to get behind those soft brown eyes. There wasn’t a hint of trust in them, and it didn’t surprise Jacqueline at all when she’d first met her that she had barely said two words. Now she was a little chattier, almost two months on, daily ‘fun time’ spent with the child had brought her a little more to the surface. Jacqueline scribbled on her notes as she waited for the child to enter. She was fond of horses, kittens, puppies and anything that gave her a feeling of security, of nurturing – something she quite evidently hadn’t found in her lost childhood. It was an obvious reflection of the innocence stolen by the hands of a far too expressive mother. It was a challenging case, her sexuality had been pronounced, even at such a tender age she was showing signs of self-abuse. Being a woman Jacqueline had to earn her trust; had to prove that when they were alone she would never attempt to overwhelm the child. Thus she had spent hours merely sitting quietly and producing various toys that might entreat Katherine to react, the success of this approach had finally reaped rich rewards, the child seemed to look forward now to spending the two hours with her, and gradually she was learning trust again, but it was a painstaking process, one that had seen two psychologists give up. It wasn’t necessarily her field, when she’d started to explore the child psychology arena she had found an almost natural affinity with a terrified mind-set. June Davis, a friend from a study group she’d attended several years earlier had invited her to see the kids she tried to help at her clinic, Davis had spent four years learning to deal with abused kids, and had managed to procure funding and local authority approval to take the most serious cases into a facility designed specifically to treat them. Jacqueline had resisted initially, feeling that the two disciplines didn’t mix, but finally she’d caved in and gone to the clinic as a ‘look see’ with no guarantee she would involve herself further. But as she’d sat watching, hidden behind a two-way mirror they used to ensure the children were not overly stressed, or abused any further by visiting relatives she’d found her heart torn wide open and her curiosity with it. Could she truly make a difference? Help them when no trust was present to even begin a foothold into their chaotic minds. As ridiculous as it seemed to her, Jacqueline realised she was excited at the prospect of making a difference, challenged by it, even if then it had seemed inappropriate. “Good morning Katherine,” she greeted as the child finally arrived in the small and sparsely decorated room, pictures drawn by the children lined the walls, only three chairs, and two desks, one for the children and one for the visitor to place their things on. “How was breakfast?” “I had cornflakes this morning,” the child responded, almost skipping over to the psychologist and presenting her with a drawing. “Is this for me?” Jacqueline enquired; looking surprised and delighted at the gift. “A horse it’s wonderful Katherine, thank you.” The little girl regarded her with those soft doe eyes, nodding furiously and reflecting the delight she saw in the psychologist’s face. “I haven’t named her yet,” she imparted, her tiny little feet planted firmly, as she twisted her body playfully. “What shall we call her?” “Hmm,” Jacqueline pondered, a smile crossing her face as the little girl studied her thoughtfully. “How about Katie?” Katherine looked dubiously at her. “But that’s a persons name?” she questioned, as if the psychologist was completely mad. It brought another affectionate smile from Jacqueline. “Oh dear,” she sighed. “Well, I guess you’d better chose one.” “Moon!” the child announced. “We’ll call her moon.” “I like that,” Jacqueline agreed. “Would you like to write her name on this so I can remember?” Katherine took the picture back and the pencil Jacqueline offered, falling onto the ground, she lay flat out and attempted to write the name above the image she’d drawn. Jacqueline watched fascinated by the care she took to ensure the name was in the centre of the page. It wasn’t just random, the child measured it with the pencil and she wrote it in huge letters, expressive letters that showed the woman the child was finally coming through the darker period in her short life. “Shall I colour it in?” she asked, innocence permeating her tiny little features, as she looked up wondrously. “I’d like that. What colour?” Jacqueline enquired. “Maybe … red?” The child pondered the colour choice. “No yellow, like the sun,” she said. “Then she can be the moon and the sun.” Interesting, as it was to watch the excited child work on her picture, immediately Jacqueline sensed significance in this parallel the child was drawing. Light and dark, perhaps the dark being represented by the moon, the name could be dismissed by the colour. Often she felt she’d read too much into the choices the children made when dealing with something as basic as drawing, or writing words – but then that was her job, to see inside and find the doors that might finally open and free the child from fear and guilt. “Daddy has asked if he can see you, Katherine. Would you like to see him and show him your wonderful picture?” Jacqueline asked. Katherine shook her head without looking up, her hair falling down from her shoulders and hiding her face, a warning sign. “Okay, that’s fine honey. I’ve got another idea,” Jacqueline persisted. “I was thinking of visiting some friends who have ponies; would you like to come, see them?” Katherine exploded from the floor her eyes filled with excitement. “Can we go now?” she entreated. “I don’t see why not,” the psychologist replied. Placing her notes down on the table beside her she held out her hands. “How many fingers?” she enquired. Katherine moved gingerly toward her, the tiny fingers on her hands reaching out and touching the extended fingers of the psychologist. “Ten!” she said triumphantly. “Like mine!” Jacqueline smiled at her. “You’re way too clever for me,” she said, casually reaching out and stroking the child’s long auburn hair. “So, I guess I’d better take you to see those ponies.” She felt a connection now; Katherine hadn’t flinched at the show of affection. It was a break through, however small, it was making a difference. There was a light in Katherine’s eyes she hadn’t seen before as they strode down the hall toward the office of the principle in the home Jacqueline sat in her small office two days later writing up her notes on the visit to Worrel Farms; a riding centre owned by a couple she had counselled a year or so earlier with a problem child, brought a heavy sigh from Jacqueline’s lips. “Jacqueline Harvey,” she spoke softly, even if irritated it would never do to display it on a telephone. Her eyes narrowed as she listened, a frown quickly forming on her delicate features. “I’ll be right there,” she confirmed. Hanging up the telephone she felt her heart sinking. Lindsey Harmon was 16 years old; she’d made several attempts at suicide six months earlier, this Jacqueline had surmised were desperate cries for help but, as was always the case, the child refused to tell the doctors, or the psychologists why she wanted to die. Attempting to get a temporary custody order to protect the child’s life had been a thankless task when overruled at the time by a far senior psychologist. She felt the joy of the success with Katherine ebb away as she collected her files, threw her handbag over her shoulder and hurried from the room. Taking the stairs two at a time, she approached the car park at the rear of the old building in which she based herself during the week. Fumbling for the keys in her handbag, the files tucked under her right arm fell, scattering and emptying their contents at her feet. “Fuck!” she exclaimed, grinding her teeth. “Shit!” Again said with venom, finding the keys, she knelt to collect the papers, no time to re-file them correctly, she simply scraped them together and continued toward her car, an old ford Capri, she had owned since graduating. Tossing the files on the passenger seat, she turned the ignition key, slamming the door shut as she moved the vehicle into reverse. The hospital was almost twenty miles away, anxious to traverse the distance as quickly as possible without jeopardising her own, or anyone else’s safety, fumbling into her handbag once more, she found her cigarettes with ease, one elbow rested on the wheel as she opened the box and extracted a cigarette, dropping the box, it bounced from her knee and landed between her feet, under the brake pedal. Another heavy sigh, the cigarette lighter engaged she navigated through the one- way system and out of the town centre. Forty-five minutes later, the car parked disgracefully in two parking bays, she left the files on the car seat and made her way inside. Clipping the identification tag on her sheepskin coat, she moved quickly through accident and emergency and toward the elevators that would take her to intensive care. Peter Sean-Reilly, her boss and one of the psychologists that had opposed her diagnoses and views regarding the probability of child abuse, stood outside the room looking in through the small glass oval shaped window. He looked pale, stressed, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists. He was already a gaunt and often ill-looking individual, whose appearance belied a steely disregard for his young protégé. “Peter?” Jacqueline questioned. She stripped the coat from her shoulders, the heat it generated from her body after such exertion too uncomfortable to bear. “She’s still unconscious,” the man responded. “Where are the parents?” Jacqueline demanded; throwing the coat down on the chairs lined opposite the intensive care unit, hard plastic seats that appeared as old as the walls and the floor upon which they rested. “Let’s not go there,” Sean-Reilly warned. “We couldn’t have predicted this – she wouldn’t give us…” “Don’t!” Jacqueline snarled, her shoulder length hair swept off her face where it had stuck to the perspiration that now trickled down her cheeks. “I told you! It’s not some kind of damn game Peter; she was at risk, whether or not she had the confidence to tell us why she felt she couldn’t live. The signs were there! The self-abuse, the friends, the theft, when will you come into this damn century?” Peter Sean-Reilly stood square shouldered, his head slightly tilted back now and a distinct look of embarrassment flushed his cheeks, checking around them. “Keep your voice down!” he threatened. “Or what?” Jacqueline snapped, furious with the man and unable to conceal it. Even if he was her boss, it was her passion for the kids she’d become involved with that mattered, not whether someone found her attitude reprehensible. She stared at him, waiting and when no reply came the anger that had built up since she’d received the phone call exploded into words. “If she dies because we were negligent Peter, we didn’t do our job and I don’t know about you, but I won’t sleep well at night knowing that!” “I just don’t get emotionally involved!” Peter retorted angrily, a direct attempt at pulling the young woman up on her behaviour, which came across more as a challenge that a rebuke. “Well, maybe you should!” she chastised, the muscles twitching over those high cheekbones as she fought to control her temper. “Maybe if you spent a little more time getting up to date on the latest discoveries in child, and human psychology we wouldn’t have spent the last four months arguing over this particular case and you’d have recognised the signs!” Sean-Reilly bit his bottom lip. “This isn’t the place for a policy dissection Jackie, let’s just get through this and then we’ll consider changing the parameters, yeah?” “Barn door and horse mean anything to you?” Jacqueline retorted sharply, throwing her hands in the air in frustration. “We could have prevented this,” she continued. “If you’d trusted my judgement trusted me!” “It’s not about trust Jackie, we had no grounds – none! How many times have we spoken to this girl, and she’s shunned our efforts every time,” Peter argued. “That’s when you know you’re needed,” Jacqueline countered. “You think all the kids that need our help are going to be wearing some kind of flashing light on their heads? It isn’t that simple, but you should have given me the time, backed my judgement for the custodial Order!” “It’s moot! We had no grounds. Now get a hold of yourself and go clean up for god sakes, you look like you’ve been through a war!” Jacqueline stared at him in amazement. “That’s a good analogy actually,” she said, her eyes narrowing to focus on him. “We are in a war – a war we’re losing because you don’t want to make a mistake! Guess what Einstein, that’s what happens in this job – we make mistakes, but I’d rather be chastised by parents and your precious governing council for doing my job right than standing here knowing I did the damn thing wrong and losing this kid!” The passion and anger were controlled now, replaced by belief and compassion. “We need to get in this war, Peter, we need to engage before we get left – let me do my job, take your red tape off and let me save these kids!” Sean-Reilly seemed to be considering her plea, nodding without replying – he placed his hand on her shoulder. Jacqueline kept her gaze on him, intensifying, imploring. “Help me, Peter, all you need to do is trust my judgement, all I’m asking is that you let me do my job, take the handcuffs off, please?” “There are procedures,” he insisted. “Change them,” Jacqueline asserted. “Look at what we do and change the way we do it so we can help these kids. Peter, look at that kid in there – you think it matters that her damn uncle is now talking to the police, we failed her!” ---- Helen Robertson watched the shadows cross her room each time the lights of the cars that drove by the semi-detached house in Harrow Lane, penetrated the darkness. For ten of her twelve years of life Helen had lived in this three bed roomed house, yet unlike her friends she didn’t fear the darkness or the shadows that often took form as if to scare her, she feared only one monster, nothing the shadows presented could bring the kind of terror she felt from the sound of that creak outside her bedroom door. When it came she closed her eyes and desperately pretended to be asleep, it wouldn’t save her, it never did before. As the door opened light streaming across the room she flinched, once again to be gripped by the nightmare that haunted her. No one could save her from this monster; this monster had access to the family whenever he pleased, invading her room, her body at will – no one could stop him. He was after all her older brother, who could save her from him! Helen closed her eyes even tighter, gritting her teeth as he lifted the covers and slid into the bed beside her. She gasped loudly when he took her hand, placing it on his penis. “Hush Helle,” he whispered. “Remember this is our secret time.” Tommy Barrett checked his watch. It was a little after 23:30 PM. He’d staffed the phone for the past six hours, and thirteen coffees. He probably counted those more than he did the minutes, since he was supposed to be cutting down. He looked at the log, three phone calls and none from the child he’d spoken to on two occasions. It bothered him; she’d called from a pay phone and sounded far too young to be out so late alone. The first call had been from an irate teenager who wanted his parents arrested for grounding him. That had been difficult, calling on his mobile phone he had made all kinds of accusations that Tommy believed were bogus, yet he couldn’t in all good conscience ignore the claims and had handed the information to the police. Something that would require a follow-up report when he came on duty again, he checked to ensure he had the police liaison officer’s name and number on the sheet, reading over his notations on the reverse of the log. The second was from what sounded like a child in fear, the little boys voice shook as he spoke, almost whispered the words. ‘I need help.’ Those were the three most important words he ever heard in his position, the ones that set alarm bells sounding in his head. Keeping ‘Joe’ talking had been difficult, he stammered a lot and seemed very conscious of it. Maybe another method of torturing a child was to ridicule their obvious flaws, both physical and psychosomatic. ‘Joe’s’ lack of confidence in his speech seemed to indicate he was a victim of such cruelty. Most would argue that it doesn’t matter, that all children are ridiculed by their peers at some point, be it for a weight problem, or greasy hair, spots or the way they dressed – lately it had been shown that such psychological damage can have a lasting effect on the child into much later life. Barrett sighed heavily, a glance across at the kettle saw a wry smile cross his face; “Time for another,” he remarked, getting to his feet and walking the short distance to the table, filling the kettle with water and setting it. The interruption of the phone’s purr brought him back to his desk, clasping it in his left hand. “Good morning, Tommy speaking can I help you?” he said softly into the speaker, watching the red light indicator flash as the tape began recording. “It’s me, Tommy,” the girl’s voice was almost a whisper but he immediately recognised the caller. “Helena, it’s good to hear from you – are you okay?” he enquired. “The monster came … I can’t make him stop…” Tommy’s features became immediately troubled. “Where are you, Helena?” he asked, hoping that this time the child would reveal her whereabouts to him. “Are you at home?” “No.” “In a phone box?” “Yes.” “Where is the phone box, Helena, is it close to your house?” “Yes.” “What’s the name of the road?” “I don’t … I’m not … can I come and live with you?” Tommy’s heartbeat resonated in his head, the fear in her voice projecting into his senses as surely as if he felt it. “I could come and get you, but you have to tell me where you are?” He could almost picture her standing alone and terrified in a deserted street, tiny hands desperately clasping onto the receiver as if it were the only thing that prevented her from falling into a dark abyss. Her voice so small and vulnerable drew a picture so horrifying to him that he was beginning to shake. “Helena, can I come and get you?” He reached across to the second phone, using the speed dial to the local constabulary, the detective on the other end instantly patched into the conversation. “I don’t know, my mummy won’t let me,” Helena replied. “Does the monster live at your house?” Tommy continued, attempting to get the officer up to speed on the nature of the child’s distress. “Yes.” “Is your daddy home?” “No.” “Do any of your uncle’s live at your house?” “No.” “But the monster’s there?” “Yes.” “Do you have any brother’s,” Tommy persisted, deep lines appearing in his forehead. Silence. “Helena, if you can tell me where you are…” The blue light on the switchboard told him the officer wanted to speak without the child hearing. “Yes?” “We’re tracing the call, Tom, keep her talking if you can, okay?” “Sure, do it quickly – she sounds worse, she sounds so … just let me know when you’re there okay?” “Will do.” “Helena … is the phone in a box … or is it the outside kind?” “Inside, it’s red.” “That’s very good. Did you walk a long way to get to the phone?” “No.” “So, it’s very close to your house … can you see it from your house?” “Yes. I see it from my window.” “Is there anyone else around, Helena, can you see anyone at all?” “No.” “Are there lights on in any of the houses that you can see?” “Yes.” “That’s good then … so, are you warm enough?” “Yes.” “Do you have a dog?” “No. I’m not allowed to have a dog … there’s a dog next door though and she’s very nice. I like her.” “What kind of dog is she?” “She’s a dog.” Tommy smiled, shaking his head at his own foolhardiness. “What colour is she?” “Um … brown.” “Is she a big dog, or a small dog?” “She’s smaller than me,” Helena replied, the fear beginning to drain from her voice. “That’s good … and she plays with you?” “Yes. She likes my skipping rope.” “Do you play tug of war with her?” “Yes.” He flicked his eyes back across to the switchboard impatiently, even keeping Helena conversing wasn’t easing his dread of her situation. He had a knot in his stomach that was beginning to progress into his throat. “So, you like dogs then?” Out of the corner of his eye he could see the light flashing … he heaved a sigh of relief. “Yes.”