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‘Come in, won’t you.’ She closed the door behind Jessie, face wrinkling at the cold air that blew with them into the room. ‘Sami’s upstairs in his bedroom playing with his toys. Major Scott’s in the sitting room. He asked me to tell you to pop in and see him first before your session with Sami.’ Wendy smiled. ‘Must be interesting being a psychologist. Satisfying too, sorting out people’s minds for them. I could do with a bit of that myself.’
Jessie laughed. ‘If only it was that easy. Sometimes I think that we psychologists create more problems than we solve.’
‘Well, I hope you can help Sami. He’s a delightful little boy, he is. Intelligent too. He helped me make a cake the other day. Managed to weigh all the ingredients out with hardly any help.’ She met Jessie’s gaze, pale eyelashes blinking. ‘What do you think is the matter with him?’
Jessie shrugged. She wasn’t about to break patient confidentiality, even if she did have a clue at this early stage, which she didn’t.
‘I’ve only seen him once.’ Subconsciously, she touched a hand to the scar on her head. ‘He seems scared and very troubled.’
Wendy nodded. ‘Been in the wars?’
‘A brief scuffle with my car door,’ Jessie lied.
‘Car doors can be dangerous. Any doors can be dangerous. I got my thumb jammed in one of Nooria’s kitchen cabinets. Some of them were damaged and she asked me to help her replace them, make it nice for when Major Scott got back from Afghanistan. I thought I’d taken my thumb clean off it was so painful. Luckily it was only bruising, but even so.’ She gave quick bright laugh, canted towards Jessie and lowered her voice. ‘Shocking thing, what happened to the Major. Affected Sami terribly badly. Scared of being burnt, he is. While we were making that cake, he was fine, but as soon as I lit the gas on the cooker he got awfully frightened. Ran up to his room crying and wouldn’t come back down.’
Jessie’s face remained impassive, but she was now listening intently. Patient confidentiality and her own moral code prevented her from giving out information, but she could gain some. Everything she learnt about a patient helped her construct a picture of causation and of what intervention they would need to help heal them. Some sources were more reliable than others, but every bit of information was a segment in the ten-million-piece, incredibly complex, opaque jigsaw that made up the human mind.
‘He was talking about being burnt when I saw him yesterday.’
Wendy frowned. ‘Can’t blame the little lad. It was terribly traumatic for him when his father got back from Afghanistan. He was already in a bit of a state, frightened like, when his mum brought him to the hospital. Probably because they’d been alone out here every night for the six months his father was on tour. Major Scott prefers it to family accommodation on base, but I wouldn’t want to be out here at night without a man around.’ A shadow crossed her face. ‘When he saw his father in the hospital, he started wailing, screaming and crying. Wouldn’t go near him. He hasn’t been right since. Eight weeks or so ago that was now.’
‘So you’ve worked here a while?’
She nodded. ‘Nooria employed me nine months ago. Late February it was, shortly after Major Scott left for Afghanistan. I do a bit of housework and help out with Sami. Nooria loves to paint. She’s doing a foundation course in fine art at the Royal College of Art in London.’ Wendy pointed to a framed graphite sketch on the wall, Sami as a baby, with that trademark curly hair and huge dark eyes.
‘It’s wonderful.’
‘She certainly is talented. That’s where she is now. She goes to college on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.’
Wendy continued to talk about Nooria’s painting, but Jessie tuned out. She glanced surreptitiously at her watch. She had agreed to meet Ben Callan at ten to four for the session with Starkey, wanted to have a good look through the file Callan had given her before the meeting. It was half-past twelve now.
‘Is the Major …?’ She let the words hang.
‘Oh course, yes. Sorry. I’m a talker. Always have been, always will be. In there, the sitting room.’
Jessie had never met Major Nicholas Scott, but she had heard about him when she was working with PsyOps – 15 Psychological Operations Group – in Camp KAIA, the second of her two tours of duty in Afghanistan. PsyOps was a tri-service, ‘purple’ military unit, parented by 1 Military Intelligence Brigade, of which Major Scott was part, but they drafted in psychologists from the Medical Corps to advise.
She and Scott had not overlapped in Afghanistan, but she had probably passed him somewhere in the air over Europe last February, her coming back, him going out to the tour which would cost him so much. Scott was in his early forties, well respected, no nonsense, someone who got the job done, and well. He had seemed to command respect among senior Afghan figures, had achieved some successes where others, who came before, had failed.
The heavy sky cast little light and the low-ceilinged room, with its twin box sash windows, was dim. It was an austere room, masculine, a dark leather chesterfield sofa and two matching leather bucket chairs opposite, a plasma television on an oak stand in one corner, no books or photographs. Jessie had expected something more modern and feminine, but, except for a simple watercolour – a toddler Sami asleep in his cot, dressed in a pale yellow sleep-suit that made him look like a beautiful baby girl – Nooria’s influence seemed minimal. Major Scott was sitting by the window, in one of the bucket chairs, which he had turned to face the garden.
Approaching from his right side, Jessie caught a glimpse of the handsome man he would have been before the attack: blond-haired, well defined cheekbones and a square jaw, softened now with stubble a few days old, tall and well built, she could tell, even though he was sitting. The beige carpet muffled her footsteps; he seemed unaware of her presence. Halfway across the room, she stopped.
‘Major Scott.’
Jessie’s first, strong impulse when he stood and turned to face her was to recoil. Forcing her expression impassive, she held the gaze of his one good eye through the tinted lens of his sunglasses. The left side of his face was so badly burnt that the skin had melted, slid away from the bones underneath, leaving threads of brown, tortured tissue. Batman’s Joker dropped into a vat of acid. His nose resembled that of a skeleton: cartilage all that was left to form shape, scarred skin stretched over the nub and grafted into place. A pair of gold-framed aviator sunglasses covered his eyes. As he stood, Jessie caught the glimpse of his left eye through the side of their frame: an empty socket, the skin around it patchwork, only a glistening burgundy cavity remaining. He wore a blue polo neck jumper and jeans. The skin down the left side of his neck was like liquid, disappearing under the dark wool.
Jessie held out her right hand. ‘I’m Dr Jessie Flynn.’
He nodded, shook it briefly. ‘Thank you for taking on Sami.’ His voice was clipped, strained, at odds with his words.
‘It’s my job, and one I’m very happy to do. He’s a cute boy.’
‘But you probably signed on for adults, not for children.’
‘I did a master’s in Child Psychology before my Clinical PhD so it’s one of my areas of expertise.’ She attempted a joke. ‘Helpful for dealing with many of the adults I see too.’
Scott didn’t smile. He had already turned back to the chair, which he angled a little into the room, but not entirely, so that Jessie could see the good side of his face, but not make direct eye contact. She felt foolish for trying to lighten the moment – it had been inappropriate. She took a seat on the sofa where he had indicated.
‘Actually, Major Scott, I need to see the whole family, not just Sami.’
‘What?’ His voice was incredulous.
‘For a child like Sami, if I’m to understand what’s going on and to help treat him, I need to see all of you – individually.’
The animosity in his voice shocked her. ‘I didn’t refer him to an Army psychologist because I wanted someone poking around in our lives. I referred him because I had no choice. He was supposed to start school in September, and instead he’s raving. Your job is to sort him out. The rest of us are fine.’ The last sentence said bitterly. Scott was clearly anything but fine.
Jessie persisted. ‘His problems haven’t arisen in isolation and you and your wife need to deal with them. You’re the ones who are with him twenty-four hours a day.’
‘He has post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s bloody obvious. I’ve seen it in the field countless times and that’s with grown men.’ He spoke through gritted teeth, barely suppressed fury in his voice. There was an undercurrent of something else too, making his voice tremble. Fear? Fear and helplessness. Emotions Jessie knew well. ‘His mother’s always been overprotective, made him too sensitive. Seeing me in the hospital tipped him over the edge. Other kids might have been able to handle it, he couldn’t.’
‘It may be post-traumatic stress disorder – probably is – but it’s complex and very intense. He will be having nightmares, terrors, be imagining frightening images, while he’s awake and while he’s asleep. As you said, it’s hard enough for grown men and women to handle, terrifying for a little boy.’ Her mind flashed to Sami, writhing and sobbing in her arms. The man is burnt.The girl is burnt.
She wasn’t about to quote statistics to Scott, but she knew them by heart. For every hundred veterans of operations in Afghanistan, around twenty will have post-traumatic stress disorder. Disorder characterized by alcoholism, drug addiction and suicide. ‘He needs his parents to understand exactly what he’s going through, be there to help him appropriately when he needs it. Which is now. All the time, in fact, twenty-four/seven, until he’s over it.’
He sneered and curled his lip. ‘You can see Nooria. She’s the kid’s mother. She’s the one who cares for him day-to-day. Now do your job and leave me alone.’
He had turned back to the window – conversation clearly over – his gaze almost stretching out through the glass, as if he wanted to smash through it, run away across the fields and take possession of someone else’s life. Jessie couldn’t blame him. Standing silently, she made her way to the door. There was a macho cult in the military, one she had come across many times before, that forbade asking for help. She was surprised that he had referred Sami, but having seen the child, he had clearly had no choice. She’d go and see Sami now, but she wasn’t finished with Major Nicholas bloody Scott.
6 (#u4f65f4bb-6ed2-593a-a493-ef2d8eff81a1)
The second door on the right was closed. Jessie stood outside for a moment, her ear pressed to the cold wood to see if she could hear any noises. There were none. She knocked and when she received no reply, pushed the door open.
Her first glimpse of Sami’s bedroom revealed the polar opposite of what she had expected for a little boy, the only child, in a relatively affluent family. It was a good size, a decent double, with a single oak-framed bed pushed against the wall to her right, a window opposite and a large oak chest of drawers to her left. Beneath the window were four coloured plastic toy buckets, filled with toys. The walls were a soft sunshine yellow, the same shade as Sami’s sleep-suit in the watercolour Nooria had painted of him. That was the limit of where the room met with her expectation.
The curtain was drawn across the window, recessed overhead electric lights on full, giving the room a harsh, office-like glow. The yellow floral curtain must have been backed with blackout material, because not a single ray of natural light penetrated its folds. On his bed were a sheet and pillow, but no covers: no duvet or blanket. No Thomas the Tank Engine or Bob the Builder bed linen. There were no cuddly toys, not a single teddy bear, on the bed. It was bare, the whole room cold and institutional, similar to the Military Police holding cells she had seen last year while assessing a soldier who had broken his girlfriend’s jaw in four places with his fist and was on suicide watch.
Sami was sitting underneath the window playing with some toys, his back to her. Next to him on the floor was the huge, black metal Maglite torch. Even though the room was flooded with light, the torch was switched on, its beam cutting a pale cylinder to the wall, lighting floating motes of dust.
Jessie remained in the doorway. If she had learnt anything from her experience yesterday it was to maintain her distance until he was entirely comfortable with her presence. The dull thud from her temple reminded her of that.
‘Sami, it’s Jessie Flynn. I’ve come to see you.’
For a moment, she thought that he hadn’t heard her: he made no movement, no sound, no indication that he had done so. Then, slowly an arm reached out, a hand closed around the shaft of the torch. Shuffling around on his bottom, dragging the torch with him, the little boy half-turned towards her.
Jessie smiled. ‘Hi, Sami.’
His face showed no expression. He didn’t smile back. He didn’t frown.
‘Can I come in?’
No expression still, his huge dark eyes fixed on her face. The scrutiny intense, unwavering. Then a barely perceptible nod.
‘Thank you.’
Stepping through the doorway, Jessie pushed the door closed behind her. She wanted privacy, a physical barrier to the sounds of their interaction floating down the stairs. Though she knew that she was putting her reputation at risk shutting herself into a room with a child, she had a strong sense it was important they weren’t overheard. For his freedom of mind; for her own.
‘What are you playing with?’
‘Dolly.’
‘Can I play with your toys too?’
Severe or not, she had secured her hair in a bun this time, but had softened her look with a pale blue V-neck jumper, white jeans and trainers.
Again, an almost imperceptible inclination of his head. Jessie crossed the room, lowered herself on to the carpet next to him.
One of the four plastic tubs lined in front of him was full of dolls: four or five of various sizes, plus their accessories: a pink potty, a couple of milk bottles, plates, bowls and spoons, bibs, a few changes of sleep-suits in pastel colours. Sami, cradling one of the dolls in his lap, was halfway through changing her clothes.
‘Could I play with one too?’
No verbal reply, but another tiny nod.
Jessie reached into the bucket and retrieved a doll. It was large, the size of a real newborn, dressed in a baby pink sleep-suit with a fairy castle embroidered on the front in lilac, underneath the castle the words ‘Baby Isabel’ stitched in gold cursive script. A glittery pink plastic dummy was jammed in her mouth; glassy pale blue eyes stared fixedly back at Jessie. She had not been a ‘dolly’ girl, or into princesses either, preferring Scalextric, or arranging her cuddly toys into intergalactic battle groups based on snatched episodes of Dr Who, lying behind the sofa, watching through her father’s feet, when she was supposed to be in bed.
‘Do you like dolls?’
He nodded. ‘Sami like dolls.’
He had finished changing the doll, was looking longingly at Baby Isabel. Jessie passed the doll to him.
‘The girl likes dolls.’
The girl.
‘Which doll is the girl’s favourite?’ Jessie asked softly.
Without hesitation, he held up Baby Isabel.
‘Why does the girl like Baby Isabel best?’
He shrugged.
‘Is it because she’s got beautiful blue eyes?’
Another shrug.
‘What about her sleep-suit? The castle? It’s very pretty.’
He ran his fingertips gently over the silky castle, but still didn’t reply.
‘Sami, who is the girl?’
He looked up, his brow furrowing. ‘The girl,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘The girl likes dolls.’
‘Is the girl you?’
He met her gaze blankly. She resisted the instinctive temptation to repeat the question with her hands spread, palms upwards, body language that would have tapped into an adult’s subconscious, urging them to respond.
‘Are you the girl, Sami?’
‘Grrrrrr.’ The growling sound, deep in his throat, a faint rumble.
Reaching out, he started gathering together his doll things, shoving them back into the plastic bucket, tossing each one in quickly as if it had become too hot to handle. A deep furrow had entrenched itself in his brow.
‘Sami, are you feeling frightened? There’s no need to be.’
‘The dolls are the girl’s.’ There was a quiver in his voice.
Hugging Baby Isabel tight to his chest, he stroked her hair, dipped his head and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek, and then tucked her carefully back inside the plastic tub.
For a long time, Sami remained silent, the torch clutched to his chest, light radiating out from him like a lighthouse beam. His gaze was hooded, turned inwards on itself. Jessie had no idea what he was thinking, what emotions were churning through his fragile mind. But at least she had the sense that he felt more comfortable with her, was beginning to trust her.
Psychology with children was like watching a toddler learning to walk: a few baby steps forward, a totter backwards, a fall. Endless frustration. It couldn’t be rushed. Children’s minds were not robust enough to be actively delved into, forced, in the way that many adults’ could. Play was the only way to access the trauma a child of this age had experienced. Play enabled the child to reveal themselves at their own pace, as and when they felt comfortable to do so. It required extreme patience, not one of Jessie’s strongest points despite her chosen profession, and she sometimes wondered how she had ended up doing a master’s in Child Psychology at all.
No. She knew why.
7 (#ulink_0b29a406-eddc-52be-8e06-d014a477b79e)
‘What would you like to do now, Sami?’
He didn’t respond. Clutching the torch to his chest, he stared rigidly at the floor.
In one of the buckets was a plastic play-mat with fields and fences, winding lanes printed on it. There was also a farmhouse, and a collection of plastic farm animals.
‘How about we play farms?’ Jessie suggested.
‘Yes,’ Sami murmured. ‘Play farms.’
Jessie hefted the bucket over and set it in front of him. Pulling out the play-mat, she spread it on the floor between them. She placed the farmhouse in the centre of the printed cobblestone farmyard and sat back on her haunches.
‘Why don’t you get out some animals, Sami?’
He nodded, aped in a monotone, ‘Sami get animals.’
Both hands gripping the shaft of the torch, he hoisted it over the edge of the bucket, spotlighting each animal in turn.
‘Here is a sheep.’
