Izzy doesn’t move. She’s entranced by playtime, this intense milling, the arcane rituals of games, groups, hierarchies and interaction. But when a third pair of hands delicately, though audaciously, attempts to unclip the fluffy Beanie Boo unicorn affixed to a strap on Izzy’s bag, the thief’s excitement results in a tug at the toy and the rucksack moves.

Behind Izzy a girl laughs. Another sucks in her breath. Izzy swivels around and confronts the sneak-thieves.

Confusion transforming to fear, she does nothing but stare at the three girls. Caught red-handed, the girl seemingly fused to her rucksack is all too familiar to Izzy. She’s grinning and clutching the attached unicorn with an intention that fills her victim with dread. The girl’s grubby hands unclip the toy.

Izzy’s eyes flare with alarm and she pulls at the bag to deter the thief. ‘Leave it!’

The pickpocket grins in triumph. Izzy snatches at the unicorn but her tormentor is too quick and steps away, holding her loot aloft. She and her two friends turn, race away. Noisy as a flock of gulls with chip wrappers, they shriek elatedly. The rhythmic slapping of their feet fades.

‘It’s mine!’ Izzy pursues them, her open bag flapping about her back like a sloppy mouth. When she gains on the girl with the toy, she seizes the child’s loose cardigan and pulls her up.

Instantly furious, the girl turns and grabs Izzy’s arm and swings her around in a semi-circle. Losing her balance, then her footing, Izzy slaps down upon her side. Like sandpaper, the tarmac scrapes her chin, and her face is at once rendered wet and hot and stinging.

When her breath returns she sits up but finds herself still arrested by shock. She gazes at a cut hand and a grazed knee flooding crimson. From her glowing chin falls a drip-drop-drip-drop onto her pleated skirt. Bulbs of shiny blood that soak black into her cotton lap. The sight of the blood finally breaks her trance and ushers her tears.

Inside her blurred vision, the three bullies dodge away into the din and chaos of play. And the sound of Izzy’s heart-deep despair is absorbed by the contained, frustrated wildness of this compound.

10

Finally composed and determined to restart her assignment, her face washed and hair neatened, Jess carries a tray laden with a well-presented lunch to her client. Chicken sandwiches and salad.

‘Found a nice bit of chicken in the fridge, Flo. Diary says you have early lunch but not what you like. Can’t go wrong with chicken though. Bit of salad.’

Jess places the tray on a stand and rolls it over to Flo’s wheelchair, her movements slowing with wariness. She then strides to the windows and tugs the stiff, heavy curtains open. Shoves a window wide. Nets billow. The room lightens.