“Where is Terry now?” Polly asks.

“Oh, he just popped out. I’m sure he’ll be back soon for his dinner. Actually, if you don’t mind, I’ll have to get cooking soon…” Simone half lifts herself from her chair in a gesture towards the kitchen area, but Polly holds her stare patiently until Simone sits back down. Suddenly, the woman’s seemingly endless smile transforms, and she leans across the table – there is concern in her eyes, sympathy, knowing.

“Have there been any difficulties for you lately, Simone? Drugs? Alcohol? Violence maybe?”

“What are you getting at?” Simone knows at once that she has said this too quickly, too loudly, too defensively, but she steadies herself. Her abruptness could as easily be cultivated by indignation, as fear.

Polly nods, clearly understanding those twin possibilities. She looks at Simone carefully, then takes a breath, as though she is getting ready to level with her, or confide something, or make a decree. Simone waits. The two women are around the same age, and somehow, despite the difficulty of the situation, Polly continues to wrap her questions in the guise of an old friend. If it weren’t for the police officers by the window, they could almost be at a café together somewhere, like the one Fiona took Simone to once, swapping the secret stories of their lives. Beneath Polly’s gaze, Simone resists an urge to touch her throat. She hopes that the make-up she applied earlier is holding. “I’ll get right to it,” says Polly at last. “We had a report that Dominic’s been hurt, so we always need to check those things and see that his home environment is safe.”

“Hurt?” Simone declares with surprise – real, but also heightened for drama. “Who told you that?” She shouldn’t have asked who told her. She should have asked how he’s been hurt. But Polly appears to have conjured for herself the should-have-been question.

“His hand,” she says.

“Oh, that. Well that’s silly, he cut it on a kitchen knife,” objects Simone with what she hopes is convincing flippancy.

“That’s what he said, too,” Polly nods.

“Because that’s what happened.”

Polly pauses, as though waiting to see what else Simone is going to say, but she is not going to fall into that trap again. Dominic did cut himself; it is actually what happened, this time. There is no need to reveal more. “Who reported it?” she asks crossly, attempting to keep the unsteadiness out of her voice.

“I’m afraid that’s confidential,” says Polly. “But I can tell you that one report came through Dominic’s school.”

“One report? There was more than one?”

“Yes, over some months.” Polly watches Simone as this registers.

“He cut it on a knife,” she says.

Polly pauses for a moment, then leans forward again – friends, confidantes, informant? – and she speaks softly. “Why wasn’t Dominic at school today?”

“He wasn’t feeling well.”

“Why are his clothes torn?”

“You know boys,” smiles Simone. “Always climbing.”

“Does Terry hurt him? Or you?”