She was shown into one of the rooms down in the basement. The council offices were built in the ‘60s: brutalist concrete architecture standing like a Soviet slab in the middle of the town. The building was crying out to be demolished, windows rusting and leaking, damp patches adorned walls and ceilings – even the staff had an unhealthy pallor: white skin, listless gait. They reminded her of zombies, creeping around a decaying building waiting for any kind of death to provide release. She shrugged off the depressing image; at least she had managed to find a job that had some sort of purpose. Her friend Susan was once a good-looking young woman, vivacious and fun to be with – at least that’s how Frankie preferred to remember her. Now she was old before her time, drained of vitality. She still attempted gaiety as she joked with Frankie, talking about old times, but they both knew those days were never coming back.
“You’ll find a list of the children social services took over when the orphanage closed.” Susan produced a manila folder from a battered filing cabinet with a magician’s flourish. “There’s not much on the staff, the Catholic Church dealt with all that.”
“How do you mean, ‘dealt with that’?”
“They were responsible for running the orphanage before it closed down, so they employed everyone there. We didn’t have any responsibility towards the staff, just towards the children – you know, school places, healthcare, that sort of thing.”
“Was there no oversight of the orphanage? Health and safety checks?”
“Sure. There would have been annual inspections and we kept an eye on the children, made sure they were being fed OK, sleeping arrangements were adequate.”
“Were there ever any complaints?”
“How do you mean?”
“Did you ever hear of any of the children alleging improper touching, abuse? Were they ever beaten?”
Susan looked shocked. “Nothing I’ve ever heard of. No, nothing like that ever went on there. I’m sure of it.” She folded her arms, in a subconscious act of protection against such an allegation.
“Do you mind if I take a copy of this?” Frankie held up the list of children transferred from the orphanage to the council’s social services.
Susan looked doubtful. “You really need a warrant before we allow sensitive information to be taken.”
“Yes, well, I could get a warrant if needs be. I’m just wanting to check a few names against the list – how about I just keep it for a few days and then shred it. Guide’s honour?” Frankie held up her right hand, thumb crossed against her little finger, the others held straight.
Susan smiled, the childish promise they’d both made as young girls fresh in her mind, as if it were made yesterday. “Go on then. Just don’t let anyone else know where it came from or my job’s mince!”
Frankie left the council building with the newly-printed sheet tucked protectively into her body against the strengthening wind. She suspected Susan already thought her job was mince, but her mind was already attending to the first name she recognised on the list.