The office was buzzing with Wednesday-ness. Wednesday was the most efficient day of the social worker’s week. Most would’ve tried not to drink Monday and/or Tuesday, and some may have managed. A fair amount of television and sleep was likely to have happened in recent days. Sometimes on Wednesdays an occasional chuckle happened, giving off a whiff of hope that almost masked the regular office smells of off-milk and the sewage place across the way.

Forty or so child-protection workers sat in the pods they were assigned to in the hanger-like space, faces tight and strokes imminent. From what Mary heard as she passed by, Nel was on page twenty of a report recommending that Derek McLaverty should not have any access to his boys if he failed to attend one more session, and/or if any further domestic offending occurred; Daljeep was getting ready to go out on an investigation with Gemma; and Lisa was on the phone, suggesting Carol take her head out of the oven because it was electric and would not have the desired effect.

Please let me get through today without killing a child, they’d all be thinking, as Mary had thought for the last thirty years. Please help me not ruin a child’s life. She’d prayed each day that she’d get through it without fucking up, without turning out to be the bad guy after all. No-one in the office was expecting fame, riches, or even thanks, even though each worker would have made an excellent protagonist in It’s a Wonderful Life. They all saved lives, all the time, but no-one ever noticed. Boy did people notice when it went wrong, though. Mary had witnessed at least five of her colleagues do the walk of shame on the same route she was walking now, from one end of this stinky shed to the other, heads low because they had caused a death according to the Renfield Star and the Renfield Star would know. One, Sharon, had to do the walk of shame for seven weeks before fleeing to Spain, where she relaxed just enough to get cancer. Look at Sharon, they all thought as she walked the walk those weeks. Take a good look, and never, ever, take the mother’s word for it.

There were wonderful moments. Like when eighteen-year-old Vanessa turned up to the office a month ago. Mary had been her social worker from when she was nine months old to when she found a new family at seven. Vanessa had wanted Mary to know that she was now going to college, that she was happy. She showed Mary photos of her boyfriend, a few of her childhood after she was adopted, and one of a box filled with sunglasses.

‘These are the ones I gave you?’