Like This, for Ever

and, knowing it was barely her business, she hadn’t pushed. Now, though, it was awkward and until she knew for certain, she couldn’t talk to Barney. For the past couple of weeks she’d been avoiding him, and she was pretty certain Stewart had been avoiding her.
    It was all beyond her anyway. Whatever problems Barney and his dad had, they would have to sort them out for themselves. She couldn’t think about anything but the knife in the kitchen drawer. Four nights now, she’d managed to hold off. Another one just wasn’t in her. She’d take off her clothes – no point creating unnecessary laundry – switch off all the lights in her flat and stand in the garden, letting the rain wash over her body, just as long as it took for the bleeding to stop.
    In her bedroom, she pulled off her trainers and socks. She’d left the conservatory door open and could hear rain behind her, bouncing on the tiled floor.
    The front of her flat was never properly dark, too much light from the street seeped its way in through the curtains, but at the back, especially close to the house, no one would see her. What she did at the back of the house was her business alone.
    The knife handle was so warm, the only soft, warm thing in the flat; it nestled in her hand like a small creature seeking shelter. Lacey walked back towards the garden, tugging at her shirt with her free hand. Cold air was pumping into the flat now and she could almost imagine the walls billowing out like a balloon.
    There was a dark, human shape in her conservatory.
    Lacey froze. Someone was standing at her desk, looking down, absorbed in something he’d spotted there. The computer was switched off; the intruder could only be reading the contents of one of the files she’d left on her desk.
    Lacey took a step forward, gripping the knife, anger flooding through her at the frustration of a task unfinished. Maybe the blood she needed to see this evening didn’t have to be hers. The intruder was small, slim, jumpy. Wearing football kit! He heard her approach and started back, the file still clutched in one hand.
    ‘Barney?’
    The boy, all eyes and quivering limbs, stared back at her. His mouth opened, a croaking noise came out.
    ‘Barney, what are you doing here?’
    ‘
No!
’
    Astonishing, the way a strangled whisper could sound like a howl. What was wrong with the child?
    Then she remembered. The file on her desk, which she’d never thought to lock away because no one ever came into her flat, was the file on Barney’s mother.
    He was stumbling back. The rain was soaking his hair. Moving quickly, Lacey dropped the knife on her desk, pulled him indoors again and closed the conservatory door. She turned the key and slipped it into her pocket.
    Barney stared back at her. She put a hand on his shoulder.He could have been made of stone, for all the reaction she got.
    ‘Barney, come and sit down.’ She pushed him gently, feeling resistance that seemed too strong for a child so young. ‘I’m so sorry you had to find out like this.’
    He turned, looked at the door to the garden.
    ‘Come on, let’s sit down,’ she repeated, and he allowed her to steer him through the bedroom and into the living room. She switched on a light and turned to face him. God, it could be a different child. Lacey didn’t think she’d really appreciated until now the impact grief could have. Damn his father for not telling him.
    ‘Barney, sit down,’ she tried one last time and gave up. This boy was not going to sit down. He didn’t look as though he was ever going to move again.
    ‘I’m so sorry, Barney,’ she said again. ‘To be honest, I suspected it might be the case when we spoke last and I found out fairly quickly. I found the coroner’s report and some newspaper coverage that same night.’
    No response, but the child had started moving. His hands were twisting together furiously, in a continuous motion that seemed to be a pattern repeating itself: clasp one way, then the next, bang knuckles together, stretch out fingers and slap, over and over again, faster and faster till it looked as if he might rip his fingers out.
    She put a hand out to stop him, but he slapped her away and carried on. Lacey took a step back. She wasn’t afraid – how could you be afraid of an eleven-year-old? – but even so …
    ‘We need to go and talk to your dad.’ She tried a different tack. ‘We should go together, now. Come on.’ She gestured towards the door. His eyes didn’t