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trace of dignity or vulnerability, or love for my son. I simply projected a raw, ugly rage that looked
heinous, and unnatural.
And yes, the blood on my hands was visible.
When I finally disintegrated, and was hustled from the room where the conference was being held,
I looked like somebody fleeing a crime.
I don’t know why I’m describing all this to you, because unless you’ve been living in Timbuktu
you’ve probably seen it. In fact even if you had been living there you’d have been able to look it up
online.
The footage went viral. Of course it did. I understand these things now.
My sister and Laura reacted in ways that summed up what was to be the response of the whole
country, Nicky representing the minority view.
Laura: ‘Everybody’s going to blame you. They’re going to say you did it. You look guilty.’
Nicky: ‘No they won’t, they can see how much you love him, how brave you are.’
Peter Armstrong came round later on. I hadn’t spoken to him since he’d taken Skittle away from the
woods to get treatment, but he’d phoned regularly and Nicky had kept him updated. He was coming
over to bring the dog home. He was sanguine about the reaction to the press conference.
‘It’ll blow over,’ he said.
He was a slender man with a stomach that had been concave since his divorce. He had dark hair
that circled a significant bald patch, and stubble. He wore jeans, a loose sweater and trendy trainers
that looked too young for him. He worked as a web designer, mostly from home, and I’d always
thought he needed to get out more.
‘And anyway, it’s only ever a minority of people who overreact to these things. As soon as they
find Ben, everybody will forget. Don’t dwell on it. Keep faith, Rachel. Your friends will still be there
for you.’
We were kneeling around the dog basket, petting Skittle. The dog’s hind leg was in a pristine cast,
which dragged behind him when he tried to walk. Now he was lying down, his tail managing a
drowsy thump or two, but no more. He was wondering where Ben was. I was wondering what he’d
seen.
‘The police spoke to the vet,’ Peter said. ‘They asked if Skittle’s injury could tell them anything
about how he got hurt.’
‘And?’ said Nicky.
I could tell she liked Peter. He was the opposite of her husband in looks. Simon Forbes was twice
the size of Peter. He had the unruly dark hair that their girls had inherited, albeit a tad salt-andpeppery
around the edges by now, and dressed in corduroys, well-worn brogues and pressed shirts in
country checks under old-fashioned blazers. However, aside from this difference, the two men did
share a gentle, sensible quality that appealed to my sister.
‘The vet said that the leg looked as if it was broken with one clean blow, but that could have
happened in different ways. It could have been a fall, or it could have been somebody striking him.
No way to tell which.’
For a second or two there was silence in the room, an emptiness, which nobody wanted to fill with
words, because we were all thinking about what that might mean for Ben, and how bad that could be.
‘How’s Finn?’ I asked Peter.
‘Finn’s upset. He can’t wait to have his buddy back.’ He struggled to keep himself composed. ‘But
he’s OK. He’s OK I think.’ He didn’t look sure. ‘School are working hard to handle things.’