Jane Renshaw - Watch Over Me

‘Belter,’ goes Jed.

‘Then you can use the phone numbers and email to find out their names and their address on the net, aye Connor?’

‘If they’ve got any kinda web presence, aye.’

‘And if they dinnae, we just phone them up and scam their names and address out them.’

‘Aw God Maw, that’s fucking wicked! You are a fucking evil genius!’

‘You watch your mouth, son.’ But I’m that made up I chuck the rest of the scone to the dug. ‘Gies the phone.’

‘Beckie?’ Ruth peered over the hedge to scan the paddock.

No sign.

Surely she wouldn’t have gone over to Emma’s without telling her?

‘Beckie?’ She turned and pushed her way through the knee-high grass between the apple trees, wading round the side of the house to the front.

There she was, still in her blue and yellow school uniform, trying to balance Fat Bear in the branches of the gean tree. The camera they’d got her for Christmas was carefully placed on the study windowsill. Hildebrand, the sinister cross-eyed lemur, was already in position, long legs hooked over a branch, leering upside-down at Ruth.

‘Mum!’ Beckie came bounding over and jumped up at her, hugging her arm. ‘Can I take a photo of you? Pleeeease? You look so pretty in that top. I mean, you always look pretty, but that top’s really really nice.’

Beckie knew how much Ruth disliked having her photo taken and was under the impression that it was because she was insecure about her rather full figure. Hence the flattery. But Ruth found herself looking down at the top she was wearing – a gypsy blouse in a floral print – and thinking it did rather suit her.

‘If you must, I suppose…’ While Beckie ran for the camera, Ruth stood under the tree. ‘Here?’

The little paparazza considered the composition. ‘If you move a bit that way, I can get you in the middle more.’ She was squinting at the screen on the back of the camera.

‘I’m not sure I want to be in the middle… Remember to hold the camera straight, Beckie.’

‘Oh yeah.’ A smile. ‘I’m so rubbish at photos. But I can delete them if they don’t work out, so it doesn’t really matter.’

‘You’re not “rubbish” at photos. That’s a lovely one of the sunset Dad has in the study.’

‘It’s so not! It looks like a monkey took it, or maybe you know that elephant who paints pictures? Maybe him. If I took a blurry photo of a big poop, you and Dad would still be like “Oh Beckie that’s lovely” and putting it on the wall.’

‘We certainly would not!’

‘Oh, hold it there, that’s good.’ Beckie started snapping. ‘Work it, Mum, work it !’

Where did she pick this stuff up from? Emma, presumably. Ruth put her hand on her hip and made a pouty face at the camera.

Beckie frowned through a smile. ‘Don’t make me laugh or it’ll be all shaky.’

‘That’s the general idea.’

Ruth posed and pouted and made faces for what seemed an age.

‘Come on, darling, that’s enough, surely? I’ll take some of you now.’

Beckie handed Ruth the camera, then pulled her hair out of her ponytail and fluffed it round her face. She had become self-conscious about her slightly protruding ears after a boy at school had started calling her Wingnut.

Ruth had gone straight to Miss Barbour, her class teacher, and it had been nipped in the bud. And then she’d had a big row with Alec about the possibility of an operation to have Beckie’s ears pinned back.

‘Why would you want to change her?’ Alec had said, dangerously quietly.

‘I don’t! I’m thinking of her ! Of how it might just make her life a bit easier if she didn’t have to worry about her ears.’

‘Why should she have to worry about them? There’s nothing wrong with her ears. I love her pixie ears.’

‘So do I, but she doesn’t.’

‘What message would it send, bringing up the possibility of an operation? That we think she’s defective and needs fixed? How’s she going to feel about that?’

He had a good point, of course, but Ruth wasn’t going to give up on this. She’d revisit it in time. Let the idea sink in; let him get used to it. She loved Beckie’s ears too, but Alec just didn’t understand what it was like for girls these days.

Beckie had already picked up from somewhere how to pose for a photograph like a little cheerleader, one leg in front of the other, nonexistent chest pushed out, big false smile plastered on her face.

Ruth took three photographs. As she was lining up the fourth, her phone rang.

‘Hi, Ruth, it’s Deirdre Jack.’

‘Oh, hi Deirdre!’ She handed Beckie the camera and walked off back into the house.

‘Have the police been in touch, Ruth?’

The words sucked the breath from her lungs. She froze, gripping the phone so hard she could feel the muscles contracting, painfully, all the way up her wrist and forearm.

‘The police ?’

‘Or Social Work? Saskia from Social Work?’

She sat down on the pew, her heart starting to gallop. ‘No. Why would they?’

‘I’m afraid we’ve done something very stupid. There’s a possibility the Johnsons have found out your address.’

‘The Johnsons? Beckie’s –’

‘Beckie’s biological family. Yes. I’ve just had a phone call from Saskia Mair, the social worker on Beckie’s case who –’

‘Yes, I remember Saskia Mair.’

‘She’s in a bit of a panic. It seems the Johnsons may have scammed your address out of her. Lorraine Johnson – we think it was Lorraine Johnson – phoned her up pretending to be me, wanting to check that Saskia had an up-to-date address for Beckie’s adoptive parents, and like an idiot Saskia read it out.’

‘Oh God.’

‘The police and someone from Social Work are going round to the Johnsons’ home now, to warn them not to try to contact you or Beckie and not to come near you, but you should just be aware that they may try to do so. It might be an idea to have a little chat with Beckie and explain the situation. Keep an eye out for them.’

‘Oh my God. But the Johnsons are dangerous, aren’t they?’

‘No, look, I’m sure you’re not in any danger from them. They may try to contact you though, which is obviously in breach of the court order specifying a closed adoption, so –’

‘But it’s a closed adoption specifically because they were thought to pose a significant risk of harm to Beckie!’ Her head was suddenly swimming.

This was her punishment, then.

This was the Universe punishing her.

Her, and Alec, and Beckie.

There were little grey blotches in her vision. She swallowed; blinked.

‘If she was living with them, yes, but it was more a case of neglect than physical abuse.’

More . ‘Oh God.’

‘I’m sorry, Ruth, I’ve scared you – Shannon-Rose is thought to have physically abused Beckie, but Shannon-Rose isn’t getting out any time soon, if ever, and the rest of the family don’t really pose a threat to her –’

‘Jed Johnson’s a murderer! He served sixteen years in prison for murder!’

‘A gangland killing’s a different kettle of fish from hurting his own granddaughter. Even Saskia had to admit that the grandparents seemed genuinely to love Beckie. I’m sure she’s in no danger from them.’

‘But there were fresh bruises on her arms and legs and back when Saskia had her taken away!’

‘Yes, but they could have been caused by rough play with other kids. Which again could suggest neglect, but –’

Breathe. ‘So they know where we live and they could be on their way here right now.’