Sofka Zinovieff - Putney

‘Of course, you remember how Hansel and Gretel ends?’ Her voice was calm and sly.

‘Uh, yes. They kill the witch and escape back home?’

‘Exactly. It’s Gretel, the little girl, who outwits the witch and shoves her into the oven, saves her fattened-up brother from the cage, and finds a way out of the dark forest. It’s never too late to kill the witch, Daphne. Think about it. There’s a natural balance in getting justice, even if it’s much later. The witch shouldn’t get away with it. I know you think your case was unique, but you can bet there were other children tempted by the candies…’

‘It’s not an emergency,’ Daphne replied when Jane said a friend could organise an emergency appointment on Monday.

‘Maybe not, but it’s important you go.’

Daphne lied to Jelly (‘a gynae thing’) and left during her lunch break, making her way by Tube to Embankment and walking to a road off the Strand. National Society for Survivors of Child Sexual Abuse. It was on the sign in bold lettering. At least they offered the more optimistic version of surviving rather than being a victim, like in news reports. But while she had never seen herself as either victim or survivor, she was now plagued by the image of Gretel tempted by walls of cake before the witch closed in.

‘What would you like to discuss with me today?’ Vivien was around sixty, with chic grey hair and a tailored white shirt. Her beaky nose and discerning eyes lent a hawkish aspect, though her manner was efficiently compassionate.

‘It’s hard to know where to begin – like trying to sum up a whole lifetime of ideas that have turned back-to-front and upside down.’ To Daphne’s dismay, tears pricked her eyes. She coughed to disguise it. Then out poured the whole bloody shebang: her crazy parents, Ralph’s devotion, their subsequent relationship, Ellie’s death, Constantine, and on until she reached Libby’s dancing. ‘I never believed Ralph harmed me – it was as though the mutual affection guaranteed that everything was OK. But it doesn’t look like that any more. I don’t know what to do.’

‘It’s very common for people to feel close to the person who abused them – to get something from the relationship.’ Vivien’s voice was low and measured. ‘But what’s significant is that a child cannot give consent. That’s the law. A person under sixteen can never consent to sex under any circumstances.’

‘They do, though,’ said Daphne.

‘Yes.’ Vivien half-smiled, patiently. ‘And it’s different when it’s with someone of their own age. It’s not about saying yes, it’s having the capacity to understand what that consent means – the full consequences. A child doesn’t have that.’ Vivien held her questioning air until Daphne nodded. ‘The same thing holds if someone is very drunk: they’re not considered capable of agreeing to have sex. So when an adult has sex with a child, the power imbalance means it’s not OK in any circumstances, however caring anyone was. Even if the child believes it is OK. Does that make sense?’

Daphne nodded again, childlike. She wanted to go and curl up beside Vivien and be protected, as though this stranger could take on the role that Ellie should have played by pointing out right and wrong and then providing comfort and love.

‘If you don’t mind I’ve got a quick checklist that helps with assessment?’

‘Sure. Fine.’

‘So how’s your sleep?’

‘Dreadful, always.’ Daphne smiled. ‘You name it and I’ve tried it. Sleeping pills, herbal sedatives, acupuncture, homeopathy, breathing exercises… even mindlessness.’

‘Mindfulness?’

‘Yes, anything and everything.’

‘What about substance abuse?’

‘Yes.’

Vivien waited for an explanation, pen poised.

‘Oh all sorts.’ Daphne laughed as though the list would be too long to enumerate, then regretted her levity. ‘I’ve been through AA and NA years ago. I’m pretty good now. I drink a bit, but mostly just wine.’

‘Eating disorders?’

‘Yes, but ages ago, when I was young.’ She recalled starving herself after she and Constantine broke up. It provoked a strange satisfaction. You could obtain a giddy high from extreme hunger. She only got over it when her skin became furry and her periods stopped.

‘OCD?’

‘No.’ That was a relief. She didn’t want Vivien to tick every bloody box on her page.

‘Promiscuity?’

‘Not really. Depends on the definition. Maybe, occasionally.’

Vivien didn’t ask her any more about that and she was glad not to have to dredge up the faces of men who weren’t worth remembering.

‘Depression or suicidal thoughts?’

‘At one point, yes. Long gone.’ She looked at Vivien’s thoughtful expression. ‘So, do you think this stuff is linked to what happened with Ralph?’

Vivien took a while to reply, like a kind teacher waiting for a slow child to grasp an elementary lesson. ‘What do you think, Daphne?’

She didn’t answer.

‘I’d say his behaviour was likely to be a factor. At the very least.’

‘It’s confusing. Like I’d got it all wrong.’ Hot tears forced their way out. She hated to be seen crying.

Vivien handed her a box of tissues. ‘Perhaps your body is giving you the answer?’

Daphne nodded and blew her nose. ‘So much makes sense when I think of it from the perspective of being an abused child.’ All the bad decisions I’ve made, she thought. All that destruction I believed came from within – it forms a pattern that started on the outside. And it’s starting to be clear where it all began.

‘I feel so angry,’ she said. ‘I want to punish him, to make him pay for what he did.’ She let out a dry, one-syllable laugh like a dog bark that brought no responding smile from Vivien. ‘After a lifetime of thinking everything was fine, it’s sort of freaking me out. I don’t know what to do.’

‘Have you thought about prosecuting?’ Vivien paused, head cocked. ‘It’s your choice. But it can be a very empowering experience, even if it is a long time later. A relief.’ Vivien rubbed her hands, dry and papery. ‘Of course, it’s entirely your decision. But the police are well trained these days in handling historical child sexual abuse.’ Daphne didn’t say anything. ‘You need to know that the whole process is challenging. The outcome is never guaranteed. The abuser can still be acquitted if the evidence is limited or if the Crown Prosecution Service say it’s not viable. But from what you say, there’s evidence. I think there’s a good chance of success.’

Returning on the Tube to Shepherd’s Bush, Daphne felt buoyant, almost elated. Vivien’s weighty diagnosis was that she had been raped as a child, but at least it brought clarity.

‘Don’t answer his messages,’ Vivien recommended. ‘It’s better you don’t have any more contact with him.’

Back at ‘Hell’, she received an email from Ralph (‘At least let me know that you’re OK’) and another voice message (‘I’m very sorry if I said something to upset you’). While she was speaking on the office phone to an old client requesting a villa on Paxos, her mobile rang and Ralph’s name appeared on the screen. Distracted, she forgot what she was talking about.

‘Daphne? Hello? Are you there?’ Mrs Wheeler’s voice went from concerned to irritated. She was a demanding client who always required much handholding throughout the booking and the holiday itself. ‘If you’re busy with something else, you can call me back.’

‘No. Sorry, Mrs Wheeler.’ Quick, find an excuse. ‘It’s just that three of the most enormous dogs stopped outside our office. Wolfhounds, I think. Bizarre.’ Daphne had always been speedy with a surprising alibi – early training perhaps. Jelly was staring at her, jolting her back to the job in hand. ‘So, I have the most beautiful house for you. It’s perfect, with olive trees, a pool. Only ten minutes’ walk to the beach. I know you’ll love it.’