Page 112 of Don't Tell Teacher

Today, social services will decide if I’m hurting my son.

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep well last night. I woke up this morning with knots in my stomach. They’re still there, pulling and pinching.

‘Please,’ I tell the bus driver. ‘Can’t you just let me off here?’ We’re stuck in a slow-moving slug of traffic. I think there’s been an accident up ahead.

I’m wearing a pin striped skirt suit. It’s the smartest thing I own. The skin around my nails is now bitten to bleeding point.

‘Please,’ I beg. ‘I’m going to a meeting. About my son. I can’t be late.Please.’

The bus driver’s big shoulders sink a little. ‘There’s an emergency door handle up there.’ He looks straight ahead. ‘I never said you could pull it. But you can pull it. Just watch out for any motorbikes, all right? Sometimes they come up on the inside.’

‘Thanks.’ I pull the handle and the bus doors hiss open, freeing me to jump off and run down the street.

I’m out of breath and pink by the time I reach the Town Hall. Kate Noble waits in the foyer, arms crossed, wearing her usual black trouser suit. She looks tired.

‘We’re a little behind schedule,’ she says. ‘Usually I’d talk you through things but there’s no time. I did ask you to come half an hour early…’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t understand—’

‘We should go straight in.’

I follow Kate into a beige meeting room. There is an oval table at its centre and three people sit around it.

‘Come on in, Lizzie,’ says Kate. ‘Take a seat.’

I sit on an upholstered chair, noticing Mr Cockrun across the table. He is as immaculate and tailored as ever, fingers laced together, head cocked attentively, totally unfazed by a meeting that could ruin my life.

My brain swims, assessing the two others at the table: a large, red-faced woman and a tall, bearded man, most likely a doctor.

Kate takes a seat and hands me some paperwork from the centre of the table. Dutifully, I look down.… cause for concern … unexplained head injury … unusual pattern of illness … possible injection marks.

My eyes fix on my fingers, which are locked together in one giant, shaking fist.

‘I’ll start by reading out the report,’ says Kate.

Some words wash over me, others stab like knives.

Considered at risk of significant harm …

‘A paediatrician has confirmed that Tom’s head injury happened before he fell unconscious, Miss Riley,’ says Kate, reading from pages in front of her. ‘A few days previously, he believes.’

In the silence that follows, I realise I’m expected to comment. I lift my head, voice weary. ‘I have no idea how he hurt his head. I already told the doctors. School is the only time he’s away from me. Itmusthave happened there.’

Mr Cockrun sits up straight. ‘This really is bordering on slander now, Miss Riley.’

Kate holds up a hand. ‘We’ll hear from you in a moment, Mr Cockrun. Please don’t interject again until you’re called upon.’

I’m a good mother. You can’t take my son away. Please, please don’t take him away.

Kate turns to the tall, bearded man. He has grey hair and an unhealthily pale face. ‘Perhaps you should take it from here, Michael?’

The ruddy-cheeked woman beside Kate, who clearly wants to be somewhere else, snaps, ‘Aren’t you going to introduce everyone first, Kate? Before you get into that? Miss Riley doesn’t even know who she’s speaking to.’

‘Sorry.’ Kate clears her throat. ‘Yes – Miss Riley, this is Dr Michael Philips. He’s a consultant paediatrician.’

‘It was another doctor who examined Tom,’ I say. ‘Mr … Mr … it began with aromsound.’

‘Doctor Ramir, yes,’ says Dr Philips. ‘I’m afraid he couldn’t be here today.’

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