Page 60 of Silent Scream
In this one room of her house, the stresses and challenges of the working day eased out of her muscles, leaving her relaxed and content. Here she did not have to be the analytical detective dissecting every clue, or the leader of her team guiding and prodding to get the best results. Here, she did not have to justify her ability to do a job she truly loved or battle to mask the social skills she so sorely lacked. Here, she was happy.
She crossed her legs and began to assess the pieces that had taken five months to gather. The ‘93 genuine Triumph parts would all fit together to form a crankshaft casing. Now all she had to do was figure out how.
Within the overall challenge of restoring a classic motorbike came smaller tasks along the way. The crankshaft casing was the heart of the machine so she began as she always did with a puzzle within a puzzle, she grouped similar type parts together.
Twenty minutes later the washers, gaskets, springs, valves, tubes and pistons were all separated. She opened the diagram that would help guide her through the challenge.
Normally, the process jumped off the page like a three-dimensional hologram. Her mind was able to assess the most logical starting point and she would build from there. Tonight, the instructions remained a muddle of numbers, arrows and shapes.
After ten minutes of scowling at it the page still resembled the writings of the Rosetta Stone.
Dammit, no matter how hard Kim fought she knew this case was having an unsettling effect on her.
She uncrossed her legs and leaned back against the wall. Perhaps it was the amount of time spent in such close proximity to Mikey’s grave. Although she took fresh flowers every week she had locked away those memories when she was six years old.
Like a bomb linked to a motion sensor, there would never be a good time to open that package. Every psychologist she’d been sent to had tried to break open that box and had failed. Despite their assurances that she needed to talk about the trauma in order to heal, she had resisted. Because they had all been wrong.
For a few years following Mikey’s death Kim had been passed around the mental health profession like a puzzle that could not be fathomed. Looking back, she often wondered if a set of steak knives had been on offer for the professional who could break open the surviving twin of the worst case of neglect the Black Country had ever seen.
She suspected there was no such prize for putting the child back together again.
Silence and aggression had been her best friends. Kim had turned into a difficult child and that had been her intention. She hadn’t wanted to be coddled and loved and understood. She hadn’t wanted to form bonds with foster parents, mock siblings or paid carers. She’d wanted to be left alone.
Until foster family number four.
Keith and Erica Spencer were a middle-aged couple when they started fostering. Kim had been their first foster child, and as it would turn out, their last.
They were both teachers who had consciously chosen to have no children. Instead they had spent every spare moment travelling the world on motorcycles. After the death of one of their friends they had decided it was time to curtail the constant travel but their passion for bikes had remained.
When she was placed with them at ten years of age Kim had donned her spikes, ready for the usual onslaught of long, probing chats and measured understanding.
She spent the first three months in her room, honing her rejection skills, waiting for their intervention. When it didn’t come, Kim found herself venturing downstairs for short periods of time, almost like an animal checking to see if it was safe to come out of hibernation. If either of them were surprised, they didn’t show it.
On one such foray she was mildly interested to find Keith restoring an old motorbike in the garage. Initially she sat at the furthest point, just watching. Without turning, Keith explained what he was doing. She never answered, but he carried on anyway.
Each day she moved closer towards his work area until eventually she was sitting right beside him, cross-legged. If Keith was in the garage, so was she.
Gradually Kim started asking questions about the mechanics of the machine, eager to understand how it all came together. Keith showed her diagrams and then demonstrated the practice.
Erica would often have to drag them from the garage to eat her latest gastronomic delight from the countless cookbooks that lined the kitchen shelves. She would roll her eyes fondly while Kim continued to ask questions as they ate to the gentle sound of Erica’s classical music collection.
Kim had been with the couple for about eighteen months when Keith turned to her and said, ‘Okay, you’ve watched me do it plenty of times, do you think you could fit that nut and washer into the exhaust housing?’
He moved out of her way and went to get drinks from the kitchen. With that first turn of the nut her passion was born.
Lost in the process, she continued to sort through the parts strewn across the garage floor, eventually fitting another couple of bits to the bike.
A soft chuckle caused her to turn. Both of them stood in the doorway watching her. Erica was teary.
Keith came and took his place beside her. ‘Yeah, I think you got the clever genes from me, sweetie,’ he said, nudging Kim sideways.
And although she knew it to be impossible, the words had brought an ache to her throat as she had thought of how happy she and Mikey could have been had the fates been kinder.
Two weeks before her thirteenth birthday, her foster mother had brought a hot chocolate to her bedroom and simply placed it on her bedside cabinet. On her way out, Erica had paused at the door. Without turning, her hand had clutched the door handle.
‘Kim, you do know how much we love you, don't you?’
Kim had said nothing but had stared hard at Erica’s back.
