Alison appears at the kitchen window, watching me, as I search for some means of forcing the door open. I point to an upstairs window, shouting, ‘Is that a bedroom?’
She nods.
The sash window is directly above the kitchen extension, which has a flat roof and a row of skylights. The drop is only about seven feet.
I point upstairs and shout, ‘Meet me at the window.’
The garden has a decorative wheelbarrow, painted white and filled with potted plants. I drag it closer to the wall and push pots aside. Stepping onto the barrow, I wedge one foot into the space between the downpipe and the brick wall and reach higher, grabbing the gutter and pulling myself onto the flat bitumen roof.
Alison is at the window. She has Chloe in her arms. She undoes the keylocks and slides the sash window to the top of the frame.
‘Pass her to me.’
Chloe clings more tightly to her neck.
‘It’s OK, sweet-pea. It’s an adventure.’
Chloe squirms and complains but allows herself to be lowered into my arms. I feel the padding of her nappy and the softness of her hair against my cheek. It’s only when I smile at her that I notice the bruise on her cheek.
Alison looks at the drop and hesitates. ‘Do you have your wallet and car keys?’ I ask.
‘I’ll get them.’
‘Also, your passport and birth certificates for the kids.’
‘Why?’
‘Proof of identity.’
She disappears and I bounce Chloe on my hip. She puts her thumb into her mouth and studies me as though she’s considering crying but hasn’t made up her mind.
Alison reappears. This time she pushes a small suitcase through the window and lowers it down to me. There is a second case, but it’s too big to fit through the window. She leaves it behind and climbs out, one leg at a time, turning onto her stomach as she scrabbles blindly with her toes, searching for a foothold. I help direct her feet and hold her steady until we’re all standing together on the flat roof, looking across neighbouring gardens.
‘Everything all right?’ asks a female voice.
An elderly neighbour is peering up at us. She’s holding a watering can in both hands and is blinking over the top of her sunglasses.
‘Fine thank you, Mrs Purnell,’ says Alison.
‘What are you doing up there?’
‘We’re considering an extension. This is my … my …’
‘Architect,’ I say.
The old woman’s face folds into creases. ‘You’ll need planning permission. Paul will most likely complain.’
‘How is Mr Purnell?’
‘He only has the one setting: grumpy.’ Mrs Purnell seems keen to chat. ‘People want such big houses nowadays – a room for every child. When I was growing up, I shared a room with my sister. Did me no harm. Made us closer.’
‘You don’t talk to your sister,’ says Alison.
‘That’s because she stole my Christmas pudding recipe.’
‘We have to go,’ I whisper.
I jump down from the roof and Alison lowers Chloe into my outstretched hands. The toddler is less nervous, and her arms go immediately around my neck, clinging to me.
‘Where is your car?’ I ask.
‘I don’t drive. Darren doesn’t let me.’
‘We’ll take my car. Where do your parents live?’
‘In Highgate.’
‘Call them. Tell them you need somewhere to stay.’
With every step we take away from the house, Alison seems to be losing confidence, glancing backwards, wanting to retreat.
‘Nathan,’ she squeaks. ‘He’s still at camp.’
‘Where?’
‘At school.’
‘What time does he finish?’
‘Three.’
‘Who is supposed to pick him up?’
‘Me most days.’ She turns back towards the house. ‘I can’t leave. I have to stay.’
I glance at my phone.
‘We have time. Call the school and say there’s been a family emergency. Tell them a friend is picking up Nathan. Give them my name.’ I open my phone and book an Uber, which is three minutes away. I give Alison the details of the car and driver.
‘I’ll get Nathan,’ I say. ‘I’ll bring him to your parents’ house.’
Moments later, I’m jogging along Kempe Road towards the primary school. As I turn the second corner, I see mothers gathering at the school gates and cars queuing in the kiss and drop zone.
At the school office, the staff are wearing fancy dress, each a different fairytale character. I flash my warrant card to the cheerful receptionist, who is dressed as Cinderella. Her smile fades as quickly as it formed.
‘Is everything all right?’ she asks.
A colleague, Snow White, answers. ‘Mrs Goodall just called. We need to get Nathan from class.’
Cinderella glances at the clock. ‘It’s almost time for pick-up.’
‘I need him now,’ I say.
Huffing in annoyance, she looks for her shoes, which are not glass slippers and are hiding somewhere beneath her desk. After finding them, she struggles to squeeze her feet inside, seeming to relish making me wait.
I follow her across the playground, where groups of children are playing tag or riding scooters around an obstacle course of traffic cones. We enter a separate building where every window is plastered with drawings and paintings and collages. I wait in the corridor, reading out-of-date flyers on a noticeboard about second-hand uniforms and a school choir recital at a local church.
Cinderella reappears with Nathan, who is weighed down by an oversized bag that makes him look like a tortoise.
‘Where’s Mummy?’ he asks with a slight lisp. His foppish fringe falls across one eyebrow and he’s missing a front tooth, which is probably why he’s lisping.
‘She had to take Chloe to your grandparents’ house. We’re going to meet her there.’
‘You mean Nan and Pop.’
‘Right.’
‘I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.’
‘That’s very good advice, but I’m not a stranger. I’m Phil.’
‘Phil is a boy’s name.’
‘It’s short for Philomena. Can I carry that for you?’ I swing his schoolbag over my shoulder.
In that instant the bell rings. Children spill from classrooms, filling the corridors with excited, high-pitched voices.
‘Is there another entrance?’ I ask.
‘Is there a problem?’ asks the assistant.
‘My car is parked on the other side of the school.’
‘I suppose you could use the south gate.’
‘That’s for seniors,’ says Nathan, who is clearly not a rule-breaker.
‘Today you are a big boy.’
We cross the playground, which has painted lines for a netball court and hopscotch grids. More parents are waiting at the gate. I take Nathan’s hand as we weave between shoulders. Children are chatting breathlessly or complaining about being hot, or hungry or exhausted.
My Fiat is parked under the trees collecting fresh splatters of bird shit on the bonnet.
‘Where is my booster seat?’ he asks.
‘I don’t have one.’
‘Is that allowed?’
He’s six years old and sounds like a barrister.