Splitting The Difference

By Kairen Cullen

Kisane, a professional psychologist and Ralph, a senior construction manager met as children, married young, raised three daughters and like so many long-married couples are comfortable but bored. Kisane is being bullied at work and dreams of having her own practice. She offers private services to one of her schools and this leads her into the glamorous world of professional football when she gets involved with a top football manager and his family. Ralph, successful in his field and happy enough but struggling with the ageing process is tempted by a beautiful, troubled younger woman, the architect for his current project.

Kisane’s work with a pupil referral unit and the football club lead to her getting stabbed in a local park. She knows that Danny, one of the unit boys is involved but is unsure whether he is helping her or is an accomplice to her attackers. Later, several boys from the unit, Danny and his father are found dead. At the same time Ralph is dealing with the discovery of child pornography on his site and some disturbing disclosures and developments involving his architect and would-be mistress.

Ralph and Kisane’s different worlds come together when the police become interested in their connections with the missing boy, the architect, the Local Education Authority where Kisane is employed and also the football club. As the crime that links all these is solved, so too is the problem of how Ralph and Kisane can continue their lives together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kairen Cullen
• Release date: May 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781999720025

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

1962

There was a dark place they used to go to: an old World War II air raid shelter in some wasteland behind the house, which smelt of piss, dog shit, mould and damp earth. It was Kisane’s seventh birthday and she’d spent all day waiting for something special, but there’d been no presents, cards, cake, party … just nothing. So, bored of waiting, she’d gone to the shelter. There was something else that hung in its dank air, a kind of warm, sweet, ammonia scent that made her feel slightly uneasy. Sometimes, they’d find magazines with rude pictures of naked women, but she was fascinated. The two boys whom she often played with, Ralph and Mark from down the road, were there that day. Although they were all the same age, she was, by far, the biggest and strongest; it was she who ruled. They played football and imaginary games involving cowboys or pirates. Mark, a skinny kid with shiny blonde hair and spindly legs, usually ended up tied to a tree or shut in the shelter, whilst she and Ralph fought off the imaginary enemies who had entrapped him. They had little respect for Mark, and often teased him about the fact his mum followed close behind whenever he was allowed to deliver a few pools coupons from his dad’s round in the neighbourhood.

Dressed in cowboy hats and wellingtons, Kisane and Ralph lassoed Mark and dragged him to the shelter, nearly strangling him when, after shoving him inside, the rope got stuck in the door. Mark’s screams ceased within moments when he realised it was having no effect, but his sobbing was absorbed into the story. Ralph, starting to feel uneasy, suggested they let him out. Kisane, who was so carried away with the drama of it all, refused. He knew better than to challenge her and, under the pretence of boredom, announced that he was going home. Kisane shrugged in response and remained leaning against the door to the shelter, alternating between blowing bubbles with her gum and popping them loudly against the back of her teeth. Ralph didn’t say goodbye as he walked off, his shoulders hunched. He looked back occasionally until he disappeared behind the wall at the back of the houses.

Do you hear what you did now?

She put her mouth up close to the weathered green paint:

You spoilt the game. Stupid little mummy’s boy. Stupid cry baby.

There was no answer so she kicked at the door:

Say something, or I’ll never let you out.

Deciding she’d had enough, she made to open the door just as it began to rain. Her need to pee was more important though. She looked around, squatted and pulled down her knickers.

The next thing she saw was her dad, ugly with rage. Behind him stood a shamefaced Ralph.

You! Don’t bother pulling them up. Stay as you are.

She froze as he yanked open the shelter door to reveal a snot-covered, trembling Mark. He pulled him out, handed him a tissue and then turned. Raising his hand, he pushed her against the shelter’s wall. His hand slammed down against her bare bottom. The impact forced her face and body into the rough concrete as the blood pooled in her mouth from where she’d bitten her tongue, and the wet ran down her legs.

Get dressed, he snarled when he’d finished.

Now, boys, I hope you learnt something today. Never, d’you hear me? Never, let a bitch tell you what to do. Repeat what I said.

Both rain-soaked boys were shivering now. Through chattering teeth, they repeated his words. Satisfied, he smiled and turned to Ralph:

Take him home and don’t bother coming around again. Kisane won’t be playing out any more.

When they got home the disgust and loathing on her mum’s face made Kisane realise properly, for the first time, how much her mum disliked her. Even the good hiding her dad gave her was less painful than the pain of realising her mother would not come to her aid. That night, she lay very still in bed, barely daring to breathe. It was him who came up at some point. It must have been night as the sky outside was dark. He drew the curtains. Later still, she heard them shouting, something about dirty bitches and only fit for the gutter. She wondered what they might be wanting to fit into the gutter. Her mum had always told her to stay away from drains as she herself had been taken ill as a child. She had a colourful-sounding illness called scarlet fever, and blamed it on playing near the drains. It wasn’t until much later that she made the connection between his view of gutters and her mother’s family, rumoured to have included Irish Travellers. It seemed like days rather than hours, but she knew there was no question of moving from her bed. The grazes on her face and knees and her sore tongue and backside were more effective in keeping her there than any physical restraint. Another round of particularly nasty shouting started, culminating with the sound of breaking glass and the front door crashing. She thought it was him who’d come up the stairs, his voice that had whispered through the dark and his body that had joined her in bed. Something in her mind shut down then.

***

2010

ϕ Ninety acres of beautiful meadows, woodland and an ornamental lake; it was a surprise in the densely populated part of North London where they lived. Late eighteenth century landscape gardener, Humphrey Repton, and architect, Robert Nash, had created Westlake Park, a country house estate full of the grace and elegance of Ancient Greece and Rome. A community of dog owners and walkers meandered through it all year long. In the summer months, families, lovers, young people and others enjoyed it, too. Kisane loved it best early in the morning when few people were around and there was a chance of spotting the tiny Muntjack deer disappearing into the wilder forested parts or the green-backed Woodpeckers swooping low over the dewy grass, hunting insects.

She was on her second lap around the park, running easily across the familiar, descending floor of the woods, threading through the oak and beech trees. She’d always felt safe and, somehow, sheltered here, but she knew to watch out as the floor was a tangle of tree debris, ground ivy and brambles. A couple of months ago, while running with Ralph, she’d tripped and fallen. He’d helped her up, saying: You alright, baby? and she’d lashed out at him. Firstly, she had twisted her knee and it bloody hurt, and secondly, she hated that particular term of endearment. Her loathing of the endearment began when she’d completed a module in gender studies during her first degree. She was in her late twenties then and was aware of how demeaning and infantilising a man’s choice of words could be to women.

She jumped over a freshly fallen branch and raised her head. She was shocked to see that, about three hundred yards away, three large men were striding towards her. One of them was carrying a dog, which was whimpering and growling in turn. Another had something in his hand that glinted in the light coming through the trees. She veered sharply to the right, towards the small stream that bordered the edge of the woods, hoping she would be somewhere near a crossing point. She wasn’t. She slithered down the bank and splashed through the water to the other side. Her heart was racing so fast it felt like she couldn’t get enough air, but she kept running and didn’t look back. A few seconds later, what sounded like a large object being thrown into water echoed through the woods. Thinking one or all of them had followed her, she ran towards the lake. The sight of a couple of early walkers calmed her a little.

She was seriously spooked but kept pushing on, resisting the urge to look back until she reached the main gates and was out on the street, where the early morning traffic of people on their way to work was starting to build. Her breathing had returned to normal and she began to wonder if her bad mood had just pushed her imagination into over-drive. Then the unfairness of everything hit her. Too many men had made her unhappy. Besides, running and feeling afraid made no sense; she ran to feel strong and free. She decided to do an external lap of the park, sticking to the streets, and then run home through the park, including the woods.

As she ran, she thought of the phone call her husband had taken the evening before. It was from the architect on his current job. She raged to herself about how attractive Ralph would be to that young woman, and how his prestige and appeal, unlike her own, grew by the day. A voice from long ago, her mother’s, or perhaps her grandmother’s, railed that she was supposed to be at home, metaphorically lying on the floor behind the front door. It was good that she earned money for the family project. She’d heard Ralph saying, benevolently, how it contributed to her being her own person and provided a sense of satisfaction at the end of the day. The woods were dark, although the sun was beginning to rise. She lost herself in thoughts about the gifts of menopause: depression, loneliness and agoraphobia. Then she remembered she was working later, which brought on another sense of fear, in a more sickening, despairing way.

Ψ The phone alarm nagged from the bedside table. Ralph groped for it amongst the keys, books, loose change and tissues, and nearly succeeded in upsetting his glass of water. She was gone; the sheets on her side were almost cold. He stretched across and dozed another few minutes. She would be lapping the park by now. God knows how she did it; it was all he could do to sit zombie-like gulping his drink, shuffling to the bathroom for a pee and then returning for the contact lenses ritual. As he stood beneath the pulsing hot water of the shower, his brain gradually started to engage. He checked his mental appointments diary and recalled, with pleasure, the design meeting with the lovely Thallia later. She brightened up the usually all-male construction team, although she downplayed her femininity, dressing elegantly in dark trousers and pretty little blouses. It was subtle, but there was no mistaking the slender, shapely and artfully defined body, which was much appreciated by her colleagues. She was a clever girl and, in most respects, seemed to get things right. Whether it was quietly and diplomatically advising on the designs she’d created, or smiling in response to the innuendos and banter, or just lending a sympathetic ear to whoever needed a moan.

He realised he had been soaping himself for far too long and was breathing deeply. Christ, was that the sound of the door? He soaped himself all over once more, as though he could wash away the guilt. His thoughts returned to his wife, who was still out in the park trying to keep in shape, hoping this would reignite his passion for her. The water was beginning to run cold. Thoughts of how she would have reacted to his fantasies chilled him further. He’d heard her spouting often enough about her sense of losing any claim on the world, feeling that, as an older woman, she was bottom of the pack. She was right, of course, when wasn’t she? Go into the street or any newsagent, garage or supermarket and the message was strong and clear: young, attractive and sexual females were the only ones who got noticed. What she didn’t completely realise though, was that there was always a condition: that they played the game of pleasing the biggest dick. He thought of what Kisane had told him about her own workplace. It was full of female psychologists supplicating themselves daily to the lucky bastard boss, then dismissed it all and got on with getting ready for work.

A quick bowl of muesli washed down with orange juice whilst skimming the day’s news on his Kindle, and he was set. He closed the front door gently and set off down the hill to the tube station. He thought he saw Kisane running out of the park gates, but as the figure came towards him, he realised it was the much younger, slightly slimmer woman he’d seen around the area occasionally. He also realised he was staring and couldn’t decide between a friendly good morning or the usual blank Londoner on the street thing. She helped him out by giving him a very pretty smile, so he opted for the former. His step became brisker and he swung his arms, enjoying the walk and his freedom to do what came naturally to him.

ϕ She remembered the dream that had woken her so early, one she’d had many times before. She was behind the wheel of a big car, going at speed. Her steering and brakes weren’t working. Ralph, her husband, was beside her, comfortably gazing out of the window, oblivious to her dilemma. She was driving simply as an act of will. As she realised this, she started to doubt whether she could keep it going. Even asleep, she was a typical bloody psychologist, analysing her own analysis. She couldn’t understand what was happening and felt more and more afraid. The car seemed to be gaining speed, the road was becoming steeper and more uneven. Just as some horrible collision seemed inevitable, she woke.

Her sleep had been shallow and disturbed, largely due to overhearing her husband, Ralph, on his mobile the evening before. He’d been speaking in the tone he used with women he liked. When she’d asked him, as casually as she could, he’d mumbled something about Thallia, the architect from his current construction project, and changed the subject. Kisane immediately knew who she was. Thallia was young enough to have been one of their three daughters, a second-generation Greek Cypriot, pretty and slim and obviously paid well, judging from her stylish and expensive clothes. On the one occasion she’d met Thallia at a works’ do, she’d felt like a worn-out carthorse standing next to a thorough-bred racing filly. Ralph, with one hand raised and flattened against the wall, was leaning over Thallia, deep in conversation. He’d been oblivious to everyone and everything else, not even noticing when she’d excused herself to get her own drink. On their 30th wedding anniversary weekend in Paris, he’d taken calls from Thallia. When she tried to probe, he’d turned nasty.

Her heart racing, she felt compelled to leave the warm duvet. Slipping out of bed, she padded around to his side and picked up his mobile. She’d never, until then, demeaned herself like this, she reflected, as she checked his calls from the day before. There were a couple to and from the architect. Breathing heavily, she thought that didn’t necessarily mean anything, did it? After all, they were working on a big, complex project together. Now, she could barely breathe, but she couldn’t stop herself looking though his messages. She checked the inbox first; several were from Thallia. Just as she opened one up, Ralph stirred. The smell of his sleep-hot body triggered a wave of nausea and she replaced the phone.

Ψ The client meeting had gone so well that Chris, the developer, treated Ralph, his quantity surveyor, Mike, Clerk of Works, Derek, and Ken, one of the engineers, and Thallia to lunch. The usual football talk began and she tried her best to join in:

I have a friend who’s a director for Aylward, but I have to admit, I’ve got no interest in the beautiful game.

What a waste, said Mike. I expect he’s got his own box, hasn’t he?

Yes, I’ve been along a few times, but he tends to use it for entertaining clients.

Ralph changed the subject to running, knowing she was into marathons and had just achieved a personal best in New York. He had to work to get the actual time out of her, but when she said, three hours thirty-nine, he insisted on a high five. The others raised their glasses. He held back from telling her that his best was three hours twenty-one, partly because that had been ten years ago. He had no wish to emphasise their age difference either, but mostly it was because he knew the mine’s bigger than yours bullshit wouldn’t impress her. Anyway, Chris seemed to be doing a good enough job in that department. Ralph winced as Chris leered over the table at her:

So, that’s how you stay so lovely and trim, and still manage to eat pudding. I’ll have to get the old dear some trainers.

Thallia smiled serenely:

Sometimes, when he can, I run with Thomas. It’s a great way of spending time together. There’s usually so little opportunity to ever really talk …

Good grief, she doesn’t need any more encouragement on that score, Chris chortled, draining his pint glass and beckoning to the waiter to get another round in.

Ralph smiled to himself, thinking that, if Kisane had been there, she’d have bitten back immediately and told Chris that good two-way communication was core to any relationship.

As though she’d read his mind, Thallia leaned forward over her bowl of chocolate mousse and raspberries and whispered for Chris’s ears only:

But do you ever listen?

On their way out of the restaurant, whilst Chris and Mike used the gents, they arranged Thallia’s next site visit. There were some problems with the roofing design and he needed to take her through it in detail. She placed her phone in her jacket pocket. He was impressed that she had no bag.

Do you ever run during the working day? she asked.

He was surprised but immediately recognised the implicit invitation.

Not usually. It’s not impossible, but getting showered afterwards is tricky, unless you’re near project completion. Then you can use the facilities on the job. I guess you’ve got showers at your office, have you?

He pictured the swish, open-planned glass and granite offices of the prestigious architects’ firm, owned by her partner, for whom she worked. He tried to remember if, during his occasional visits, he’d seen bathrooms.

Yes, there are showers there, but I usually pop into my gym. I’m a member at Thrive, and they have branches everywhere. There’s one just around the corner from you. I can get a guest in, too.

Okay then, I’d be up for a quick thirty after your visit.

Right, you’re on.

ϕ The caretaker had locked the school gates so no one could park in the capacious playground. Instead, the narrow road leading to the school was jammed with the big shiny cars of its patrons. Kisane checked her make-up for the hundredth time. Her eyes looked back at her; witch’s eyes someone had once said, because they were green and brown-flecked. She could hold anyone’s gaze with her strong, calm and steady eyes. Her pupils were a little dilated, probably because of the hefty dose of codeine she’d taken for the headache that had come on after her run, but at least her head had stopped throbbing. She considered another lipstick application but it wasn’t necessary. All she needed, she told herself, was to relax, so she loosened her grip on the steering wheel and reached for the piece of rose crystal in her pocket. As she held its warm smoothness, she called on her guardian angels.

She startled at a sudden tapping on the window. It was Celia Wilton-Turner, Chair of Governors, and she was not amused:

Christ, Kisane, what do you make of this?

Not giving Kisane a chance to reply, she stalked over to the gates and spoke briefly to the caretaker. He reached for his bunch of keys and opened up with a satisfied smile. Celia winked as she walked back to her car to lead the procession in. As Kisane parked, her mind was doing cartwheels with thoughts of the last time Ralph had actually made love to her, the grubby kitchen floor signalling the neglected housework and, too far down the list, the presentation she was there to do that night.

The Head, Vicky Hillman, stood at the school’s entrance to meet and greet. She wore her best hostess mask, all teeth and lipstick, but the slightly raised eyebrows and shoulders gave her away; she was nervous and these evenings were never easy. Steadily, they filed in with lots of Hollywood smiles, genuine tropical tans and designer gear worn casually, in the way only the affluent could wear it. Several actresses, politicians and footballers had already taken their seats when André Farrando, manager of Aylward FC, walked in with his eye-catching model wife, Ayleen. The previous week, Kisane had observed their son Callum in the playground. What she’d witnessed concerned her as much as the class teacher who’d referred him. Not an isolated or unattractive boy, he moved from one group of children to another, each time finding someone to argue with and, on a couple of occasions, starting a physical fight. The teacher on duty had her work cut out and ended up having to send him to Vicky.

Kisane busied herself with arranging her papers and making sure PowerPoint was operating. But she was hyper-aware of her audience, assessing their mood from the general atmosphere, bits of conversation and small glances. Although the Farrandos appeared so together in their well-co-ordinated, perfectly cut jeans and white shirts, they looked on edge. They went to some trouble to make sure they got seats as far back and near to the door as possible. André actually fetched a chair from a row nearer to the front, whilst she, staring straight ahead, rustled through her exquisite bag and then sat, expressionless, with a tissue in one hand and a bottle of Evian in the other.

The usual process of anticipation, nerves and then anger that she somehow needed to go through every time she did this kind of thing, started. Aside from her worries at home, she had no shortage of reasons to be angry at work as well. She’d slogged away at school psychology for the Local Authority for years; hundreds of consultations with teachers and parents, assessment after assessment of kids with behaviour or learning issues, or often both. There were emotional issues, social issues, a rich panoply of human dilemmas and questions. As much as she was fascinated and stimulated by it all, she got paid a pittance. Then there was her arse of a boss who didn’t give a toss about good psychology, whose only motivation was to self-promote, mess around with women half his age and please his mates in the Local Authority boys’ club. Lately, he’d been talking about stream-lining her team, which was already stretched to capacity. She’d had enough so she was here tonight to talk about offering her services to families directly, hoping to kick-start her own private practice.

Ψ When Ralph got back home, the house was in darkness. It was freezing cold inside and the cat was mewling pathetically next to her empty bowl. He went straight to the boiler and flicked the on switch, then opened the fridge to find the half-empty packet of cat food left over from her morning meal. As he emptied it, the interior light illuminated the area around her bowl, and his footprints across the floor.

You little shit! he roared as he gingerly removed the offending shoe, which had stepped in their sodding pet’s welcome home gift. Muttering more obscenities, he grabbed a handful of kitchen paper, plonked the shoe on top of it on the draining board, flicked the lights on and looked hopefully towards the cooker. There had been a time when all three of their daughters were at home, a time when she’d never have worked late, at least not without leaving something for dinner. Now it was just him and Erin, their eldest, who boomeranged back and forth while she finished her studies. But she was hardly ever home. Half an hour later, shoe and floor cleaned, he was ensconced in front of the telly with a cup of tea and a packet of peanuts, engrossed in a game of football. Then he remembered Kisane telling him she was going to be doing a presentation at the school where Farrando’s kid went. He was just wondering how she’d got on when the door slammed, heralding Erin’s return. She poked her head around the door.

Hey, dad! What’s for dins, I’m starving?

Hi, love. I was thinking of a kebab.

She pulled a face:

Where’s mum?

Parents’ evening. She won’t be back ’til later.

Well, I’ll cook then.

His eyes slid back to the screen as the commentator’s voice screamed about a goal. Still focused on the action, he said distractedly:

Sure?

Yeah, I feel like it. Mum always says it’s therapy, and I need some of that.

Her words didn’t register for at least a couple of minutes, but when they did, he got to his feet and went into the kitchen, where she was searching the cupboards.

I fancy some pasta and tuna. Is that okay?

She spoke quietly, her face turned away from him. He moved in front of her and placed his hands on her shoulders:

What’s up, Erin?

Oh dad! was all she could say before the tears came. He held her until she’d cried herself out.

Come on, let’s have a look on my laptop and choose a delivery feast.

They went into the sitting room and he turned the television off.

Red or white?

Red, but …

No buts. This is therapy too … Thank God you didn’t choose white. I think your mother polished the last one off.

She laughed weakly.

"I called and texted her. Surprisingly, she didn’t get back to me. You know what she’s like, she usually replies before you’ve even pressed send."

Yeah, psychic. He waved his hands and rolled his eyes like a mock muse.

She’s probably presenting.

He fetched glasses and filled them from a half-full bottle left over from the weekend, and handed her one. They clinked and drank.

Exciting, actually. She’s going to talk about offering her services direct to families. You know, privately.

They decided on a curry. While they waited for it to arrive, Erin explained why she’d been so upset. She was in the final year of her master’s in criminal law and had been all set to get the Andrew Salford Prize for outstanding dissertation, but the course Tutor had called her in that day to tell her they’d decided otherwise:

He didn’t actually say it, but he insinuated that the university’s widening access agenda, you know, politics, is to blame.

You have to be joking! Ralph snorted.

If only I was. There is a bit of a silver-lining though.

Oh?

They’re giving it to Teli.

"Your Teli? How does he feel about it?"

Gutted in a way, for me, but on the other hand, pleased and excited for himself.

Ralph got to his feet and started pacing:

This doesn’t make sense. Surely it’s widening access to help a female’s career along in a predominantly male field?

Yeah, but this time the powers that be chose colour. I’ve worked too hard at being bloody middle class. I should have bigged up my Indian grandmother.

Erin, your aspirations and hard work honour your grandmother every day. She would have been so proud of you.

He sighed and looked so sad that Erin got to her feet and hugged him, hard.

ϕ Kisane sat back as Vicky began her brown-nosing waffle about how fortunate she and her staff were to be given the opportunity to teach in this school, then gave some details about book clubs and the spring fête. She introduced Kisane, forgetting her request to ease her in with a few words about individual learning styles. Kisane walked over to the computer and clicked on the first slide:

What can help a child succeed at school?

I’ve been a psychologist in Education for over twenty years now. Before that, I was a teacher specialising in behavioural difficulties. You can imagine how varied my work is, but one thing is a constant: parents or carers are central to their children’s development and learning.

She clicked onto another slide, which showed a triangle with Child, Family and School at each corner and double-ended arrows between all three. Underneath, she’d written:

The gestalt of children’s learning. Everything affects everything.

She moved on to another display and covered the whole thing in question marks, and continued:

All of my work is research, really. Parents and teachers often have questions about why a child is not achieving his or her full potential to develop and learn. That’s when I get involved. I research these questions and come up with something useful and accurate that will make a difference.

Her audience was attentive, but quite a few faces looked sceptical.

I asked for this opportunity to speak with you because, although I have been working at Ramstead Academy for several years now, I have relatively little contact with the children’s families.

She continued, choosing her words carefully, and noticed André look up with interest:

"It seemed to me, and to Mrs Hillman and the teachers, that leaving out such key players made no sense, and that working with families would help them get the absolute most out of the children."

He frowned when she said this so she rounded off with:

I would like to stress, though, that nearly all the children here are achieving levels well above national targets, but we want them to achieve even more.

A small tickle in her throat made her pause before she invited anyone who was interested in working with her to complete one of the appointment slips left beneath their chairs.

Vicky stood. Smiling graciously, she thanked Kisane:

Dr Kelling will take some general questions now, but please, no questions about individual children. You are welcome to book an appointment with her if you wish to do so.

One woman got up noisily and left and a few hushed conversations were starting to develop. Then he stood; André Farrando, in his Armani immaculateness was actually going to say something. Probably most people in the room would have heard his sexy, arrogant drawl on the sports channels, but now, looking quite positive, he began to speak:

Dr Kelling, I’m very pleased you asked me here tonight because I have a question for you: is it true that whatever happens to a child in his first seven years affects the rest of his life and cannot be undone?

Kisane swallowed hard, wondering how she might best answer. She remembered her mantra: keep it simple, keep it concrete, don’t rush, but don’t put it off either, and replied:

My field, Educational Psychology, is a wide one and many, many theories of development and learning inform it. Most Educational Psychologists draw upon a range of these …

A large woman in a fuchsia blouse and matching skirt got to her feet and stood, her hand raised.

Er, can I take your question after I’ve answered this gentleman?

She ignored Kisane and asked:

Has the Authority reduced your time here?

Her question triggered a few giggles and coughs. Vicky began an intense, whispered conversation with Celia. Feeling Kisane’s eyes on her, she turned with a weak smile.

The Local Authority is always looking to work more efficiently. It has been the case, until now, that only children with the most marked needs are prioritised for an Educational Psychologist’s help.

The heat in the room was unbearable. Kisane took another sip of water and glanced at André Farrando’s stony expression.

But, I would like to change that, which is why I have decided to start my own practice.

This seemed