2015

Whitby, England

I hurried along the cobbled streets, darting between the quaint seaside shops as I dashed home from work to be back in time for Malcolm. The wind whipped my hair in my face with a sharp sting.

Despite being a teenager, it worried my son if I wasn't home when he got in, and he'd been coming back earlier recently due to no longer wanting to attend his art class. I couldn't get him to explain why.

Malcolm was on the autistic spectrum which, for him, meant he was brilliantly smart and talented, but he struggled with human interactions. As a result, many situations would make him anxious. I was sure my own anxiety in relation to spending time at home with Bernard must be rubbing off on him too.

I knew my son had, thankfully, not been witness to Bernard's violent outbursts, but he wasn't stupid; he knew something wasn't right. And I couldn't even have a meaningful conversation about what was bothering him as he wasn't able for that.

So my usual wander home from work, taking in the sea air and the beautiful buildings was now a stressful sprint—disturbing the peaceful way of life Whitby residents were accustomed to.

I arrived home to find I needn't have rushed as Malcolm wasn't there and even half an hour later, he still hadn't shown up. He must have gone to art club after all.

I had another hour before Bernard was due home and before the fear kicked in. I never knew anymore what the evening would bring but subconsciously I was always expecting a fight. Most of the time it was a verbal fight, in which case I was more than a match for him. But when he was mentally beaten, he turned physical. In these instances, I didn't know how to fight back and, instead, would freeze. He liked to go for the throat as he had on the first occasion, but sometimes he'd throw me to the floor so he could stand over me.

His violence was never enough to leave lasting damage - not visible damage anyway - which often led me to convince myself it couldn't be that bad. Perhaps I was overreacting; Bernard never seemed to be disturbed by his outbursts. We loved each other and I genuinely believed when whatever was causing him stress passed, he would go back to his normal self.

I used the free hour I had to busy my mind with the latest TV series I was watching. Bernard didn't approve. He found men dressed in drag doing challenges - dancing, lip-syncing, posing, over-acting, talking about their feelings - an embarrassment. They should all be lined up and shot, was his remark the first and only time I watched it in his presence.

I was partway through an episode when there was a knock on the door. I paused the show and went to investigate.

I swung the front door open to find Malcolm, flanked by two police officers. The early evening sun shone behind them making it hard at first to make out their expressions, but I didn't need to. My blood froze in my veins as my eyes darted between the three of them. As my eyes fast became accustomed to the light, it was clear no one gave anything away with their blank expressions. My mind raced through every possible explanation in those brief, torturous seconds.

I gritted my teeth when the larger of the two officers roughly pushed Malcolm over the threshold and into the hallway.

"Go upstairs," I instructed my son, who hadn't yet looked at me.

He disappeared past me and the two men entered without an invite, forcing me to take a couple of steps back.

"You'd better come through." I led them into the kitchen.

"Christina?"

"Yes."

"You don't mind? I just know Bernard well so it seems unnecessarily formal to call you Ms Clarke." The one with the shaved head who had shoved my son gave me a warm smile.

"Call me whatever you like, just tell me what Malcolm's done. Is he in some kind of trouble?"

The younger office placed his palms on the table. "He has mental issues, your son?"

"I didn't realise that was a crime, but yes, he's autistic," I remarked sharply.

"No one said it was a crime. I'm simply checking—for context. Why don't you sit down?"

I folded my arms across my chest, my mouth in a straight line as I waited for the answer to my question: what had Malcolm done.

"Your son came to the police station to report a... an incident," the older man began.

My whole body relaxed for a brief moment, only for it to tense up again when I realised that while my son hadn't done anything wrong as I'd initially assumed, something had been done to him. "What incident? What's happened?"

"Well, he came to the station this afternoon... to report Bernard."

A shiver ran straight through me, from the tips of my toes to the top of my head, sending a wave of goosebumps down my bare arms. Malcolm knew? Had he seen something? Heard something? Oh god. For a moment, I thought I might pass out. My only job was to keep Malcolm safe and I was failing.

"Um, OK. What did he report him for?" I asked, trying to sound as innocent as possible, but instead, my voice went unnaturally high.

I closed my eyes as I waited for the worst.

"He said Bernard hit him."

My eyes flew open. "Wait—what?"

"I know," the shaven-headed officer said.

"Bernard hit Malcolm?" My voice struggled to formulate the question. Until that moment I couldn't imagine the situation with Bernard getting worse. I thought I had things under control.

"No, he accused Bernard of hitting him," the officer corrected me.

"But... that's the same thing. Isn't it?" I screwed my eyes up in confusion.

"No, Christina. It's not the same. Why would your son make such an extreme accusation?"

"He would only say it if it were true," I said, my voice cracking. I gripped the kitchen work surface for support. "He doesn't lie. He doesn't know how to."

No more was said but the message was loud and clear, captured in their stone-cold expressions.

I showed the men out after muttered agreements about talking to Malcolm, my hands shaking. As soon as the door closed behind them, I rushed upstairs to my son's room.

"Sweetheart?" I called with a shaky voice as I knocked on his door. "Can I come in?"

He didn't answer but I slowly put my weight on the handle and let myself in. Malcolm sat cross-legged on the bed, headphones on, playing a computer game. I sat down beside him and ran my hand over his soft brown hair and soothingly down his back. He continued to ignore me.

"Can I just uncover one ear?" I asked as I pushed one half of his headset back.

He didn't stop me but neither did he stop his game. I knew he was listening.

"Malcolm, you took a trip to the police station today?"

"Yes."

"Why was that?"

"I don't know."

"I think you do. Why don't you tell me?"

"I don't feel like telling you."

"I know, babe, but it's important that I know. Please, Malcolm?"

The game continued. He seemed to be manoeuvring a small army on an unsuspecting city.

"I went to tell them about Bernard," he finally said.

My heart squeezed. "What about him, sweetheart?"

He shrugged so I waited for a while, rubbing his back. If Bernard had hit him, that was it. We had to be over. I could stand him hurting me, but not my baby boy. I'd brought him into this dangerous home and now I had to get him out.

I scanned the room and mentally made a note of all the empty plates and cups and dirty laundry I needed to pick up, before my mind then wandered to how quickly we could pack up and get out.

After some minutes, I tried again. "Ready to tell me what happened with Bernard? You won't be in any trouble."

"I will."

"No, you won't."

"The police said I will." Eyes still on the screen.

"What do you mean? Talk to me, Malcolm."

"They said I mustn't tell lies about police officers or else I'll go to jail. It's a serious crime. I don't want to go to jail."

I squeezed his wrist given his hand was still on the controller. My eyes stung. "And did you lie?"

"No."

"OK. So, tell me what happened?"

"He punched me. He dragged me out of the car. Mum, I really don't like Bernard anymore."

My jaw clenched making it difficult to speak. "No, neither do I. Did he hurt you badly?"

"A bit. And he said if I told you he would hit me harder. So, I told the police and they said I'd go to prison. And now I've told you so he's gonna get me. What are we gonna do, mum?"

I still couldn't fully divert his attention from whatever strategy game he was playing, but I could feel his fear as his hands trembled and his knee bounced up and down.

"Don't worry, my love, I won't tell Bernard you told me. And you certainly won't go to prison. You were very brave going to the police, but if anything like this ever happens again, you talk to me first."

No acknowledgment.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now tell me exactly what happened so I can try to fix it."

After much encouragement Malcolm filled me in on the day Bernard had taken him to football practice. Bernard had been in a bad mood and shouted at him throughout the journey. The boy was often anxious at the point of arrival at the local football pitch, but the older man had lost patience and dragged him out of the car and along the gravel towards the changing rooms. Malcolm showed me the scratches down his legs, but I didn't need proof. I could already easily picture it having become well-acquainted with Bernard's nasty side. My heart broke for him. My own run-ins with Bernard seemed even
more insignificant now.

We heard the door open and close downstairs and both Malcolm and my bodies stiffened.