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David and Anna Fielding were entertaining guests. Riya and Jason Earnshaw had brought their six-year-old daughter Maisie for a business/play date. The Fieldings’ eldest daughter, Isabel, fourteen, was watching the two younger children—including her brother Owen, eleven—while the adults discussed an investment into Jason Earnshaw’s construction company.
“The main thing you need to know is that you’re the primary nurse for three patients,” he said, with a hint of an African accent in his voice. “Tracy, Emily, and Isabel.”
When a child fails to form an attachment with a caregiver, they fail to learn empathy. That’s how you build a sociopath.
I had no choice but to take a few days off work so I could take the Punto into the garage to get it fixed, relying on Seb once again to tow the vehicle with his tractor. On the way to the mechanic in Hutton, I spotted three magpies clustered together on a dry stone wall and couldn’t stop myself from waving. Seb noticed and smiled, which was perhaps the first time I’d ever seen him smile.
“The first thing you need to know is: Tom isn’t just my brother. He’s also my son.”
“This isn’t real,” I whisper. For the briefest of moments I reach towards James with a trembling hand to touch him. Then I retract it and move away from the door. “No. You’re not real. This is in my mind.”
Before she starts, there’s a moment so quiet that I can hear the rain on the dilapidated roof a storey above me. Tom’s breathing is raspy through the gag, but both David and Isabel are silent movers, giving nothing away. I can’t see them, I can’t hear them. A solitary drip of water comes down from the ceiling.
