Crying for Help Read Free Page A

outside.
    ‘Mike!’ I hissed. ‘Get back here! They’ve arrived. God, how many are there?’
    He joined me at the living-room window and peeped out. ‘Bloody hell, that’s some posse,’ he agreed.
    The first car, which we recognised, held John Fulshaw, of course. The second contained a young girl – presumably Sophia – and two females, and in the third was another woman, plus a man.
    We repositioned ourselves behind the front door in time to open it and welcome them, allowing a blast of cold air to swirl around our legs. It really was a bitterly cold day.
    The young girl’s smile, however, was warm. ‘You must be Sophia,’ I said, grinning at her and holding out my hand. She promptly shook it, seeming genuinely friendly. I ushered her inside, along with the others, where Mike took over with the traffic management, and herded them all in the direction of the dining room. Always good to have a table to sit around at such times, and the one in the kitchen was too small.
    Not that we had enough chairs in the dining room, for that matter, and I winced inwardly as I realised he was off to get more from the conservatory; ones that I hadn’t thought to wash down.
    I mentally scolded myself. It didn’t matter if the chairs weren’t completely pristine. This was about Sophia’s welfare, not what people put their bums on!
    I glanced across at her to smile again, but now she was in whispered conversation, speaking close to the ear of one of the women she’d come in the car with. A woman who’d looked nervous from the off. I was just wondering whether this might be her social worker, when the woman promptly burst into tears, grabbed Sophia and pulled her in for a hug.
    Glancing first at me – I clearly looked as dumbfounded as I felt – one of the other women took a step and pulled the two apart. ‘Come on,’ she said smartly, though not unkindly, at the two of them. ‘Jean, you promised me you wouldn’t do this. Come on, let Sophia go and then perhaps we can start the meeting. We haven’t even got as far as introductions!’
    Ah, so this was Sophia’s carer, I thought. The one we’d heard was ill. So that would explain her rather strained and strange demeanour. But even so, as we all sat down, I reached under the table for Mike’s hand and squeezed it. Something definitely didn’t feel quite right here.
     
     
    While introductions were made, I studied Sophia more carefully. In fact, it was hard to keep my eyes off her. She was only 12 years of age but she was a startlingly well-developed girl. With her height – she was around five foot eight, to my five foot nothing – she could easily pass for 16 or over. She was also seriously tanned – so much so that she looked like she’d just come back from the Med. Which she obviously hadn’t, so did it come from a bottle? It certainly fitted – she dressed to kill, clearly knowing she had a figure to die for, emphasising her large boobs with a tight low-cut top, over skinny jeans and a pair of high-heeled boots. She was also sitting back, looking composed, with a strange smile on her face, as if allowing the proceedings to wash over her. All in all it was an arresting first impression.
    Linda Samson, the supervising social worker, kicked off, explaining the facts that John had already outlined: that Jean was unable to look after Sophia temporarily and that as a consequence she needed a short-term placement.
    Sophia leaned forward then, and to both my and Mike’s astonishment said, ‘Linda, could you please make a record of the fact that it’s Jean who has asked for this, it’s Jean that can’t cope? Because I’m sure,’ and her eyes flicked towards Jean as she spoke, ‘that real mothers don’t just dump their kids at the first sign of illness.’
    I was gobsmacked. And Jean had started crying again. Linda’s face reddened. ‘Sophia, sweetheart,’ she entreated. ‘We have explained all this to you. You know what’s going on. Please don’t make