“Sean,” she said, pulling off her coat and wrapping it around him. He was blue-white and shaking, his pyjamas sodden, his bare feet caked in mud. “What happened?”
“Mummy’s in the water,” he said. “I’m to stay here until he comes back.”
“Who? Your father? Where’s your father?”
Sean disentangled one skinny arm from the coat and pointed behind he
r, and Jeannie saw Patrick dragging himself on to the bank, his breath coming in sobs, his face twisted with agony.
Jeannie went to him. “Sir, I . . . The ambulance is on its way, ETA four minutes now—”
“Too late,” Patrick said, shaking his head. “I was too late. She’s gone.”
Others arrived: paramedics and uniforms and one or two senior detectives. Sean had got to his feet; with Jeannie’s coat wrapped around him like a cape, he clung to his father.
“Could you take him home?” one of the other detectives said to her.
The boy began to cry. “Please. No. I don’t want to. I don’t want to go.”
Patrick said, “Jeannie, could you take him to your place? He’s frightened and he doesn’t want to go home.”
Patrick kneeled in the mud, holding his son, cradling his head, whispering in his ear. By the time he stood, the boy seemed calm and docile. He slipped his hand into Jeannie’s, trotting along beside her without looking back.
• • •
BACK AT HER FLAT, Jeannie got Sean out of his wet things. She wrapped him up in a blanket and made cheese on toast. Sean ate, quietly and carefully, leaning forward over the plate so as not to drop crumbs. When he was finished, he asked, “Is Mum going to be all right?”
Jeannie busied herself with clearing away the plates. “Are you warm enough, Sean?” she asked him.
“I’m OK.”
Jeannie made cups of tea and gave them two sugars each. “Do you want to tell me what happened, Sean?” she asked, and he shook his head. “No? How did you get down to the river? You were terribly muddy.”
“We went in the car, but I fell over on the path,” he said.
“OK. Did your dad drive you there, then? Or was it your mum?”
“We all went together,” Sean said.
“All of you?”
Sean’s face crumpled. “There was a storm when I woke up, it was very loud, and there were funny noises in the kitchen.”
“What sort of funny noises?”
“Like . . . like a dog makes, when it’s sad.”
“Like a whimper?”
Sean nodded. “But we don’t have a dog because I’m not allowed. Dad says I won’t look after it properly and it’ll be just another thing for him to do.” He sipped his tea and wiped his eyes. “I didn’t want to be by myself because of the storm. So Dad put me in the car.”
“And your mum?”
He frowned. “Well. She was in the river and I had to wait under the trees. I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
“What do you mean, Sean? What do you mean, not supposed to talk about it?”
He shook his head and shrugged, and didn’t say another word.