The Murder of Graham Catton

‘Yeah.’ She doesn’t elaborate, and a silence falls. Already, I know this will bother me for the rest of the day. It’s almost certainly nothing, but it feels like a slip: evidence of a mistake I’ve made, some vital piece of personal information I’ve handed over without thinking.

It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. But I promised myself I’d be better. I promised I wouldn’t let it happen again.

I reach for my notebook and pen, and change the subject. ‘How’s your mum?’

She rolls her neck around, the bones a sharp ‘V’ in the centre. I feel my own throat tighten in response. When she looks back at me, her expression has cooled. I’m not the only one, it turns out, who can pull up the barriers. ‘She’s fine. I mean, given her only daughter’s mental, she’s doing OK.’

‘You’re not “mental”, Amy. You know that. You have an illness. That’s all.’

‘That’s not how she sees it.’

I say nothing for a moment. I wait for her to go on. But she doesn’t.

‘Do you think it’d be helpful to share some of these feelings with her in our next review?’ I say, finally. She looks at me doubtfully, as though she’s waiting for the punchline to the joke. ‘If we can open up the lines of communication a little, you might find she’s able to take a step back. It’s possible that she’s just saying all these things because she just doesn’t know what else to do. She might just be trying to express her concern.’

‘Concern, yeah. She’s expressing plenty of that. But trust me, it’s not about my health.’ She looks down at her hands, the bitten-down nails bluish underneath. ‘I’ll talk to her, if that’s what you want. But I don’t think it’s going to help.’

With her face covered by her hair, for a moment she’s the echo of Evie: the same unbrushed tangle of curls, the same angular pose. It makes something ache in me. An instinct for protection.

‘She loves you, Amy. She’s your mum.’

Don’t be so hard on her, I want to say. But I don’t.

She looks up. For a split second, I think I’ve managed to get through.

And then it’s gone.

‘Are we done?’ she says flatly.

‘Amy—’

‘Can I go now? Please?’

I sigh. ‘If you want to.’

She stands and leaves. The door slams, heavily, behind.