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a thumb in the direction of Miss Roumelia, ‘told me. They weren’t shoved out. They’re all right, Jack. I’m not. Ain’t fair.’ I looked askance at her. It hadn’t helped to fire up his sense of inequality. She tossed her head and stuck out her chin, as if challenging me, and I found myself admiring her spunk. It was a refreshing change in a world of measured words and sycophantic flattery. Even Margaret had been too sugary sweet and polite for me at times.
    ‘It was an administrative error, we haven’t managed to iron out yet – but we will, in time.’ We locked eyes, hers dark and exciting, mine probing. She looked away first, with that blush again.
    I answered for her, and she flicked me a grateful look from under heavy lashes. ‘It seems the mistake was on the authorities’ part, Danny, not your parents. I’m sure they didn’t want any of you shoved out .’
    You put it right then. You’re authorities. Your lot took me away. You put it right.’ His faced crumpled momentarily and I wasn’t sure whether he was about to snarl, or cry.
    ‘I can’t sort that out but I can help sort this out,’ I indicated the case papers, ‘if you’ll help me.’ He went back to his standard response. It was well-rehearsed. I wondered who’d rehearsed it with him. I didn’t think it was the social worker: Miss Roumelia. I savoured the name. Exotic, like a tropical flower.
    ‘Didn’t do it. Wasn’t there.’
    ‘Danny ...’ Miss Roumelia shifted anxiously in her chair, face glowing softly with perspiration in the warmth of the stuffy interview room. The air conditioning should have worked but had either been turned off or never been turned on down here. Plod regarded solicitors and barristers as the scum of the earth unless they were taking the case against, not pleading the case for. Defendants and their representation plainly didn’t warrant the niceties of fresh air and pleasant working conditions. The stark overhead light picked out the sheen of faint downy hairs on the side of her face. Her eyes asked for me for mercy and him for co-operation. I felt sorry for her. I’d always thought being a social worker was a shit job, even from the time I’d had to be regularly monitored by them myself, right up until now, when I was the one observing the results of regulation. We were about to deadlock again, and her suggestion of a week ago brought a dangerous idea to me. The very appearance of it surprised me. I didn’t usually take risks unless carefully calculated. This one had no risk calculations made at all – other than that it could be disastrously bad or spectacularly effective – but for who, I wasn’t sure. I changed tack dramatically.
    ‘Tell me about it then – the day they took you away, and we’ll see what can be done.’ Danny eyed me suspiciously and then glanced over at Miss Roumelia. I wondered inconsequentially what her first name was. It should be something like Jasmine. She stared at me, doe eyes hardening until they bored into me, surprised but unexpectedly comprehending. It occurred to me then to wonder how much more she knew. Margaret might not just have said I would understand. She could have told her why – if she’d worked it out herself by then. The question passed between us and her eyes seemed to apologise. I felt betrayed, and wondered again why the hell Margaret had done it. What had got into her? What was it about this boy that she had wanted to risk our comfortable relationship and my sanity for? Miss Roumelia turned away from me to meet Danny’s frown and nodded encouragingly at him, eyes slipping back over the top of his head as he faced me again.
    ‘Why?’ he demanded. Miss Roumelia’s gaze sought mine, plainly unsure what I was going to say next.
    Perhaps there is a side of us that wants to purge and expunge by regurgitating all our deepest, darkest pain when we least intend to. Perhaps the combination of Margaret’s death and the rejection in the boy’s eyes when