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‘The sun is very bright, and
hot,
’ responded Grainne instantly, in a toneless voice, ‘Mummy says stay in out of the sun in case I burn.  Fair skin burns easily.  But the beach is so big, and
golden! 
So many people, so much to do.  And swimming!  I like swimming!  I swim and swim until Mummy says I’ll drown myself, says I go too far out.  Father laughs and calls me his little mermaid.  Says if I’m not careful I’ll end up with gills, become a fish.’

Kate listened for some time as Grainne rambled on about a
real holiday she had been on as a child, a happy memory that was clearly preferable to her current reality.  Her tone and expressionless eyes suggested a state of auto-hypnosis, possibly a result of the reversion therapy favoured by her last therapist, a way of rebuilding the adult persona through safe childhood memories, and of making reality seem not just safe but appealing.  In a way it was fascinating but Kate knew that such episodes could only weaken the girl’s already tenuous grip on reality, could only made her eventual healing all the slower and harder now that she had moved on beyond such basic exercises, and was close enough to reality to hold at least fragments of conversation.  So Kate began asking, again and again, ‘Did your mother ever give parties for adults?  Grainne?  Grainne, answer me please.’

At last her words seemed to sink in and Grainne ceased her monologue to reply hesitantly,
in a difficult, slightly slurred voice, ‘Sometimes.  Dinner parties for important guests.  Mummy hates them, hates to be hostess.  Father gets angry because she drinks too much, and sometimes passes out.  I hate them too.’

‘Why?  Why do you hate them?’

Once again Grainne was gone, but Kate guessed not for long.  It seemed that every time she saw her the girl had progressed further, was more in touch with her own past.  And escape from that past seemed to be getting ever more difficult.  But
why? 
If reality, and her memories, were so difficult to face, why were they returning?  What was so important that it was making her return to a world she clearly both hated and feared?  A world she had tried to escape both figuratively and even literally, by trying to take her own life?

Kate shook her head; she couldn’t imagine.  Or rather, she
could imagine too many possible solutions.  Best not to make assumptions.  It was hard not to give way to her natural impatience, but she knew that the only course to pursue was the slow, patient slog of endless questions and careful analysis of the answers, chipping away at the giant block crushing Grainne in the hope of one day wearing it away.

‘Do you go to these parties, Grainne?’

‘Worse than Mummy.  Disgrace, father says.’

Kate thought about
this,
‘What about when you were a little girl?’

‘No.’

‘What about when you were a little older?  Thirteen, fourteen, say?  Did you ever meet the dinner guests then?’

‘No.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Went to the magic field.’

That again.  ‘What for?’

The question seemed to hang in the air for a very long time but at last the girl replied, ‘To play.’

‘To hide?’

No answer.

‘To escape?’

No answer, but a sudden twisting of her features into a grimace of what might have been pain.  Kate thought
briefly
and then said, ‘Did you think your Mummy was wrong to drink
so much?’

‘Wrong. 
Ba
d
!’

‘You loved your Mummy, didn’t you, Grainne?’  A nod.

‘Did you hate her too’?’

A s
ingle tear rolled down Grainne’s golden, velvet cheek and she nodded slowly, ‘Sometimes.’

‘Did Mummy ever hurt you when she was drunk?’

A very slow nod and then the whispered word, ‘
Bad.’

‘
What did Mummy do to you when she was drunk?’

And suddenly she was gone again.  It was almost a physical departure as the eyes suddenly went empty, blank, as Grainne fled for safety once more.  Perhaps back to the magic f
ield of her childhood, which now seemed almost certainly an imaginary refuge in her own mind.  Kate kept trying, kept asking questions, but without receiving any reply.  Without, it seemed, even being heard.  She started again at the beginning, asking innocuous questions about childhood friends and pets, and even about that fondly remembered holiday by the sea, but there was no response.  No flicker even of understanding, much less a reply.

Thoughts about Rome, and how long it took to build, flickered through Kate’s mind but provided no great comfort.  But she had ti
me, and would find whatever amount of patience proved necessary.  As ever these, along with her genuine sympathy for her patient’s suffering, were her only real weapons.  She packed up her stuff and left the room, feeling a deeper insight into Grainne’s plight as she went; this room, and Grainne’s problems, were
her
magic field, and the reluctance she felt to return to her own mess of a life paralleled Grainne’s struggle to face reality.  But reluctant or not she gritted her teeth and walked out to face whatever life might throw at her next.

    Monday mornings were chaotic for Kate at the best of times, as she had a tutorial at both nine and ten, followed by a lecture at eleven.  She rarely greeted the new week with enthusiasm but that Monday was worse than usual as she awoke oppressed by a feeling of doom, a feeling which only intensified as she drove in to work.  As she entered the new wing of the college, via the Nassau Street door, she said a fervent prayer that everyone she knew would have both read and believed the cover story they had fed to the media the previous evening.  She tried to walk casually up to her office, morbidly aware of the eyes following her and fighting the impulse to put her head down and scuttle for cover.

It was the reaction of her students
rather than the faculty that she was worried about.  She pretty much knew how the staff of the Psychology Department would react; either with indifference or with open curiosity and puerile jokes.  Luckily Kate never socialised with any of them even to the extent of sharing a coffee in the Staff Lounge, and so could legitimately avoid them all without feeling like she was running away.  How her students would behave was harder to gauge, and far more important to her; if she lost their respect and they became lax about their work their University careers would suffer.  And this she could not bear the thought of, despite of her growing dislike for teaching.

In the end her agonising, and
largely sleepless night, were all for nothing as her students behaved pretty much as they behaved every Monday morning, with half of them hung over and visibly disinterested, and the other half preternaturally serious and hanging on her every word.  Either they were showing how cool they were by pretending not to care that she was Ireland’s latest scarlet woman, were showing their solidarity with her by behaving normally, or else none of them actually did care.  Once her initial fears faded, and she lost her paranoid certainty that everyone she met was staring at her, the morning passed in a reasonably satisfying blur.  Even so, by twelve o’clock she was only too glad to escape to her own little office for some much needed coffee and some even more welcome solitude.

As a junior lecturer she did not, of course, rate a secretary of her own but rather shared
one with her neighbour in the adjoining office, another junior lecturer in the psychology department called Jeremy Kelly.  Jeremy considered himself something of a wag and Kate had been dreading his heavy-handed attempts at humour, but mercifully he was absent that day.  The secretary they shared, Sally Hanlon, was a very different matter, being not just the soul of discretion but also as good a friend as the rigid social hierarchy of the college allowed.  She presided over the ante-room that led to both offices, and when Kate came in and shut the panelled oak door behind her with a bang, Sally smiled understandingly and got to her feet, saying, ‘That kind of day, huh? Go on inside and I’ll bring in your mail and a coffee.’

No mention of
why
it had been that kind of day, of course, which was exactly what Kate would have expected.  ‘A
pot
of coffee, please, Sally!’ she said gratefully, ‘After three straight hours of dealing with that lot I need more than just one cup.’  She went on through to her inner office and sank into the swivel chair behind her huge old leather-topped desk, reflecting that in fact the morning had not been half as bad as she had feared.

Sally
breezed in almost instantly, a huge steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a sheaf of opened letters in the other, saying cheerfully, ‘Sorry, the pot’s gone missing so this will have to do.  But give me a shout when you’re finished this and I’ll bring you another.  Here’s your mail and messages.’

‘Thanks,
Sal,’ said Kate gratefully, taking the papers with a smile.  Working at Trinity wasn’t all bad, of course, as Sally often inadvertently reminded her; apart from liking the tranquil surroundings of the old buildings she could never have afforded a secretary as efficient as Sally in the outside world, even if she could have found another like her.

Kate flick
ed quickly through her messages; there was one from Trevor, one from her Aunt Josie that she had been dreading, even though she had rung her uncle the night before with the cover story, and one from Sergeant Morrison saying, Ring me ASAP.

‘Er, there’
s one other thing,’ said Sally diffidently.

Kate looked up
in sudden dread, ‘What?’

The secretary took a deep breath and produced a copy of the
Daily News
from her jeans pocket, ‘A follow up to yesterday’s story, I’m afraid.  I know you don’t buy this rag so I nicked this copy from the canteen to show you.’

Kate’s heart sank as she reached for the paper, which was open on page five. 
Well, at least I’m not headline news today,
she thought, trying to feel resigned but in fact feeling only sick.  The article was short and to the point, rehashing the headlines of the day before but adding not just her name and occupation but also the fact that she worked in the Psychology Department at Trinity.  It also rather snidely mentioned that apart from Saturday’s events she and Michael had been involved in ‘another fracas’ outside her Monkstown home the other night, during which the police had been called.

Fracas,
she thought dazedly,
is
that what they call it?  Does anyone but journalists use the word fracas?  The cheap pricks. 
No mention of the burglary, of course, or the prowler; just a few misleading facts and a hint that the official version of events issued by Michael Riordan’s office could be taken with a pinch of salt. 
Just what did Michael do to piss off the editor so much? 
Though whatever it was, it was still pretty low of her to catch Kate in the crossfire just to hurt
him
.

‘Sorry,’ offered
Sally apologetically, concerned by Kate’s frozen expression, ‘but I thought you should know.’

‘Thanks, Sal.  And don’t worry, you did the right thing.  I suppose I should know what p
eople are saying about me, if only so I can defend myself.’  She crumpled up the paper and hurled it towards the waste-paper basket with all the force she could muster, ‘Why won’t these assholes leave me alone?’

Sally gave her a wry smile, ‘Because they’re assholes?’

Kate shook her head in disgust, ‘They’re trying to twist it all into something nasty but there was
nothing. 
It was Michael who rang the police that night, for God’s sake, trying to catch a guy hanging aound outside my flat!  It’s not like we had a drunken punch-up in the street or something.’

Sally raised her
hands to forestall her, ‘You don’t have to explain yourself, Kate, everyone knows what these people are like.  Never mind the facts, stick to the story, eh?’

‘That’s easy to say.  It’s different when you
are
the story,’ said Kate glumly.

‘
I can imagine.  Still, try to forget about it,’ Sally advised briskly, ‘The only people who count are your friends, and they know what you’re really like.  They know this is just cheap rumor-mongering.  It’ll all blow over in no time, you’ll see.’  With that she left the room, leaving Kate to sourly reflect that it was easy to be philosophical about someone else’s name being dragged through the mud.

She took a quick, painful sip of her hot coffee and, feeling a little sorry for herself, returned to her messages.  The one from the policeman interested her most
and she dialled Morrison’s mobile.  When he answered she said, ‘Sergeant?  It’s Kate Bennett here.  I got a message that you wanted to talk to me?’

‘Morning, Kate.  Or rather,
good afternoon, now.  I’m sorry to bother you at work but I’ve got some news about George Meagher that I thought you’d want to hear.’