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“Where I come from, most kids like me don’t have happy memories,” I snap, annoyed by the pity in his eyes. “We aren’t all spoilt little brats who get what they want when they want it…” I leave that hanging between us.
“That’s quite a statement to make, Asia. You grew up on a council estate in Hackney, yes? Are you saying all the kids on your estate had family difficulties, had no happiness whatsoever?”
“Yes, I grew up on a council estate, but you know that already. Don’t pretend you haven’t seen my file and read all about my dirty, fucked up past. And, no, not all the kids I grew up with have shitty lives like mine. But a lot do.A lot.”Too fucking many, I think.
“Care to elaborate?” he persists.
“No, I don’t.” I snatch my gaze away, looking at the table with the beautiful new sketchpad and acrylic pens. “I don’t want to talk about my past or my memories. Happy or fucking otherwise.I don’t want to.”
“Then don’t. Draw them.” Mr Burnside says, pointing to the art equipment on the table. He leans forward, picks up one of the acrylic pens and holds it out towards me. When I don’t take it, he places it back on the table.
“Look, I’m not an idiot. You’re not as fucking sneaky as you think. Why would I give you what you want?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest, glaring at him.
“Because I can help you, Asia.”
“These memories I have. My past pain and happiness aremine. Not yours, not Mr Carmichael’s, my social worker’s, the judge who stuck me here or the kids at this fucking school. They’remineand who I choose to share them with is up to me. I will not be bribed into telling you anything so that you can tick some fucking box and tuck my shit away in another file.”
“So, youdohave some happy memories then?” he asks, ignoring my tirade. “Do those happy memories include your younger brothers?”
That fucking pisses me off. He has no right to bring up Sebastian and George. I clamp my mouth shut and draw my feet up onto my chair, folding my arms around them. Effectively shutting down.
Mr Burnside looks at me for a moment before placing his pad and pencil onto the table between us. He takes a sip of his coffee then lets out a long sigh. “They’re okay you know…”
My head snaps up as I narrow my eyes at him. It’s been weeks since I’ve talked to my brothers or heard how they’re doing. I’ve felt a constant pain in my chest at not knowing how they are. I bet they’ve changed so much already.
“They still think I’m at some boarding school for the magically gifted?” I ask, despite myself.
Mr Burnside smiles. “They’re happy. They’reokay,” he insists. “If you want, I’ll call their foster mother regularly. Give you updates. Would that help?”
I nod, gratefully. “Yes, it would help,” I murmur.
That doesn’t make my heart ache any less though. I miss them. I miss them so damn much. Pressing my forehead against my knees, I will the tears away. I won’t break. Not here. After a long silence, Mr Burnside speaks.
“Nothing good ever comes from holding pain inside, Asia. I can help you if you let me. But I see that your trust is something I must earn before you’re willing to share. So, here’s the thing, I’m going to tell you something that only Mr Carmichael knows about. I might be making a huge mistake, in which case I shall deal with the consequences, but I’m going to share this with you anyway.”
“And I suppose after you’re going to want me to tell you something? Is that it?” I retort, hugging myself harder and wishing he’d just shut the hell up.
“No. After I finish, you’re going to take that sketchpad and those pens and you’re going to leave my office. Because once I tell you this, I’m going to need time to myself.”
I don’t say anything, so Mr Burnside does. He breathes in deeply before letting out a long, steady breath. I notice that his hands are shaking, and he clasps them together in his lap.
“When I was ten years old I was molested by my father’s best friend. He was looking after me for the weekend whilst my parents celebrated their twelve-year anniversary. I didn’t tell my parents. I didn’t tell them because they loved this man as much as they loved me. When they returned and asked me how I’d been, he’d looked at me and said:‘just perfect’. I was‘just perfect’dozens of more times like that over the years. He abused me from the age of ten until I was fourteen. During that time, I fell in love with him. He was a monster, a paedophile, and someone who I never should’ve loved. But he was, by my parents and, eventually, by me. It was twisted and messy and nothing I’d ever wish on another human being. He stopped the abuse when I showed signs of becoming a man. I mourned for his attention as though I would the end of any relationship. It took years of therapy, of love,real loveto understand I had been a victim of abuse. Without that therapy, without allowing myself to be loved in the right way, I would never have survived my past. That is why I became a therapist, to help others. Iwantto help you for no other reason than because I understand what it’s like to be betrayed by the people we love. I understand, Asia.”
The pain in Mr Burnside’s eyes is so unbearable, so real that I can only stare in the face of it with complete and utter horror. He doesn’t say any more to me, he just raises a shaking hand and pushes it through his hair.
“I’m sorry he hurt you…” I mumble, placing my feet on the floor. He nods tightly whilst I look between him and the items on the coffee table. “I won’t share it with anyone else because it’s not my secret to tell.”
“I appreciate that,” he says eventually.
Minutes tick by as we regard each other, until eventually I break the growing silence.
“You were right when you said you needed to earn my trust, but that’s something very rarely given by me,” I say, standing. I look at the items on the table with longing, but my pride refuses to let me take them. “Too many adults have let me down. One story, however sad, isn’t going to change the fact that you could let me down too. How can you guarantee that you’ll be any different? That you won’t let me down like everyone else has?”
Mr Burnside chuckles sadly. “I can give you my word, but I understand for you that isn’t enough.”
“No, it isn’t,” I agree.
“Then somehow, I have to prove it to you that I care. I will earn your trust.”
