Free Prey to All by Natasha Cooper Page A

fair, Trish.’
    ‘Think about the child, for God’s sake. He’s been brought up by the junkie since birth, and it says here that no one can trace the mother; he was a child of the family. He belonged. And now he may end up in care just because the grandparents … Oh, people do make me angry.’
    ‘I know they do.’ George put down his paper and cradled the big white cup of coffee in both hands.
    His strong, hairy legs were planted square on the stone flags about a foot apart, the dressing gown just covering his knees. He looked what he was: a clever, well-off man in his mid-forties, certain of his place in the world and his opinions, not trying to be young or glamorous. To her he was infinitely more attractive than a smoothie like Malcolm Chaze.
    George must have seen the change in her, for his voice was lighter as he said, ‘The junkie was in his late forties, wasn’t he?’
    She nodded.
    ‘Then his parents must be getting on, in their sixties at least, probably seventies. They must have been to hell and back already with a heroin addict for a son.’
    Trish scowled, in spite of herself, and drank some more
coffee. The fact that you could be besotted with someone didn’t stop you feeling furious with some of their views.
    ‘Trish, be reasonable,’ he said again. ‘A drug-addicted child is a torment to any parent. I had some clients once who had to take out an injunction to keep their own twenty-six-year-old daughter away from the house.’
    ‘But that’s …’
    ‘No.’ George was firm. He knew where she was coming from, and he wasn’t afraid of disagreeing with her. ‘It wasn’t outrageous.’
    Trish shrugged.
    ‘The girl had been an addict for eight years by then. She’d been on the streets; she’d had gonorrhoea. She was sharing a flat with a low-life for whom she went out thieving. She’d had pretty much everything portable from her parents’ house. And this was a girl with a good brain, a good education, a supportive family, and no problems with her parents until she got hooked. They did every single thing they could, paid for cure after cure in all the best places. Nothing worked. She was back on drugs within weeks each time.’
    ‘And now?’
    George shook his head. A flutter of pink petals from the climbing rose above his head floated down and settled on his hair. Feeling something, he put up his hand to brush them off, looking like a bridegroom embarrassed by confetti. ‘I don’t know. She’s probably dead. They never speak of her. But they’re still suffering. They always will. Parents do, you know, Trish. It’s not only the children who are made unhappy in families.’
    ‘I know, George.’ Trish got up and went to pick the last few pink petals out of his hair. He put his coffee cup on the ground again and put both arms around her waist. She kissed the top of his head. ‘Even so, I do think it’s an outrage that these particular parents aren’t taking the child in. Whatever
he’s like, whatever he’s seen, he’d be reclaimable with proper care.’
    George hugged her more tightly. ‘You know, I love the way you refuse to back down, but this passion on behalf of stray babies is a bit worrying. Are you about to go broody on me?’
    She was surprised he’d noticed and put both hands on his head to tip it up so that she could see his face properly. His eyes were softer than usual.
    ‘I’m not sure,’ she said honestly. ‘I do keep thinking about it, but it would …’
    ‘Change the way we live?’
    ‘Mmm.’
    ‘No more hanging about with the papers at midday on Saturdays? It would mean charging off to football and ballet.’
    ‘And all sorts of other things. Hormone upheavals that might send my brain into outer space and stop me being who I am. I might never get myself back. And we’d have disagreements – quarrels even – about upbringing. You know we would.’
    ‘And school fees,’ he said, ‘and exam nerves. And worrying that they’re out late and might be