something that happened here in 1985.’
She was looking at me in a way that said she had grave doubts about my grip on reality. ‘I’ll find out,’ she said. ‘It’ll take a few minutes. Can I offer you coffee? Tea?’
I declined and she left me. I walked around the room looking at the pictures. The paintings were all oils, small, signed by the same hand—B.I. or B.L. From a distance they looked like bush campfire scenes. Close up, they had the power to disturb. Something unpleasant seemed to be happening in them, primitive sacrifice or torture, people in poses of prayer and supplication and indistinct flesh-toned objects in the flames. There were six of them, not markedly different, not hung in any order I could detect.
Marcia Carrier was in most of the photographs, family scenes with another dark-haired girl and a couple who might have been their grandparents. The man was stern-looking, handsome, hair intact, cleft chin. The woman was overweight, dowdy. I went back to looking at the paintings.
‘Painted by my father,’ Marcia Carrier said. ‘Just a weekend painter.’
‘Very dramatic weekend painter,’ I said.
She laughed again. ‘I must say I don’t quite understand them. Now. There was no-one absent without permission from here in late 1985. In fact, no-one strayed in 1985. Two girls took unofficial leave in 1986, both returned to us within a fortnight. Is that helpful?’
I said, ‘Thanks. I won’t waste any more of your time.’ ‘Coffee’s on its way,’ she said. ‘I insist.’
I sat down. The secretary came in with a tray holding a silver coffee jug, big French coffee cups, warm milk, shortbread. Marcia Carrier poured.
‘What sort of work do you do, Mr Faraday?’
‘I’m a blacksmith, metalworker.’
‘Really? I’ve never met a blacksmith. How do you become one?’
‘Years of training under a master craftsman. Intensive study of the properties of metals. Also, you have to be able to hit hot things with a really heavy hammer. How do you get to run a place like this?’
Her serious look did not leave her. ‘Well, you have to be a public-spirited person, utterly selfless, with an abiding faith in the essential goodness of human beings. You also need a deep understanding of psychology. Then you have to be a superb administrator who thinks nothing of working long and unpredictable hours.’
‘So,’ I said, ‘basically anyone can apply.’
She had an engaging laugh. ‘Your inmates…’ I said.
‘Clients.’
‘Clients. How do they get here?’
She was serious now. ‘The courts send us all sorts of girls—rich kids, poor kids, kids you can help, kids you can’t. They’ve all got one thing in common. No-one wants them except for the worst reasons. They’ve usually landed up on the street and someone, sometimes a number of people, is pushing them towards drugs and prostitution. If no-one intervenes, most of them won’t see twenty. If the department can convince a court that a girl’s in significant danger, she might get sent here.’
‘Then what happens?’
‘We try our best to help them. You have to understand, some of these girls have had no childhood. Shunted around, never felt wanted, sex at an early age, often raped. They’re fifteen going on forty. Our aim is to convince them that their lives have worth and that they can live worthwhile lives.’
I had the feeling she’d said all this before. Many times. ‘Doesn’t sound easy ,’ I said.
‘No.’ She looked out of the window. ‘Mostly we’re too late. And for some girls I sometimes think it’s always too late.’
I didn’t say anything.
She turned her eyes on me. ‘Do you believe in evil, Mr Faraday?’
I thought about this for a while. It wasn’t the kind of question people often asked me. Finally I said, ‘I don’t doubt that some people are evil. I’m not sure there’s an evil that’s
She was looking at me in a way that said she had grave doubts about my grip on reality. ‘I’ll find out,’ she said. ‘It’ll take a few minutes. Can I offer you coffee? Tea?’
I declined and she left me. I walked around the room looking at the pictures. The paintings were all oils, small, signed by the same hand—B.I. or B.L. From a distance they looked like bush campfire scenes. Close up, they had the power to disturb. Something unpleasant seemed to be happening in them, primitive sacrifice or torture, people in poses of prayer and supplication and indistinct flesh-toned objects in the flames. There were six of them, not markedly different, not hung in any order I could detect.
Marcia Carrier was in most of the photographs, family scenes with another dark-haired girl and a couple who might have been their grandparents. The man was stern-looking, handsome, hair intact, cleft chin. The woman was overweight, dowdy. I went back to looking at the paintings.
‘Painted by my father,’ Marcia Carrier said. ‘Just a weekend painter.’
‘Very dramatic weekend painter,’ I said.
She laughed again. ‘I must say I don’t quite understand them. Now. There was no-one absent without permission from here in late 1985. In fact, no-one strayed in 1985. Two girls took unofficial leave in 1986, both returned to us within a fortnight. Is that helpful?’
I said, ‘Thanks. I won’t waste any more of your time.’ ‘Coffee’s on its way,’ she said. ‘I insist.’
I sat down. The secretary came in with a tray holding a silver coffee jug, big French coffee cups, warm milk, shortbread. Marcia Carrier poured.
‘What sort of work do you do, Mr Faraday?’
‘I’m a blacksmith, metalworker.’
‘Really? I’ve never met a blacksmith. How do you become one?’
‘Years of training under a master craftsman. Intensive study of the properties of metals. Also, you have to be able to hit hot things with a really heavy hammer. How do you get to run a place like this?’
Her serious look did not leave her. ‘Well, you have to be a public-spirited person, utterly selfless, with an abiding faith in the essential goodness of human beings. You also need a deep understanding of psychology. Then you have to be a superb administrator who thinks nothing of working long and unpredictable hours.’
‘So,’ I said, ‘basically anyone can apply.’
She had an engaging laugh. ‘Your inmates…’ I said.
‘Clients.’
‘Clients. How do they get here?’
She was serious now. ‘The courts send us all sorts of girls—rich kids, poor kids, kids you can help, kids you can’t. They’ve all got one thing in common. No-one wants them except for the worst reasons. They’ve usually landed up on the street and someone, sometimes a number of people, is pushing them towards drugs and prostitution. If no-one intervenes, most of them won’t see twenty. If the department can convince a court that a girl’s in significant danger, she might get sent here.’
‘Then what happens?’
‘We try our best to help them. You have to understand, some of these girls have had no childhood. Shunted around, never felt wanted, sex at an early age, often raped. They’re fifteen going on forty. Our aim is to convince them that their lives have worth and that they can live worthwhile lives.’
I had the feeling she’d said all this before. Many times. ‘Doesn’t sound easy ,’ I said.
‘No.’ She looked out of the window. ‘Mostly we’re too late. And for some girls I sometimes think it’s always too late.’
I didn’t say anything.
She turned her eyes on me. ‘Do you believe in evil, Mr Faraday?’
I thought about this for a while. It wasn’t the kind of question people often asked me. Finally I said, ‘I don’t doubt that some people are evil. I’m not sure there’s an evil that’s
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