The Winter Foundlings Read Online Free

returns to her hands, and winter sunlight seeps through the crack in the door.

4
    Someone had reached my office before me the next morning. The man fiddling with my computer looked like a guitarist from an obscure grunge band forced to dress like an office clerk. Ill-fitting black trousers and a white shirt hung from his gangly frame, dark roots visible in his bleached blond hair, a network of fine scars across one of his cheekbones. He must have been in his late twenties, and his smile was awkward, as though I’d caught him trespassing.
    ‘I’m Chris Steadman from the IT unit. You left me a message.’ His voice was so quiet I could hardly hear him.
    ‘Thanks for coming, I couldn’t get online.’
    ‘That’s because your modem’s defunct.’ He gave the box a gentle shake, loose connections rattling against the casing. ‘I’m afraid most of our kit’s past its sell-by. I’ll bring you a new one.’
    ‘Thanks, that would be great.’
    ‘I heard about your car. Did you get home okay?’
    ‘Eventually. It’ll take me a while to adjust to Charndale, though. Pretty sleepy, isn’t it?’
    His face relaxed into a grin. ‘It’s barely got a pulse. Give me a shout if you get stuck again, I’ll give you a lift.’
    Steadman held my gaze for a beat too long, but it didn’t feel predatory. It reminded me of the way kids size each other up in the playground. The dark smudges below his eyes suggested that he might be a party animal under that shy exterior, spending his weekends falling out of nightclubs. He gave another tentative smile then slipped away, the broken modem cradled in his hand.
    At nine thirty I made my way to the art room on the first floor. At first I thought I’d come to the wrong place, because a burst of Erik Satie’s piano music drifted along the corridor. I checked my information sheet. The name of the art therapist was Pru Fielding, and she was running a session for three long-term inmates. The music grew louder when I approached the open doorway. A woman with a cloud of blonde curls was lifting a piece of clay from a barrel, and laying it carefully on a table. In profile she looked around my own age, a Pre-Raphaelite beauty, with delicate features and an intent frown. She carried on smothering the clay with wet cloths until she finally spotted me and turned around. Shock made me take an extra breath; her disfigurement was so unexpected, it took a beat too long to replace my smile. At first I thought her face had been scarred by deep burns, but a second glance revealed that the discoloration was a dark red birthmark. The stain covered half of her face, extending down her forehead, cheek and neck, as though a can of paint had been flung at her.
    ‘Are you the observer?’ she asked.
    ‘My name’s Alice. Thanks for letting me visit today.’
    ‘I’d shake your hand, but you might regret it.’ She raised a clay-covered hand in greeting. ‘The guys should be here in ten minutes. This music always calms them.’ Her voice was breathless and high-pitched, and I noticed that she used her blonde curls for camouflage, locks of hair shielding her face.
    ‘How long have you worked here, Pru?’
    ‘Two years. I came here after doing an MA in painting at the Slade.’
    ‘That’s a long time in an environment like this.’ Gorski’s comment about women at the Laurels being either flirts or lion tamers came to mind. She seemed too self-contained to fit either category, and I realised that the director’s statement said more about his prejudices than the staff who worked for him.
    ‘I like it here. And weirdly enough, there aren’t many jobs for full-time artists, unless you’re Tracey Emin.’
    A grin illuminated Pru’s face and I caught a glimmer of how attractive she’d be if she found some confidence. Her expression was clouded by the engrained anxiety I saw on the faces of abuse victims and recovering drug addicts. But it fascinated me that as soon as her clients arrived, her persona