Finding Lucy: A suspenseful and moving novel that you won't be able to put down. Diana Finley

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       Chapter Ten

      I do not regard myself as an intolerant person, nor am I politically minded. I have nothing against poor people; decent, caring, hard-working poor people. No doubt some of them make admirable parents. But equally, there is no doubt that certain types of people do not deserve the privilege of having children. Perhaps some do not even realise that it is a privilege.

      Lucy’s parents – Gary and Shelley Watts – spring instantly to mind. Social workers may have had the audacity to decree that I was unworthy of parenting a young child – but no end of feckless individuals, like the Watts, appear to have the right to bring children into the world willy-nilly, with no mention of the responsibilities that go hand in hand with those rights – and without a thought or care for the well-being of the children. Of course, I don’t go so far as to advocate sterilisation, but the balance of rights appears all one-sided to me.

      Yet, however much they might have brought the situation upon themselves, I couldn’t help feeling a few transitory moments of pity for Gary and “Shell”. I had ultimately submitted to buying a television set, much as I disapproved of them. Perhaps in the future, Lucy would enjoy some educational programmes, I reasoned. Meanwhile, I felt, it was important for me to keep up with news of the police search, and with their dealings with Lucy’s birth parents.

      The usual “television appeal” (media circus, you could call it!) did Gary and “Shell” no favours. To be sure, they were not a photogenic pair. Gary, with his shifty, rat-like features, lumpy shaved head and extensive tattoos, looked the epitome of a vicious criminal rather than a responsible, loving father. Most people would hardly trust him to wash their windows, let alone entrust a small child to his care. Indeed, the Daily Mail reported that according to their information, Gary Watts had served a prison sentence for burglary in the past.

      The image projected by Shelley Watts was no more appealing. Her pudding-like face was red and blotchy. Her shapeless body appeared entirely boneless; enormous breasts like vast jellyfish, swelling and spilling over the table in a repulsive way, as she leaned towards the camera. An unfortunate habit of regularly swiping her eyes and nose with her sleeve elicited disgust rather than sympathy. I shuddered. How had such an unprepossessing pair produced an exquisite child like Lucy? It was a mystery.

      ‘Please, please …’ Shelley sobbed and spluttered on the screen, ‘please don’ ’urt her. Please don’ ’urt me Stace!’ (The name was bad enough without the shortening.) She sat up straight and stared directly into the camera.

      ‘Stacy baby, we love ya, we miss ya. Please, please, we jus’ want ’er home …’ She dissolved into gulps and wails, her great, hunched shoulders shaking. The police inspector supervising the case – Detective Inspector Lawrence Dempster – was a rather handsome man in his early forties, about my age in fact, I noticed. He was tall, his temples reassuringly streaked with silver. His manner projected intelligence and authority. He patted Shelley’s lumpen back and handed her a bunch of paper tissues. Gary, the father, then had his turn at inarticulate pleading.

      ‘Was the little girl playing outside on her own, Gary?’ shouted one of the gathered journalists.

      ‘We ’ardly let ’er outa our sight,’ mumbled Gary. ‘We was in the back room – so we could check ’er all the time, like. ’Er brothers and sisters keep a watch on ’er.’ (This was rich, I thought, remembering how Lucy had been playing entirely alone outside – a two-year-old child!) ‘Yeah, they miss ’er something rotten – Ashley, Sean, Kelly and Ryan – they want ’er back an’ all. We all do. She was just playin’ out the back, СКАЧАТЬ