The Casual Vacancy by J. K. Rowling Page B

since she saw you last week, all right?
    “So, let’s see: Robbie is in nursery now, isn’t he? Four mornings a week and two afternoons?”
    Kay’s voice seemed to reach Terri only distantly. It was like talking to somebody sitting at the bottom of a well.
    “Yeah,” she said, after a pause.
    “How’s that going? Is he enjoying it?”
    Robbie crammed the matchbox car into the cereal box. He picked up one of the cigarette butts that had fallen off Kay’s trousers, and squashed it on top of the car and the purple Buddha.
    “Yeah,” said Terri drowsily.
    But Kay was poring over the last of the untidy notes Mattie had left before she had been signed off.
    “Shouldn’t he be there today, Terri? Isn’t Tuesday one of the days he goes?”
    Terri seemed to be fighting a desire to sleep. Once or twice her head rocked a little on her shoulders. Finally she said, “Krystal was s’posed to drop him and she never.”
    “Krystal is your daughter, isn’t she? How old is she?”
    “Fourteen,” said Terri dreamily, “’n’a half.”
    Kay could see from her notes that Krystal was sixteen. There was a long pause.
    Two chipped mugs stood at the foot of Terri’s armchair. The dirty liquid in one of them had a bloody look. Terri’s arms were folded across her flat breast.
    “I had him dressed,” said Terri, dragging the words from deep in her consciousness.
    “Sorry, Terri, but I’ve got to ask,” said Kay. “Have you used this morning?”
    Terri passed a bird’s-claw hand over her mouth.
    “Nah.”
    “Wantashit,” said Robbie, and he scurried toward the door.
    “Does he need help?” Kay asked, as Robbie vanished from sight, and they heard him scampering upstairs.
    “Nah, ’e can doot alone,” slurred Terri. She propped her drooping head on her fist, her elbow on the armchair. Robbie let out a shout from the landing.
    “Door! Door!”
    They heard him thumping wood. Terri did not move.
    “Shall I help him?” Kay suggested.
    “Yeah,” said Terri.
    Kay climbed the stairs and operated the stiff handle on the door for Robbie. The room smelled rank. The bath was gray, with successive brown tidemarks around it, and the toilet had not been flushed. Kay did this before allowing Robbie to scramble onto the seat. He screwed up his face and strained loudly, indifferent to her presence. There was a loud splash, and a noisome new note was added to the already putrid air. He got down and pulled up his bulging nappy without wiping; Kay made him come back, and tried to persuade him to do it for himself, but the action seemed quite foreign to him. In the end she did it for him. His bottom was sore: crusty, red and irritated. The nappy stank of ammonia. She tried to remove it, but he yelped, lashed out at her, then pulled away, scampering back down to the sitting room with his nappy sagging. Kay wanted to wash her hands, but there was no soap. Trying not to inhale, she closed the bathroom door behind her.
    She glanced into the bedrooms before returning downstairs. The contents of all three spilled out onto the cluttered landing. They were all sleeping on mattresses. Robbie seemed to be sharing a room with his mother. A couple of toys lay among the dirty clothes strewn all over the floor: cheap, plastic and too young for him. To Kay’s surprise, the duvet and pillows both had covers on them.
    Back in the sitting room, Robbie was whining again, banging his fist against the stack of cardboard boxes. Terri was watching from beneath half-closed eyelids. Kay brushed off the seat of her chair before sitting back down.
    “Terri, you’re on the methadone program at the Bellchapel Clinic, isn’t that right?”
    “Mm,” said Terri drowsily.
    “And how’s that going, Terri?”
    Pen poised, Kay waited, pretending that the answer was not sitting in front of her.
    “Are you still going to the clinic, Terri?”
    “Las’ week. Friday, I goes.”
    Robbie pounded the boxes with his fists.
    “Can you tell me how much methadone