The Boy Who Could See Demons Read Online Free PDF Page A

I heard we had a new child psychiatrist in town … well, you can only imagine my relief.’ He smiled, and suddenly I felt afraid of letting him down.
    ‘Be specific, Michael. Please.’
    He leaned forward, elbows dug into his knees, his eyes falling on my legs. With a cough he brought his gaze up to meet mine.
    ‘The thing is, Dr Molokova, I’m an advocate of Signs of Safety.’
    I stared at him.
    ‘You know, the Australian model for child protection …?’
    ‘I know what Signs of Safety is,’ I said flatly. It was in my interests to. Signs of Safety is a type of child protection plan based on working closely with families to build a system of safety and, ultimately, family-centred treatment. Most of its advocates staunchly reject the types of intervention that form the basis of my job.
    Michael seemed agitated. ‘Look, I need you to promise me you won’t separate this family. Trust me, they need each other, not some bureaucratic, by-the-book, form-ticking procedure that lands this boy in care …’
    ‘My only agenda is to find out what treatment the boy needs.’ I said it clear and slow, hoping it would reassure him. If we were to work together on this case, we needed to sing from the same hymn sheet.
    He eyed me with a degree of nervousness, a hint of pleading. This boy meant a lot to him. Not just professionally, either – I saw that Michael had become personally involved in this case. I perceived he had a touch of the hero complex about him – the weathered, tired air was a result of his frustrations. After a long pause he broke into a smile, before pouring himself a mugful of my nettle tea and necking it with a prolonged shudder of disgust.
    I stood up to leave, noting our appointment with Alex was in twenty minutes’ time. Michael shuffled his notes and slid them neatly into his briefcase.
    ‘You look exhausted,’ he said, smiling to show the comment was born out of empathy, not criticism. ‘Shall I drive?’

4
    ‘WHO GAVE YOU THAT SCAR?’
    Anya
    And so we headed off in Michael’s Volvo – which, oddly, bore a strong smell of fertiliser inside – to the paediatric unit of the Belfast City Hospital.
    It was important that my approach was gentle and provided Alex with a high degree of space and assurance. Before leaving MacNeice House I had instructed Michael to contact Alex about where he would like to meet with me, and to confirm that the time was suitable, so that my arrival did not cause anxiety. Alex had not been concerned about either; he simply wanted to know how his mother was doing and when he could see her at the hospital. He had subsequently been promised a visit with her once she had been treated medically.
    Michael entered the room first, after a knuckled rat-a-tat-tat on the door. Children’s interview rooms in psychiatric units are always the same: a corner full of sensory toys and, invariably, a doll’s house. In this case the room had just a doll’s house, a child’s whiteboard on a stand, a tatty blue sofa and a table with two chairs. Over Michael’s shoulder I spotted Alex on a chair behind the table, balancing on its hind legs.
    ‘Hello, Alex,’ Michael said lightly. At the sight of Michael the boy slammed the chair back down on all four legs and shouted, ‘Sorry!’ Michael waved his hand in the air to indicate no harm done. Then he held both hands towards me as if presenting the prize on a quiz show.
    ‘I’d like to introduce you to Dr Molokova,’ he told Alex, who gave a polite smile and a nod in my direction.
    ‘Call me Anya,’ I told Alex, smiling back. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’
    ‘An-ya,’ he repeated. I looked him over briefly. I noticed he had a touch of the street urchin about him: chocolate-brown hair in need of a cut and a good wash; pale, Northern Irish skin; wide denim-blue eyes; a cheeky mushroom nose splattered with fat freckles. More striking was his dress sense: an man’s oversized shirt with brown stripes, buttoned-up wrong; brown tweed