"The truth is rarely pure, and never simple."

- Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

ZÜRICH, SWITZERLAND

DECEMBER 2002

IT IS NEVER, ever too late to be happy. It is never too late to do the right thing, or to make a better choice.

But it was too late for Will.

It was a good day, to begin with. In fact, it was the best in many months. It was his first Christmas in Switzerland, and he had to finish his bath before breakfast, or he wouldn’t be allowed to go to the party that evening. And since he hadn’t eaten dinner the night before, his stomach was rumbling. He felt whispery and faint, as if he weren’t standing, but lying on his back, floating on a distant ocean. As he stood there, melting away in the steaming water, he could hear the crashing of waves breaking upon the shore, and the cries of seagulls sailing over his head. He could almost feel the warmth of the summer sun and smell the salt of the sea.

And then he opened his eyes.

Will clutched the flannel tighter. A tear trickled down his cheek, falling like the gentle rain from Heaven. It rippled over the surface of the water below, one drop disappearing in a sea of thousands. Though, it wasn’t from sadness, but pain. He could feel his skin peeling away in the scalding water. He was standing, rather than sitting, because he wanted as little contact as possible. However, this meant that he had chosen to sacrifice his legs to the punishing heat.

He sighed and lowered himself once more into the water, but it was too late, for his father had already caught him out of it. The door slammed behind him, and before he knew it, Will was being struck sharply across the face. Already precariously balanced, he toppled off the edge of the bathtub and onto the floor, slapping against it like a fish thrown onto the deck of a boat.

There was no time for pain, or for any kind of feeling at all. He quickly regained his feet, daring not to look in those cold, empty eyes. He pulled a towel off the rack and wrapped it around himself, soaking in the muted warmth. Another blow bashed his head off the countertop, and the fragile skin broke open, blood weeping down his temple. He flicked his tongue over his lips, shivering at the coppery, tannic taste.

His father seemed quite pleased by this, but no less hostile. Thankfully, his attention was caught by the sound of shouting from downstairs, and he hurried out of the bathroom, tripping over the burgundy runner. Will chuckled, breathing in a sigh of relief. Henry could beat him within an inch of his life, but never take his will to survive.

So, he peeled himself up off the floor and finished his bath, scrubbing until his skin was red and glowing. For his obedience, he was granted the picked-over remains from the breakfast table. That morning, it was coconut and almond scones, with a glass of ice-cold milk. He ate quickly and gratefully, indifferent to the dryness of the scones and the crunch of the coconut, choking them down before his father could change his mind.

Five minutes later, he was being strapped into the back seat of the car. He wasn’t supposed to be driving without a safety seat, and was so small that he almost disappeared into the leather upholstery. Because he had finished his breakfast with not a moment to spare, he had to be driven to his uncle’s house. Every other day, he had walked, arriving just as the table was cleared and the plates brought back to the kitchen. Instead, he broke into the larder and stole as much as he could carry, or clutched at the housekeeper’s apron and begged her for something—anything—to eat.

Before the car came to a complete stop, Will and his siblings had opened the doors, dashing up the steps of the house on Rämistrasse—that towering stone building, with a bell tower and a gallery above the entrance, from which the Swiss, French, and British flags fluttered.

Henry shouted after them, but only Will turned back. He had forgotten the food for the holiday cocktail party. It had been the same for six years, and as long as Will had been alive: bread sauce and Christmas pudding with brandy butter. All English classics, which would’ve been sorely missed if it weren’t for Henry, whose children stolidly refused to try the rockfish and raclette, eating only what they had known all their lives.

Will gazed up into his father’s bleary red eyes. He had been wearing the same clothes since they stepped off the flight from London five days ago: a dark suit, crummy tie, and the ragged shoes his poor Irish grandfather had worn on his wedding day. His gleaming red hair was manky and sticking up in all directions. His cheeks were sunken in, and around his eyes were rings of the deepest, darkest black Will had ever seen. He held the stub of a cigarette between his trembling fingers, lifting it to his mouth and looking for all the world as though he’d just crawled up out of the grave.

He rolled down the window and blew out a cloud of smoke, then the car pulled away. Will was left alone, a little boy standing by himself on a crowded city street. He was battered about by the people passing by on their way to the bus and train, always late or in a hurry for one thing or another. No one stopped to ask him where his parents were, or why he was standing there, holding a pudding that weighed half as much as he did.

When he turned around, his cousin was waiting at the door. Marco sank to his knees, despite the snow on the step, and cupped Will’s face in his hands. He knew that he was young, and it was quite early in life to be learning new languages, so he spoke in English:

“Oh, Will. What happened to your head?”

“I tripped,” he lied, without hesitation.

Marco smiled sweetly at him, smoothing a hand over his hair. He pulled a small book from his pocket and flipped through the pages, to the most recent. He pointed to a neat black line, and although Will couldn’t read yet, he knew every word.

“You said that last time.”

His heart leapt to his throat. He quickly amended his story, looking up at Marco with pleading eyes, hoping he would not push any further. “I slipped on the ice. It was an accident,” he insisted. His voice was strangled, and scarcely above a whisper.

But Will was young and naïve, and Marco knew better than to swallow whole every tale he was told. One look into those piercing blue eyes, and Will broke open, confessing to the sins of his father, although a part of him had hoped to defend him—that cruel, ignorant, self-centred man, who did not deserve the unconditional love of a child.

Marco took his hand and led him into the house, where he was passed on to his uncle. Bypassing their typical greetings and pleasantries, he was brought to the bathroom and asked to remove his shirt. He obeyed without question, because they had done this once before, at the wedding of a Swiss minister, when he had come with a battered face. When the bride saw him, she had taken him gently by the hand and escorted him to the Malakoffs, who were the guests of honour, seated around their table at the head of the room. They had gasped in unison, and before he knew it, Will was being swept off his feet, carried to the gentlemen’s toilets, and asked to strip off his suit. He didn’t know yet that he was supposed to be afraid of a stranger who asked him to take off his clothes, so he did, revealing the bloody, swollen slashes and horrific bruising that covered every inch of his skin.

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Will had been made to wear his clothes until they hung in tatters off his body. His jumper was coming apart at the seams, his shoes so thin that they ripped like paper. He had been wearing them for two years, and they still fit not for how large they had been to begin with, but because he hadn’t grown an inch since then. Will was uncommonly small—a six-year-old who stood head and shoulders below most children his age.

He was deathly still as fingertips pressed against the scrapes and contusions that marred his otherwise flawless skin. He counted the scars and scabbed-over cuts on Will’s forearms, looking for any he might’ve missed. He gently pressed his thumb down on the boy’s lower lip, peering in at his teeth, which were grated down to nubs. He ground them in his sleep, and every waking moment, when he had a tangible reason to be anxious. There was no light in the unending darkness; no break or pause in the dream that his life could be different from the Hell he was living. That is why his uncle paused at a heavily-infected scar on the inside of his left wrist.

“Oh, Will,” he choked, staring disbelievingly down at the wound. “How could you do this to yourself?”

He began to shake. The older man must’ve seen the fear in his eyes, for he released his arm and gathered him close. Will didn’t want to be released back into that world of heartbreak and misery; darkness and death. He wanted to stay there forever, in his uncle’s arms, where he was safe. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the man’s shoulder. For a moment, the world fell away, and it was only the two of them, kneeling on the floor, holding onto each other like their last dying breath. Will prayed he would fall asleep before he fell apart.

But the moment slipped away, as it always does. His uncle stood up, walking out into the bright winter sunlight, which streamed through every open window. He closed the door behind him, and Will hurried to put his clothes back on. When the door opened, he ran into his grandmother’s arms. Before her, he hadn’t known it was possible to love without expecting anything in return. But he was grateful for it, because he had nothing left to give.

She gently touched the scar on his wrist. She placed a hand beneath his chin and lifted his head. Will was afraid to look her in the eyes, for what he would find inside them. He flattened his lips and didn’t say a word about what had happened to him. At the wedding, she had confronted his father to ask about the bruises. At the time, she had no idea what happened behind closed doors, but now that she did, those answers brought only torment. Back then, she had only known that Will was troubled; that he stole food and played too rough with his cousins. But when he sat down to dinner the next night, she had seen the results of the beating that had ensued the second he looked into his father’s eyes, and hadn’t confronted him again.

“I’ve had enough of this,” she barked.

Will almost leapt out of his skin at the sound. He’d heard his grandmother raise her voice only once before, and had hoped never to hear it again. He began to cry, burying his face in her skirt, pleading her not to say a word to his father. She told him she wouldn’t, but was careful not to promise. She ruffled a hand through his hair before sending him out to play with his cousins. It was too late for him to open an early present with them, so he shrugged his coat back on and hurried out into the cold, slipping on the ice. When he caught up with them, they were building a snowman along the frigid banks of Lake Zürich. He hesitated, afraid of what they would say. They didn’t know the truth, because it was too painful to put into words.

He collapsed backward into the snow, knees pulled tight to his chest. He sat there for a moment, settling into that old, familiar darkness as he gained the briefest glimpse of the world he had been denied. Then he dragged himself to his feet and brushed the snow from his coat. But before he could go trudging back to the house, Marco appeared along the treeline, flushed and breathless, waving at him. He leapt over the edge and slid down from the top of the hill, laughing. He held Will’s hand as he tottled along at his side, then lifted him up and carried him the rest of the way. Will buried his face in the collar of his coat, smiling to himself.

They walked into the study, and Will looked up, momentarily blinded by the glittering firelight. Marco lowered down into an armchair beside the hearth, still holding him tightly to his chest. Sitting before them was their extended family, who had come to Zürich to spend the holidays with the Malakoffs. They were accompanied by a police officer. Will went abruptly cold at the sight of her, even in his heavy winter coat. He didn’t know whether to scramble down out of Marco’s arms or wait for the sky to fall, the way it always did in a moment like this. He hid his face in Marco’s shirt, and around him, their frowns lifted into sombre smiles. He had no idea that they were about to risk life, liberty, and reputation to save him. If they had only known how he would one day repay their kindness, perhaps they would’ve chosen differently, but no one can predict the future, although many of us wish we could.

As the policewoman explained the purpose of her visit, Will felt himself shrinking back into Marco’s chest, as nearly to become a part of him. She asked if his father had ever hit him, and Will only shook his head. No was one was ever supposed to know, and he would push away every chance at happiness if it kept what happened in the dark from coming to light. But there is nothing on earth that can stop the sun from rising.

A soft voice asked him to look up. It was his grandmother, gently peeling him away from Marco. She told him it was going to be alright, and he was safe. She sat back down in her chair, holding him on her lap. Will drew in a deep breath, holding tightly onto the neck of her dress before reluctantly telling them about his father. He cried as he told them how he was punished for being a child, with all a child’s thoughts and desires. He wished they would leave, and Marco would hold him until he fell asleep, because he had reached his threshold, and was one wrong move from falling apart. He felt hot and feverish, as though he were melting and spilling down onto the rug.

They dismissed him to sit in the hallway, while the adults spoke amongst themselves. As Will reached up to open the door, they nodded in approval. He did as he was told and sat down on the chair outside, biting the sleeve of his coat as he waited, staring at the closed door and wondering what they were saying within. It seemed ages before he was called back into the study.

He climbed up into the chair beside Marco. The housekeeper came in with a tray of tea and cakes. Will devoured them, hardly tasting the thick buttercream that coated his tongue. His uncle poured him a cup of tea, stirred in a pinch of sugar, and handed it to him, warning him not to drink it too quickly, because it was hot, and he would burn his mouth. Will had no idea what was happening, or why they all looked so sad.

The officer asked for his address and telephone number, copying them down in her notebook. Will looked up at Marco and felt ballast settling in the pit of his stomach. He held a hand to his mouth, as his breakfast threatened to make a reappearance. The officer closed her book. Marco helped him down, and suddenly he was standing on his own two feet again. He felt his body moving through the air as he followed the lady to the door, on quivering legs. When it opened, he stopped dead in his tracks, for his cousins were gathered outside, waiting.

Will turned down the hall, following his uncle, who held his hand tighter than ever before. His grandparents were holding Marco, who was crying so hard he couldn’t breathe. He fell to his knees on the carpet, throwing his arms around the little boy standing before him.

“Be good, Will,” he begged.

“Yes, Marco.”

His cousins stood in a straight line running along the length of the hall, silent. They waved goodbye to him as he was handed off to the police officer, and they walked together to the door. Now he knew he was going to prison, but didn’t fight back. They stepped outside, into the biting cold. The neighbour’s children were laughing and throwing themselves into the snow. As he clambered into the car, and it peeled away from the curb, Will looked back over the seat at their shadows, until they disappeared over the horizon. Before he left, Marco had promised to tell everyone the truth—the real truth.

They arrived at the police station on Limmatquai. He had expected his father to be there, waiting for him, and had to be pulled out of the car and up the steps. He wouldn’t surrender that easily.

The officer led him into a large office that smelled of coffee and freshly-printed paper. Will watched her closely, nibbling at the cake he had hidden in his pocket, savouring it, for he didn’t know when or if he would be eating again.

She asked for his number a second time, and he came up to stand beside her as she put it into the telephone. Will watched the black dial turn, straining to hear the voice on the other end. His father answered almost immediately. The police officer waved him away and said: “Mr. Claridge, this is Officer Gallatin, from the Zürich kantonspolizei. Your son, William, will not be returning to England with you. From now on, he will be in the custody of the Malakoff family, and the protection of the Swiss Confederation. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to call.” She put down the receiver and smiled, but the still, cold brown of her eyes betrayed that she had been as nervous as him to make the call.

Then they were driving away, back toward the house on Rämistrasse, and she turned back to him. “Congratulations, Will. It’s over.”

“It is?” he whispered.

“Yes. Your father will never hurt you again.”

Will leaned back against the seat, looking out the window, at Lake Zürich. A glittering reflection of the waves blinded him again, and he turned away, a tear streaming down his cheek. It was over.

He was free.