by R. G. Adams
It was only when she pulled the elastic bands off the bundle and picked up the first file that she realised the enormity of what she was doing. She didn’t even know what she was looking for. And she was risking her job, maybe even her registration. Even though it was her brother’s file, and he was dead, she shouldn’t be reading it. Not to mention the means she had used to get at it. But, she told herself, she needed to know what had gone on. She went back over all the reasoning she had put together the night before. If Danny had asked for help and hadn’t got it, then perhaps social services had been at fault, whatever the official inquiry report had said about his suicide. And if there was anything on the files to suggest that social services hadn’t removed Kit and the boys from Christine early enough, leaving Tyler to run wild, exposing him to all sorts of risks, he might have a case for compensation. Winter might be dead, but maybe there could still be some justice for Danny and Tyler.
Pushing aside the thought that she was using her position to get information against her own employer, Kit shuffled the files and found the one that related to the right dates. She decided to start from the beginning and work through the file from the first referral. She was reluctant to read it – it had been bad enough living through it – but it was the only way to be sure she wouldn’t miss anything. She opened the cover, found the case-recording section and began to skim read.
It was hard work. Some of the handwriting was almost illegible. And painful, too, to see her childhood described by others. After a few pages, the descriptions became repetitive, just like their lives had been for all those years. Christine drunk. All five of them removed to foster care, in two or three or more different placements. Then, a while later, Christine reappearing, sobered up and lawyered up, demanding her babies back. A few months of her keeping it together, the cases hastily closed with tangible relief on the part of the unfortunate social worker. Then another referral and the cycle starting again. Different social workers, some moving on to easier jobs, some simply having done their turn with the intimidating nightmare that was Christine Goddard, gratefully passing the case on to another member of staff.
There were things Kit remembered vividly. One social worker, when Kit and Tyler had been eight, had commented on how Kit looked after Tyler, making his packed lunches for school, and slept on the floor next to his bed in case he had nightmares. And an incident a couple of years later, when Tyler had fallen out of a tree in the park and broken his collarbone. Christine had refused to take him to A & E, until Danny had lost it and threatened her with a broken bottle. She’d reported him to social services for that, and Kit could see now how instead of questioning her about the injury, they were only interested in Danny having anger problems. Of course, that would have been the path of least resistance, but it made her furious to see where the labelling of Danny had begun. No one had asked why he was so angry.
A lot was said about the coming and going of men at the Goddard house, the suspicion of prostitution. Suspicion on the part of social workers, that is. Absolute certainty on the part of the kids. But they’d kept it to themselves, not knowing what it actually was at first, but knowing that the coming and going was good, because it meant food in the cupboards and, sometimes, new clothes, or even a trip to the dilapidated funfair on the pier if Christine was in a particularly good mood.
Most of this she had expected. But none of it helped her at all. Nothing much about Danny; plenty that was inaccurate. The recording even described Jazz going missing for three nights, when Kit remembered clearly that it had been thirteen-year-old Josie who had gone, after Christine had slapped her face having caught her trying her hand at generating her own money for the slots. The better things were missing altogether. No one had asked the kids whether there were any good times, of course. The days when the five of them had some cash and could go to the bus station and toss a coin to choose which bus to ride to the end of its route, leading to adventures in mountains and forests as well as on their beloved beaches. The closeness between them just didn’t feature. There was nothing about the way the older three looked after Kit and Tyler, read them stories and got them ready for school.
Kit sighed. She’d rather stop now. And how likely had it been, anyway, that the file was going to give her a clue? They’d had some good and some bad social workers, but if Danny had given any indication that Tyler had been abused, surely even the most incompetent amongst them would have done something about it, not just written it down and moved on?
She skimmed a few more pages. A transfer summary caught her eye. The social worker was Angela Maynard. Tyler had mentioned that name. She looked at the date. Danny would have been sixteen and Tyler would have been fourteen. It was the year after they had all been taken into care for the last time. She began reading.
Meeting with Danny at Redbridge House. This was my last meeting with Danny. I have explained to Danny, Krystal and Tyler that their cases will be transferred to a new social worker because I will be leaving the department tomorrow.
Danny was initially resistant to speaking to me, as usual. However, after some persuasion, he was able to reflect upon his time in residential care and the reasons for him being there. I reiterated to him that this had come about because, in spite of the fact that mum had made substantial inroads in terms of her alcohol issues and had attended parenting groups as she was asked to do, Danny and Tyler had continued to be beyond parental control at home and mum had become stressed. The situation had then broken down again, bringing the children back into care. Since their admission, the boys’ behaviour has presented a significant challenge to staff. I explained to Danny that it is time for him to take stock. He is due to leave care in two months’ time and needs to address his behaviour in order to achieve a successful transition.
Danny made reference to himself and Tyler when at home having spent time with a man who would take them to his home and provide them with alcohol and cigarettes. It therefore appears that mum may not always have exercised proper care over the boys’ whereabouts when they were living with her. Danny became distressed during the session, but time constraints did not allow me to explore this issue any further with him. I telephoned Christine Goddard afterwards and she confirmed that she had been aware that this man had befriended the boys when they were aged around eleven and thirteen. She was also aware that he had supplied them with alcohol and cigarettes even though they were underage. Her collusion with this is a concern.
Kit closed her eyes. She saw the whole picture immediately. Angela Maynard, who clearly hadn’t wanted to hear Danny out. That one chance to find out where his furious anger had come from, the guilt at the heart of it, a chance to get him help, and she had blown it. She had been burnt out and exhausted probably, and just wanting to end the job and get away to something easier. Or only half convinced by what Danny had hinted at, and not wanting to delve any further. Finding it hard to believe, or plain distasteful. The shutters coming down, just like Tyler had said they did. Leaving Danny even more ashamed, afraid to talk about it again for fear of getting the same reaction, and finally, three years later, unable to cope with the ball of fear and pain and guilt inside him any longer. And Micky Winter, who had bribed her brothers with alcohol and fags, waiting for his chance to demand something in return. But most of all, Christine. Fucking, fucking Christine. Had she known? Would even Christine have actually turned a blind eye to that?
Kit stood up and put Danny’s files back into the bundle, snapping the elastic bands onto it. She put the files on the shelf and then made her way quickly out of the room and down the corridor. She crossed reception, making sure to avoid Rhodri’s eye, and once outside, fumbled in her bag and lit a cigarette as soon as she was clear of the building. Her phone buzzed; glancing at it, she could see Tyler’s text. He was on his way to their mother’s already. She knew she needed to get up there before anything kicked off. She half ran to her car.
As she drove towards the Coed, Kit thought back to when she’d last seen Ch
ristine. It had been Danny’s birthday, when Kit, Tyler and their sisters had accompanied Christine on a miserable family outing to lay flowers on his grave. Kit had let the others deal with Christine, as per her usual strategy. She’d got past the stage of hating Christine long ago. But she’d had a long think about things when Danny had died, and she’d worked out that with the anger gone, she could easily start feeling sorry for her mother. That would lead straight on to feeling responsible for her, and then the next thing she’d find herself looking after her. She couldn’t take that risk, so from then on, she just kept her distance.
Kit met Tyler in the street outside Christine’s. They found the front door open as usual, to allow her friends in and out with their dramas and complicated feuds over lotto shares. Tyler followed Kit along the hall and into the kitchen, where Christine was standing in her favoured spot, leaning against the sink, smoking. The house was small and sparsely furnished. It was painted in creams and muted pastel tones and, for the first time, it struck Kit that it bore some similarity to her own flat, the same neutrality and lack of cosiness. The house was immaculate, though. Christine had always spent large parts of the day cleaning, sometimes until her fingers were red raw or, if she was feeling particularly anxious, until they bled.
She was looking at the door as they came in, expecting one of her mates, no doubt. When she saw who it was, she was speechless with surprise. But not for long.
‘Well, Jesus bloody Christ, you two are still alive then, are you?’
‘Looks like it. Nice thing to say, though, Mam, when one of your kids isn’t.’ Tyler sat down at the kitchen table and regarded her with disgust. Kit took the chair next to his and waited to see what he would do. She knew it would be for the best if she kept quiet as long as possible.
Christine’s face was even more yellow and rutted than it had been the last time Kit had seen her, almost six months before. Every time she saw her mother, it reminded Kit that she really ought to give up smoking, for fear that she would end up looking like her. Christine was painfully skinny, too. Apart from her stomach, which was swollen and rounded, stretching the thin fabric of her worn black leggings almost to bursting point – the tell-tale sign that cirrhosis had finally appeared, the fluid building up in her abdomen. She was only forty-four, but she probably wouldn’t make fifty. Kit knew that death from cirrhosis was a terrible thing, and, in spite of everything, she dreaded it for her mother.
She had been pretty once. Kit didn’t remember it herself, but Jazz had told her; as the eldest she’d always had more recollection of the early days. They were the better times, when Gino and Christine were still getting on and having a good time together.
‘What’s this about then?’ Christine’s voice brought Kit back into the moment. ‘I don’t see either of you from one year to the next. I could be dead myself, for all you two’d know about it. Your sisters are no better. Only our Dan I had, look, and now he’s gone too.’
‘Yeah, well, let’s not start about that, eh?’ Tyler brought her to an abrupt end. They both knew how long she could go on once she started on the subject of Danny, who had turned into a saint in Christine’s eyes now he was safely dead and unable to demand anything from her.
‘All right, go on then, boy, what’s it all in aid of?’
‘As I said, I need a word.’ Tyler kept his eyes on Christine’s face.
‘What’s she doing here then?’ She gestured in Kit’s direction. ‘Not up the duff, is she?’ Christine had always reserved her worst treatment for Kit. Danny’s theory had been that it was because she was Gino’s favourite, though if that was the case, Kit had seen precious little evidence of it over the last twenty years.
‘I asked her to come. I wanted her to hear it too.’ Tyler’s voice was calm. Kit was impressed, but she doubted he was going to be able to keep it up.
Christine had turned away and was rummaging around in a cupboard, finally pulling out a bottle of cider. She put it on the worktop and started to unscrew the lid. Tyler stood up and crossed to where she stood. He picked up the bottle, took the lid off and tipped the lot down the sink with one hand, holding Christine out of the way with the other, his muscled arm outstretched and his powerful hand gripping her scrawny shoulder.
‘What the hell are you doing? I’m in my own home, I’m entitled to have a drink if I want one.’
Tyler laughed at that. ‘Do what you like when we’re gone,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got something to talk to you about, and I don’t want you pissed for it.’
Deprived of alcohol, Christine made do with another fag. ‘Fire away then, boy, I’m all ears.’
‘Micky Winter.’ Kit knew Tyler had come out with it like that because he wanted to see if he would get a reaction. Kit was studying her mother’s face closely, too. Something was going on there, a flinch around her mouth, a widening of her eyes.
‘What about him?’ This was a surprise. Kit had expected her mother would deny she had ever heard of a Micky Winter and would stick to that story come hell or high water.
‘I think you know what I’m going to say, don’t you?’
‘I haven’t got a clue what you’re on about, boy.’
Tyler sighed. ‘All right then,’ he said, with exaggerated patience, ‘you want me to spell it out, do you?’
Christine took a few more drags of her fag. She regarded Tyler carefully, then turned to Kit: ‘Go and lock the front door. I don’t want anyone walking in and knowing our business.’
Kit was so surprised to be given this order that she did as she was told. Then she returned to the kitchen, where Christine was locking the back door. This done, Christine turned to face Tyler.
‘What about him?’ she repeated.
‘You remember him then?’
‘Of course I do. Everyone knew him. He lived down The Avenue. He was a very important man, Micky Winter. He used to run that youth club down in town.’
Usually, Kit could read her mother pretty well, but this time she just wasn’t sure. Was Christine faking it, or did she really not have any idea where this was going?
Tyler had dropped his face into his hands. Kit didn’t know whether he was crying or furious. Even Christine seemed to recognise that she shouldn’t say anything. Finally, Tyler raised his head. ‘Where did you think we were getting the money from, Mam?’
‘What?’ Christine’s face was set hard. She wasn’t about to admit to anything.
‘Where did you think we were getting the fucking money from?’
‘What money?’
‘The money we used to bring back from Micky Winter’s house. And the booze and the fags. You should have stopped us going there. You should have reported him. But Danny used to give you some, didn’t he? And you didn’t want that to stop. You wanted the booze and the money.’
‘I don’t know anything about that. I never even knew you went in his house.’
‘You knew,’ Tyler insisted.
‘I am telling you I didn’t. I never even knew. Take it or leave it, that’s the truth.’
Kit looked at her twin. His jaw was rigid, and she recognised the look he got when he was trying very hard not to cry. Just like when he was young, and he used to wake up from a nightmare and he wouldn’t want anyone except Kit to know he was upset. She had been the only one who could calm him. She had looked after Tyler, and Danny had looked after her. That had been the deal. Now, she understood that this mattered to Tyler. She didn’t completely understand why; it was hardly news that Christine had always put herself first. But it did matter. He needed to prove that Christine had known something. Kit hesitated, knowing the trouble she might be about to cause for herself, but she couldn’t stay silent. She took a deep breath.
‘It’s not the truth,’ she said.
‘What’s it got to do with you?’ Christine spat it out, her anger coming to the surface easily as soon as Kit was involved.
‘A social worker called Angela Maynard phoned you about it, a few years after it happened. Danny had said something to her, when he was in Redbridge House. And you admitted to her that you’d known all along that Ty and Danny were going to some man’s house and he was giving them alcohol.’
‘How do you know that?’ The words came from Tyler. Kit knew she couldn’t afford to answer that one in front of Christine, who wouldn’t think twice about reporting Kit for accessing her dead brother’s file. So she ignored him for now. Time enough for that explanation later.
Christine continued to smoke. If she was surprised by what Kit had said, she didn’t show it. ‘I never spoke to any social worker.’
‘I can give you the date and time she rang you, if you like.’ Kit said.
Christine shrugged. ‘Don’t make no odds to me. I never spoke to her. If she says I did, she’s a fucking liar.’
Tyler got up at that point and crossed to Christine and put his face right up close to hers. She tried to draw away but he had her backed up against the sink. Kit jumped up and moved towards them. She’d been worried about this. Tyler had never completely lost it with Christine, but it could be the first time. Christine tried to turn her head to the side to get away from Tyler’s gaze, but he took a firm hold of her chin and pulled her face back to look at his.
‘We all know who the liar is, Mam.’ He let her go and walked out of the door.
Kit left Christine bent double, choking into the sink, and ran after him. He was already outside, waiting for her, kicking a beer can around the pavement. As she came out of the gate, Tyler kicked it hard, so high into the air that it shot into Christine’s garden, falling just short of her kitchen window.
‘Fuck it. Missed the bitch.’
‘Ty, she was never going to admit it, was she? You must have known she wouldn’t.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘What is it then?’
‘Jesus, you’re a bloody social worker, haven’t they sent you on a course or something? Can’t you work it out?’’ he said. He was pacing up and down now, unable to stay still.