by Casey Watson
‘And would they?’ Kim asked.
‘Only sometimes. Not really.’
I felt numb. Completely poleaxed. And had two burning questions.
Was Maureen Gallagher complicit in her son’s activities?
Her son who was brain-damaged, moreover, so, however awful his actions, was not – could not be – wholly responsible for what he’d done. What did that make her? Was she the real monster here?
Chapter 24
The word ‘transformational’ should not be used lightly, especially where troubled children are concerned. Yes, it’s true that professional interventions can be transformative. It was certainly transformative for Sam and his siblings to have been taken into care. Had they not been, who knows how much lower they would have sunk? How much more neglect and abuse might have been their lot? And, had they not been removed, how much wider would have been the ripples, as damaged children ended up becoming damaged adults?
But mending children’s hearts and minds rarely happened in such a way. Where superheroes could use their powers to effect striking, instant change, us mere mortals had to content ourselves with slower, less dramatic progress. A little here, a little there. Sometimes seemingly endless plateaus. Which was why patience was a virtue we all had to aspire to, as well as determination when the inevitable ‘one step forward, two steps back’ hiccups happened.
But sharing his secret was, for Sam, transformational. And in immediate, measurable ways.
For starters, that evening, wrung out and exhausted as he was, he surprised me by bringing down from his bedroom all the little collections of things he’d been using for his counting, declaring that he didn’t need to count things anymore. So back went all the Lego, to the box in the living room, the buttons I’d given him, the sequins, the pebbles and the beans. There were other collections too, of little scraps of torn paper, of beads from his beanbag – extracted from a tiny hole he’d made in one of the seams, and even an unfinished collection of bottle tops, which I presumed he’d purloined from the recycling.
He slept soundly that night, and woke cheerfully in the morning. It’s a cliché, the old term to ‘put it behind you’, but Sam seemed to be a prime example of doing exactly that. Unburdened now, he seemed to be looking only forward, able to do so because he was at last free of the fear that had been dogging him for so long.
Which meant he trusted – despite everything, he appeared again to trust us. Me, despite my error of judgement in sending him back to Mrs Gallagher, and Colin – forget superheroes, there was common or garden hero-worship there – and Kim Dearing, who had clearly managed to convince him that she’d taken charge now and would make everything alright.
I decided not to mention my discoveries in his backpack. Grabbing the opportunity, when seeing Kim out, while Colin was completing Sam’s drawing, I’d had a rummage and beneath the various small items of what he’d deemed to be essential clothing (the Fireman Sam pyjamas being one such) I’d found my vegetable knife, a ball of string, my jacket potato skewer and a tiny hammer that had come with a block of toffee. Two Christmasses back, if I remembered rightly.
Items of self-defence, I deduced, with a pang of self-recrimination. While we’d gone off to enjoy our wedding, he’d gone to the Gallaghers armed, ‘just in case’ of attack. I took them all out and put them back where they lived. The least said about any of it, I reckoned, the better.
But while Sam seemed to be thriving, having addressed and voiced his demons, they’d come and invaded my mind instead. So I was itching to get things moving on, moving forwards. Seeing progress in the business of getting Sam sorted. Though at the same time I knew there was a long way to go; not only along the road of the impending police investigation and court case, but also the business of finding Sam a school as soon as possible, which depended on getting that all-important assessment done.
As everyone who knows me can testify, I want all that kind of thing dealt with as soon as it’s mentioned. I hate having a ton of red tape to cut through – hate having mountains to climb before anything gets done. But, that being so, I’d clearly chosen the wrong career. Nothing to do with the welfare of looked-after children happens quickly. And quite rightly. It’s right that due process is followed, because life-changing decisions are involved and should never be taken lightly. But there’s another reason – money and its bed-fellow, lack of resources. Which meant there were queues and waiting lists for everything and anything you might need to support and help a child on their way. Sam would have to take his place on them and there was diddly-squat I could do about it.
So I was as stunned as I was excited when, just over two weeks after Sam had made his allegations, Christine Bolton phoned me to say that she needed to come and visit me to discuss strategy and plans for his long-term future.
‘At last!’ I enthused. ‘Honestly, Christine, I couldn’t be happier, and Sam will be over the moon. He’s getting rather settled at home – a little too settled, if you know what I mean – and I’d hate for him to lose his enthusiasm for school at this stage.’
‘Well, best you not say anything yet, Casey,’ Christine warned. ‘You know how things can suddenly change in this game. And might well do in this case,’ she added mysteriously. ‘I also have an update on Maureen and Sean Gallagher for you, so it might be best if you could ensure that Sam isn’t in when I come. I know Colin will be happy to take him out, if that’s going to a problem for you, and if he isn’t free I can get one of our pool workers to come across and take him out somewhere instead. When is likely to suit you anyway? I’m fairly free the rest of this week if you are.’
As if I wouldn’t be, I thought, smiling to myself. My diary had just the one repeat entry in it – caring for Sam. Which, now he was free of the dark secret he’d been harbouring, I was seeing the benefits of more every day. But which didn’t mean he would benefit from being with me all day and every day. There was life to be had outside our house, and he needed to go and live it. ‘That should be fine,’ I said. ‘Let me just check with Kieron when he has his day off this week, and we’ll see if we can arrange it for then.’ I promised to phone her straight back.
So it was that two days later, when Christine arrived for our meeting, Sam and Kieron had already left for a nearby football pitch, complete with a football and goalie gloves, so he could have a bit of coaching, and a thrown-together picnic for lunch. A picnic which included a brace of home-made flapjacks, made by myself, along with Sam, the new sous chef.
I laid out some now. And a big pot of tea for her, as was now the routine, Christine being the person for whom the phrase ‘all the tea in China’ was made for. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d told me that to get through the night she had tea infused into her veins.
She gave me an update on her father-in-law, for whom they hoped they’d found a home now, and we’d naturally gone on to discuss our respective families, and Chloe’s wedding – which seemed like a lifetime ago now. So she was onto her second mugful by the time we got to the meat of the matter – Sam’s future – but first there was the story she had to tell about Maureen Gallagher, who had been on my mind, day and night, since the day of Sam’s disclosures, and become, in my imagination, some kind of she-devil. I just couldn’t get my head around the idea that she’d acted as she had – i.e. not acted – on such a terrible discovery. Wouldn’t any normal person have said something? Done something?
I suppose I was hoping Christine would tell me something in mitigation; something that would allow me to forgive her.
‘She has been honest with us about everything,’ Christine told me. ‘Extremely honest. In fact, so honest that it will probably be to her detriment.’
It turned out that Sam had been correct in saying that the night Maureen found him in Sean’s bed was the first time she realised what had been going on. Yes, she’d had her suspicions that Sean was ‘sexually active’, and interested in the sensations of sexual aro
usal – she’d found one of her old mail-order catalogues hidden under his bed, and had ‘put two and two together’. But she’d never thought for a moment that he’d ‘do anything’ with it. For one thing, he barely interacted with anyone apart from her – only the carers at the day centre she took him to then, which was obviously a very public environment.
And it had never crossed her mind that he’d think to ‘prey’ on innocent children. Which was why, when she found Sam in bed with him that night, she had been horrified, repulsed, appalled and very angry. And she had indeed attacked him, quite brutally. She’d also, at that point, resolved to tell someone about it, perhaps the day centre, to ask for their advice.
But with morning had come an appreciation of the probable consequences. If she shared what she’d seen, let alone reported it to the authorities, she would be responsible for putting her brain-damaged, vulnerable son in a prison cell for years, wouldn’t she? She would also lose her relationship with the children from next door for good – something that she couldn’t bear to think about. So she decided to deal with it another way.
‘And that’s when she started badgering the authorities on a daily basis for Sean to have full-time residential care,’ Christine said. ‘She told them he’d become violent towards her and that she feared for her life. And that financially, too, she could no longer cope – the burden was just becoming too much. That’s not true, by the way,’ Christine added. ‘She owns her home and after her husband died – some years back, by all accounts – she got a pay-out from a substantial life assurance policy.’
‘Still,’ I said, my feelings wavering from one moment to the next, ‘it still meant that she wasn’t taking any responsibility for what happened to poor Sam. However she paints it, she was wrong, and has possibly scarred the boy for life. All that talk of counting, and keeping quiet, so it didn’t get out. Gagging him, in effect, which has clearly put him under enormous mental strain. If she cared for him – all of them – how could she not see that was wrong? And what’s to stop Sean from reoffending if he doesn’t even know he’s offended?’
I hadn’t been made aware of any prosecutions as yet, so I didn’t know what stage things were at in that regard. I had tried to ask, and though Kim had promised she’d tell me when there was news, I got the impression that those in charge were keeping me out of the loop. Working on a strict ‘need to know’ basis, I guessed, and as it was no longer at my door, I probably wouldn’t find out until it was all over. One of the many frustrating aspects of fostering ‘protocol’.
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ Christine said. ‘Sean was still taken to the police station and questioned, despite the level of his understanding. But it won’t go much further now – certainly not to court, because of his lack of capacity – but he does know he’s done something very bad, and he’s been taken from the facility he’s been living at and moved to a secure unit for adults with severe learning disabilities.’
Good for Sam’s peace of mind, obviously, but something else occurred to me. ‘But won’t the other residents be at risk from him?’
‘It’s a proper secure unit, Casey. That means locked doors, single rooms, twenty-four-hour supervision. I don’t think he’ll ever be able to hurt anyone ever again. I feel for him, to be honest. Don’t you? I suppose the only positive is that his disability is such that “locked up forever more” isn’t something that computes.’
Christine was right. It was chilling to think about. And I did feel for him, because however limited his understanding, he would surely feel the stress of having been taken away from all that was familiar. Not so different from Sam and his brother and sister, really. You’d need a hard heart not to sympathise in such a dreadful set of circumstances.
‘And what about Maureen?’ I asked. ‘Is she being charged with anything?’
Christine shrugged. ‘Now that I’m not entirely sure about. The police are still considering what to do there, so they tell me. She was complicit, and doesn’t deny that she’d been so for many months, but, in her defence, she did take immediate steps to try and keep Sam safe. Well, from her own son, at least, which was obviously her main priority. And though everything she said was true – about the squalor next door, and the mother’s mental state, and kids’ neglect – she doesn’t deny that one of her reasons for finally calling social services was that she was fearful, with Sam particularly, that, with his own mental state deteriorating, it might all come out. That – and this is key, given that we fostered them separately in part due to what she’d told us – he might confide in his brother and sister. She was also becoming anxious about it happening again – though her son was now in residential care there was always the worry that something might happen when he came home to visit. She admits that it’s haunted her ever since, wondering if he’d ever touched the younger ones. Though they show no signs of any abuse, and their progress – and specifically, the way they’ve answered questions – doesn’t suggest they were either.’
‘So that’s one thing,’ I said. ‘But is that likely to be it now? She might get away with it?’ But even as I said this I could picture the tragic figure of Mrs Gallagher. Who, despite everything, I thought genuinely did love the children, and perhaps, since she had now lost her son – well, almost as good as – she had been, and would continue to be, punished enough. And would now lose all contact with them as well. No, it wasn’t as if she was a victim in the usual sense, but victim she was, even so. Could she ever have guessed, when she’d given birth to her baby son, that years later it would come down to this?
‘Yes, she might. Probably will. Probably should,’ Christine said. ‘Would either of us want to be in her shoes? I don’t think so.’
And she was right. I thought again of all her furious cake and bun baking. Who would she be able to bake cakes and buns for now? But perhaps she’d continue to do so, and send them to her son. And all the carers and warders there, maybe. Who would doubtless appreciate it. She’d have to find purpose and meaning from somewhere.
‘Gawd,’ I said. ‘Just awful. And, no, you’re right. I wouldn’t. What a world we live in, eh? Come on,’ I said, pushing the plate of flapjacks towards her. ‘Please, give me some good news. A CAMHS appointment? A school visit? Anything?’
Christine’s expression seemed to change. From one of reflection on the state of the world to one of a person who has come bearing further bad news, and hasn’t been looking forward to sharing it. ‘I’m so sorry to disappoint you,’ she said, ‘but what I have to tell you is, I’m afraid, the opposite of what I know you’ve been hoping for.’
I groaned. ‘Oh, no. What?’
‘Well, the top and bottom of it is that now Sam’s disclosed, and seems to be thriving as a consequence, we’ve needed to put a new care plan in place.’
‘And do you have any plans on the table about what this plan might involve? Because I was thinking that now he’s doing so well, as you say, the best thing for him, at least in the longer short term, would be for a school place to be found as soon as possible, and locally. Yes, dependent on his assessment, because he obviously has a raft of special needs which will need supporting, but, for the moment, for us to carry on as we are. Was that the sort of plan you had in mind?’
Because I had planned. No, I hadn’t exactly run it past Mike officially, but I knew that when I did he would feel the same as I did. That Sam was settled with us, used to us, responding to our programme, and with all the insecurity he’d been through, it would surely be of benefit if he could stay with us as long as he was allowed to. Possibly longer term, even. Why not?
Because.
‘Not quite,’ Christine said. Then sat back. ‘You’ve grown really fond of this little one, haven’t you?’
To which I wanted to explain that I fell in love with all of them – well, almost all. But we were a new team, and the only child she’d been involved in my fostering had been Miller, who’d I’d found very hard to lo
ve indeed. It had been a horrible experience. But this – this kind of painfully twanging heartstrings – was horrible too.
‘Yes,’ I said simply. ‘I have.’
Something crossed Christine’s features. Sympathy?
‘Well, as I say,’ she went on, ‘we’ve had a big rethink. We’re now thinking that we can forget residential schools and the like. That he’s a child who could be found a forever home. You’ve done such great work with him. And who couldn’t love him?’
She had a strange smile on her face. ‘You mean put him up for adoption, like his siblings?’
‘No, not adoption. You know how it is. He has sadly reached the age that most adoptive parents avoid, so it’s not realistic to imagine that’s an option.’
This was true. Most wanted younger children, and that was understandable. ‘So a long-term foster family, then. But you’re not thinking us.’
Christine gaped at me then. ‘That’s not what you’re thinking, is it? Surely not.’
‘I don’t know what I’m thinking. To be honest, I’ve not really been thinking. But –’
‘Keep Sam till he’s eighteen! You can’t think that, surely.’
‘Perhaps not, but –’
She shook her head. ‘That’s not on the table, Casey. It can’t be. Think of Tyler. And your grandkids. And the fact that if you did take Sam on like that, you wouldn’t be able to take on any other kids, not given his high level of needs.’
I knew all of this. I had been here so many times before. And I knew I must take Christine’s advice seriously. We did have Tyler, who’d legally be with us till he was eighteen, but in reality for as long as he wanted. For life, no less than that – we were family. To take Sam on too, in that way, would be a momentous decision, and not one I could or should take alone. It was a whole-family decision and whatever my gut said, my head told me differently. Sternly. We were already in our fifties, with grandkids to nurture. I thought again of Mrs Gallagher, and the sadness of her life. How lucky were we, to have all that?