by Casey Watson
‘And for who?’ Riley finished. ‘That’s the real point.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘Not much. As I say, to these kids, this is normal. And you know the worst thing?’
‘What?’
‘The worst thing is that this sort of thing is happening so often that I can feel myself getting desensitised to it. I sat there and listened to Olivia telling me that not only did she do ‘sexy dancing’ for her brother, but also various male members of her extended family, and I wasn’t shocked. Not half as much as I feel I ought to be, anyway. I feel like I have to keep shaking myself awake – reminding myself just how appalling this all is. Not just the things I’m witnessing, but what it all means. Just what horrors have been inflicted on these children?’
Riley looked thoughtful. ‘You’re right, Mum. It really isn’t funny. It’s just horrible. That’s what it is.’
When Monday came around, I was ready for action. Mulling things over with Riley at the weekend had really fired me up. It was unacceptable to just let this ride. These kids had been deeply psychologically damaged and the sooner their skewed sense of normality was addressed, the more hopeful the outcome for both of them. I was many things, but I wasn’t naive. Having such a warped understanding of all matters sexual would have a profound effect on their characters as adults; just the thought of sweet little Ashton morphing into a predatory, sexually abusing adolescent filled me with both horror and rage. Yet the stats were clear; abused kids often became abusing adults. Which was hardly surprising; if you think sex between family members is normal, why wouldn’t you be drawn to continue the cycle? Social norms can be a very strong inhibiting force, but, as everyone knows, sexual urges can be stronger. It was so chilling to think how badly damaged these mites might be, but so much more so to think what kind of adults they might become, and every day I failed to try and do something about it was a day – to my mind – which was just embedding it deeper. But it seemed my sense of urgency wasn’t shared.
Having recorded and logged and filed all my latest observations to John and Anna, I followed up with a phone call to Anna as well. She was due to come the following week, for her next statutory visit, but I didn’t want to wait for that to come around. I felt I needed to make it clear now how hard this placement was becoming; how much more complex than we’d all thought originally. I also needed her advice on how to handle things effectively – with no specialist training in paediatric psychosexual counselling, I felt I really wasn’t up to the job.
Any kind of counselling would be a plus, I explained to her. ‘CAMHS,’ I suggested. ‘Wouldn’t they consider doing something? I know the protocols, but surely, given the seriousness of what’s been happening …’
But even as I said it, I knew what Anna’s answer would be. I’d had dealings with CAMHS several times before.
‘You know that’s not going to happen,’ Anna answered frankly. ‘They won’t touch them at the moment, Casey, not till they’re permanently placed.’
Frustratingly, this seemed to be set in stone. They had their reasons, of course. CAMHS – which stands for the Child and Adolescent Mental Health Service – work on the principle that if a child is in transition, it isn’t helpful to work with them. ‘Which is logical,’ Anna seemed to feel duty bound to tell me, even though I knew it already. ‘If a child makes disclosures and as a result becomes emotionally unstable, then it’s obviously imperative they start counselling immediately. And if that counselling is disrupted by a move to a new placement, then the psychological impact can be even more damaging than if they hadn’t begun counselling in the first place.’ She sighed. ‘I’m sure you know as well as I do what it’s like. They could move to a new area and wait months for an appointment …’
‘I do realise that,’ I said. ‘But that’s not a lot of help to me. How about some other kind of counselling?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Genuinely. But you know how things are. Budget cuts and so on … too many kids, too little staff. Look, how about I make some calls and see if I can get you some advice at least? Coping strategies, or something. Would that help?’
Coping strategies. Or something. No, I thought. Not a lot! I am coping. It’s the kids that need help here, not me!
But I didn’t say that. ‘Well, whatever you think is best,’ I said instead. ‘But something. Because right now I feel all I’m really doing is containing them. Trying to keep them away from each other, mostly. Which, seeing as they’re siblings, is not only hard, but unnatural.’
‘I know,’ Anna soothed, not knowing at all, to my mind. ‘I know. I do understand, Casey. Poor you.’
Poor me. Those two words kept me awake half the night. It was action I wanted, not bloody platitudes.
Chapter 9
If I was frustrated by a lack of action on the part of social services, I was anxious to see less of it where the children were concerned. Action of the type I’d been witnessing, at any rate. I found myself constantly following them around. If they went outside to play, I would casually potter in the conservatory, or use it as an excuse to have a cigarette. And all the while, I’d have one eye on whatever it was that they were getting up to. I also started imposing new rules. If they wanted to play on their own in their bedrooms, they must leave the doors open. And if they wanted to play upstairs together, then they must play outside their rooms, on the landing.
I felt awful about it – particularly as they wanted to know why I made them do this – but at the same time I felt I had no choice. It felt so unfair, though. These little kids should be able to play freely with one another, just like any other brother and sister would. Instead, they were being policed and I was the one doing it, but I knew I had to do it, for their own good.
Not that I was doing anything more useful than sticking a not-very-sticky Band-Aid over a big oozing cut. I could see it in their eyes every time I sneaked up to see what they were up to. They just thought I was mad. Yes, they did as I asked them, but I could see it was only because they were at heart obedient children, not because they understood why the way they interacted was wrong. Indeed, Olivia, being so young and as a consequence so guileless, was so matter of fact about her horribly sexualised childhood that she regularly took my breath away.
On the Friday morning when Anna was due, I got up early, determined to have a good read through my log, so that I could impress upon her yet again how important I felt it was that we try to press for some counselling to be put in place. It was with this thought in mind that I tiptoed out of my bedroom and crossed the landing, intending to brew a big pot of coffee and enjoy an hour’s peace with all my notes.
Olivia’s door was open, and right away I could tell she was awake, because I could hear her, chattering away to her dolly. At first I thought I’d leave her to it, but then I heard the word ‘gwandad’, which, as was becoming usual these days, made me prick up my ears. I stepped closer.
‘There,’ she was saying, ‘now you’re a proper pretty Polly. Nice peachy botty now, all nice for Gwandad.’
I shuddered inwardly and pushed open the door.
She was sitting in bed, the doll naked on her lap, the clothes she’d obviously just removed in a pile beside her. ‘Morning, love,’ I said brightly. ‘You’re awake early. What are you and Polly up to?’
‘Jus’ playing bedtimes,’ she answered. Her expression was wide-eyed and completely innocent. ‘Polly’s being me and it’s her turn to sleep with Gwandad. So she has to have her dress off, because it’s very very itchy. You can’t wear itchy clothes when it’s your turn to sleep with Gwandad. He don’t like things that itch. They make his skin sore. Even jamas,’ she added, as if remembering a very important point.
‘You know,’ I said, keeping my voice conversational, ‘little girls really shouldn’t sleep with their granddads – specially without pyjamas.’ What was I saying? I thought. They shouldn’t sleep with them at all.
Olivia digested this.
�
��Why not?’ she asked, clearly puzzled at this early morning interrogation.
‘Because it’s not the same as having hugs. Bedtime’s private. Granddads shouldn’t even ask little girls like you to sleep in their beds. It’s –’
‘What about daddies, then? Casey, don’t you ever even sleep in your daddy’s bed?’
The question was straight out of leftfield, and floored me. ‘Daddy?’ I said. ‘D’you mean Mike, love?’
She smiled now, and shook her head. ‘No, silly!’ she teased. ‘I mean your daddy!’
‘Well, of course not, Olivia,’ I said firmly. ‘Because that would be wrong too. Mummies and daddies sleep together, and children sleep on their own. Daughters definitely don’t sleep with their daddies.’
She took this all in with a slight frown, then shrugged. ‘That’s a shame,’ she said matter-of-factly.
‘A shame?’
‘Yes, cos you’d probly get a new dolly if you did.’
There was little I could say or do in response to Olivia’s suggestion, bar do what I had been about to do anyway, so I told her I’d be back when it was time to get up and dressed, and went downstairs to make a coffee as planned. I spent the next half an hour adding this latest encounter to my growing file, and when Mike came down shortly afterwards reiterated what she’d told me and how I was at least to have yet another piece of evidence to support my case.
He looked cynical, however. ‘You think Anna’s really going to do anything?’ he said. ‘I won’t be holding my breath, for sure.’
He was right. She probably wouldn’t. She’d already said her hands were tied, hadn’t she? We were helpless and we both knew it. We could only do what we could do.
With my mind so preoccupied I got the kids ready for school on autopilot, and once I’d delivered them there, I went back to my notes. I re-read everything, including all the things I’d said, thinking balls to your bloody procedures, as I wrote. It looked so neat, all written up. All so perfect in my tidy handwriting. But no amount of fine calligraphy could disguise the mess the words described.
I took out the reminder of my glum, frustrated mood on my housework, cleaning things, as ever, being the best therapy imaginable, and my mood was lifted further when Kieron phoned. He’d slept over at Lauren’s and had had an interview this morning. But with my mind so fixated on my bloody fostering log book, I’d completely forgotten to fret about how he’d be getting on. Though, in hindsight, that might have been a blessing in disguise. I’d have only fretted about that as well.
‘You’ll never guess, Mum,’ he said excitedly. ‘I got the job!’
Kieron had been doing a lot of thinking just lately. Though he loved his music – he’d enjoyed every moment of his studies in college – he was also sensible enough to realise that until something concrete took off in that direction, he needed to earn money somehow. And as he’d always fancied working in a caring profession (despite, or perhaps because of, all the things he’d seen as a result of us fostering) he’d been applying for jobs in the youth service and local schools. He’d turned out to have a real affinity with problem children, and now it seemed he’d secured the position that he’d really hoped he’d get, as an outreach worker, supporting troubled youngsters. It was for a couple of hours each weeknight, trying to engage kids in sport. Rugby, and of course his beloved football.
‘That’s fantastic!’ I said, feeling the clouds part after my horrid morning. ‘I’m so pleased. You are going to be just brilliant!’
As if on cue, it was just then that the doorbell rang. I said my goodbyes to Kieron and still had the smile stuck on my face as I pocketed my duster and answered the door to Anna.
‘You look happy!’ she greeted me. ‘Take it you had a good week?’
I told her about Kieron’s news, but then I had to burst her bubble. I watched her visibly deflate as I explained what had happened with Olivia, and by the time I’d finished, she looked a little like one of the wet rags I used for cleaning.
‘Oh dear,’ she said.
‘Quite,’ I agreed. ‘He’s obviously been sleeping with her regularly. It couldn’t be worse, could it?’
I watched her as I spoke and her expression made me brace myself.
‘Yes, it could,’ she said sorrowfully. ‘A lot worse.’
Any hopes of my raised spirits continuing were dashed. ‘So,’ I asked Anna, ‘what can possibly be worse?’
She followed me into the kitchen and I made another jug of coffee. I had a feeling I wouldn’t want to know the answer to my question, but it was coming nevertheless.
‘Well, I’m not sure this will affect you directly,’ she said. ‘But because the court case is looming – it’s in a week, now, by the way –’
‘A week?’ I was shocked. Did courts even move so quickly? ‘That seems sudden …’
Anna shook her head. ‘Not really. Not in these circumstances. In cases where we’re keen to prevent further parental contact, the judges invariably try to get things in black and white as soon as possible. Anyway, we’re prepared now. We have almost all the extra reports we needed, so, bar the solicitor coming to chat to the children about what they want, we’re pretty much good to go at our end.’
I nodded as I sipped my coffee. We’d already been warned about that meeting. And it wasn’t something I was looking forward to. As if these mites could have the first clue what it was they wanted. Well, they probably knew what they wanted, and it wasn’t what they needed. So their voices would be heard but it was pretty much a given that they’d also be ignored, even if it was entirely for their own good.
But that was a bridge we’d have to cross when we got to it. Right now I was more interested in the bad news that was coming – contained within the pages inside the ubiquitous buff-coloured file that Anna was currently wrestling out of her briefcase. Funny, I mused, I used to think case files were so exciting; that they were the gateway to learning all sorts of important things about the kids we cared for. Just lately, though, I’d come to view them differently. They just meant bad news. Every time.
‘I’m dreading hearing this,’ I quipped, trying to speak lightly as she opened it. Her weak answering smile at me spoke volumes.
‘So what we did,’ she explained, ‘was a full trace on the whole family. As per the court’s request. We went back years, right into the dim and distant archives. Back to when files and notes were handwritten, in duplicate, and we had things like secretaries, who would store them all away for us.’ She grinned ruefully as she said this – a bit of levity before the grim bit? Perhaps so, as the next bit truly was grim, though not as shocking to me as Anna might have expected. On the contrary, it began to put everything in place.
Chapter 10
The main finding Anna wanted to share with me concerned Ashton, and the decade-old suggestion that he might have been the product of an incestuous relationship, between his mother, Karen, and her father, the famous ‘Gwandad’. She’d become pregnant while in her last term at school, and as she had major learning difficulties, the school alerted social services, who’d made it their business to follow things up. It was during one such visit that the social worker was intercepted by a neighbour who told her there was talk around the estate about the girl being made pregnant by her own dad. Karen’s parents, however, had managed to convince the social worker that this was just malicious gossip, and even produced a young ‘boyfriend’ who owned up to the deed.
As a consequence, this line of investigation was dropped, but, thankfully, the conversation had been recorded by the social worker, which meant that though the paperwork had been buried in the archives, it would now be used as further evidence of things with this family not being ‘right’.
For me, of course, it only served to confirm my worst fears about longstanding sexual abuse. Olivia’s comment came to mind: ‘Casey, do you sleep with your daddy?’ It may not be proven, but it seemed likely that her mother did.
Or had, at any rate. Sadness washed over me. These poor children. So
damaged, so young. And irreparably? That their sexual behaviour wasn’t just copy-cat stuff was the worst of it. It was almost as if they had an animalistic need. I still felt it unlikely that they got any pleasure from it, but it was as if they were frustrated when they couldn’t get their sex ‘fix’. Could this actually be true? Could such young kids have true sexual urges? It seemed hardly comprehensible, yet it seemed I was witnessing it – day after sordid bloody day. I must – I really must – read up on this sort of thing, I thought. It was so frustrating not knowing what I was dealing with.
I must have been miles away, because Anna cleared her throat. ‘D’you see?’ she was saying. ‘That Ashton might be …’
‘Yes, yes I do,’ I said. ‘Sorry. And I’m not surprised either. I knew there was something. And that would fit. And I don’t doubt there’s lots more besides.’
I would have that thought of mine grimly confirmed not much more than a week later, but for now Anna had something else on her mind.
‘What we thought might be best,’ she explained, ‘once the solicitor’s made his visit, would be for you to take them away on a little holiday or something. Just get them away from it all; take their minds off what’s happening, play it down … you obviously appreciate they all need to know that the court case is going on?’
I nodded. ‘That’ll be happening anyway, I would have thought. If a man in a suit turns up and starts asking them lots of questions, I suspect “playing it down” won’t really be an option, don’t you?’
If Anna noticed the sarcasm in my voice, she didn’t register it. I jumped up and grabbed my calendar from its hook on the kitchen wall. ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘that will work. It’s both Olivia and Ashton’s birthdays next week – she’ll be seven and he’ll be ten – so I could tell them it’s a birthday treat for them.’