by Cathy Glass
‘Yes,’ Amelia said. ‘But I can’t discuss Chelsea’s case with you.’ Which I knew.
‘I’m sorry my comments upset Joss,’ I said. ‘That wasn’t my intention, but I believe Joss is in real danger from going to that flat and hanging out with those people. Foster carers are expected to look after the children they foster as they would their own children, and I certainly wouldn’t let my children go there or associate with the likes of Zach, Carl or Dave. What’s a middle-aged man doing with all those young people?’
‘But part of growing up is choosing your own friends and being allowed to make your own mistakes,’ Amelia said, missing the point. As I’d observed before, Amelia was pleasant but naïve, and clearly didn’t have children of her own. Obviously we had different views on parenting, and it crossed my mind that had Amelia actually looked after teenagers she might have felt differently. She asked me if Joss had everything she needed for school and I confirmed she had, so with nothing else to discuss she went upstairs to say goodbye to Joss, and then left.
What happened next showed I’d been right to be very worried about the company Joss was keeping, although I gained no satisfaction from being right, none at all.
It was the last Saturday in August and my family were making the most of their ‘last weekend of freedom’, as Lucy called it, before school began again the following Tuesday. Adrian had spent the afternoon bowling and the evening at the cinema with friends, and was now relaxing on his bed. Lucy and Paula were at friends’ houses for sleepovers and Joss was out. It was Saturday, so I wasn’t expecting her home until 10.30 p.m. – far too late for a thirteen-year-old in my opinion, but it wasn’t my decision. The nights had started to draw in now, and there was a chill to the evening air suggesting autumn wasn’t far away. I was snug in the living room with the curtains closed, the television on and Toscha curled up on the sofa beside me. At around 10.15 Adrian came downstairs and said he was turning in now, as he was tired, so we said goodnight. He and Paula were seeing their father – my ex-husband, John – the following day. They saw him about once a month when he took them out for the day. At 10.45 I was still waiting for Joss, but I wasn’t unduly worried. She was often fifteen minutes late. When she still hadn’t returned by 11.15 I was worried and also annoyed that she was acting so irresponsibly again. When the doorbell rang five minutes later I headed down the hall relieved, but also ready to give her a big lecture.
‘Where on earth have you been –’ I began, as I opened the door. I stopped. Joss was in tears and obviously distraught. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, stepping forward, very concerned. ‘What’s happened?’
She shook her head, unable to speak. I gently took her arm and drew her into the hall. ‘Joss, what is it? Tell me.’ It wasn’t like Joss to cry.
‘I can’t,’ she said, between sobs.
I closed the front door. ‘Come into the living room.’
I led her down the hall and into the living room, where I sat her on the sofa and passed her the tissues. I sat beside her. Her cheeks were red from crying, but there were also some other marks on her face, which I thought could be bruises. My concerns grew.
‘Joss, you need to tell me what has happened,’ I said. ‘Have you been in a fight?’
‘No.’ She pressed the tissue to her eyes.
‘What is it then, love? Please tell me. Is it about Chelsea? Have you fallen out?’
She shook her head and fresh tears fell.
‘Have you broken up with Zach?’ I tried. I knew how distressing it was when a first love ended.
Her breath caught. ‘It’s not like that. It’s bad. If I tell you, you mustn’t tell anyone.’
I looked at her and gently rubbed her arm. ‘I’m afraid I can’t promise,’ I said. ‘If it’s something serious that affects you, I have to tell your social worker, and she may tell your mother, if it’s appropriate.’ This was something I had to make all children I fostered aware of: I wasn’t allowed to keep their secrets if it affected their well-being. ‘Amelia will be very sympathetic,’ I added. ‘And she will be able to help us. Are you in trouble with the police?’ I thought this was likely, although it had never upset Joss before.
‘No, it’s Zach,’ she sobbed.
‘So you have split up?’ I said. I had my words of comfort and reassurance ready.
Joss turned to me in anguish. ‘Cathy, it’s a lot worse than that,’ she said through her tears. ‘He attacked me. I know it’s my fault. You were right. He’s no good. He raped me. I’m sorry.’ She fell against me sobbing and I went deathly cold.
I knew I had to stay calm. I’d fostered children before who’d disclosed shocking abuse, and it was important for the child that I didn’t go to pieces.
‘He raped you,’ I repeated mechanically. ‘When?’
‘Just now, in the car,’ she sobbed on my shoulder. ‘He and Carl gave me a lift home, but they didn’t bring me here. Carl parked up on the wasteland at the back of the allotments and Zach raped me while Carl watched.’ Her sobbing rose and I held her very close.
‘All right, love. You’re safe now,’ I said. My words sounding far off and inadequate. ‘You’re safe with me.’
‘Carl was going to do it too,’ Joss sobbed. ‘But I fought him off and managed to get out of the car. They were laughing. I ran to the bus stop in town where there were people, and then came here. You tried to warn me, Cathy, so did my mum. I know you did. But I thought Zach loved me. I really did.’
I held her close and waited for her sobbing to ease. My heart was pounding and I felt sick to my core, but I knew what we needed to do. ‘We have to tell the police,’ I said. ‘Was Chelsea in the car?’
‘No. She’s not well. She didn’t come out with us. But you can’t tell the police. They’ll say it was my fault. We went to some bars first. I’d been drinking and having a laugh with them. Zach was my boyfriend. They won’t believe me.’ She was crying uncontrollably now.
I turned slightly so I could look at her. ‘They will believe you,’ I said. ‘It’s not your fault. You’ve been horrifically attacked. We need to report this as soon as possible, but I’m going to phone my agency first for some advice. You’ve done right in telling me, Joss.’
I gave her a hug and then reached for the phone on the corner table. Trembling, I keyed in the number for Homefinders. Joss was sobbing quietly and I held her hand. The phone connected and then went through to the agency’s out-of-hours number. To my relief, Jill answered – she was on duty that night. ‘It’s Cathy,’ I said. ‘Joss has just come home. She’s been raped.’ I heard Jill gasp. ‘Do I dial 999 or take her to the police station?’
‘Does she need emergency medical attention?’ Jill asked.
‘Are you badly hurt?’ I asked Joss. ‘Do you need a doctor?’
She shook her head.
‘She says no.’
‘Take her to the police station, then,’ Jill said. ‘They have a rape suite there. I’ll phone the station and tell them to expect you. The poor child.’
‘What’s a rape suite?’ I asked. ‘So I can tell Joss.’
‘It’s a private room at the police station that is used for interviewing victims of rape and sexual assault. Reassure Joss that she’ll be well looked after. The police are specially trained and will treat her sensitively. She’ll also be examined by a doctor if necessary. Cathy, it’s important to preserve as much evidence as possible, so make sure she doesn’t wash, brush her teeth, eat or drink or change her clothes, otherwise vital DNA evidence could be lost. It’s best if she doesn’t go to the toilet either before the doctor examines her and takes swabs, but obviously if she’s desperate she’ll have to go. And, Cathy, take a change of clothes for her. The police might want to keep the ones she’s wearing for evidence.’
I was grateful Jill knew exactly what to do.
‘Should I telephone Linda before we go?’ I thought to ask.
‘I want my mum,’ Joss said, her voice small and vulnerable.
‘I’ll phone
her mother,’ Jill said. ‘And also the council’s duty social worker, who will tell Amelia. Will you be all right taking Joss to the police station? What about your kids?’
‘There’s just Adrian in. I can leave him here.’
‘OK. Go straight away. Phone me if there’s anything else you need.’
‘I will. Thank you.’
I replaced the handset and turned to Joss. ‘Is Mummy coming?’ she asked, childlike.
‘Jill is phoning her now,’ I said. ‘We have to go to the police station. Jill said it’s important you go as you are, and we need to take a change of clothes for you, as the police might want to keep your clothes for evidence. Shall I go and fetch some clothes from your bedroom, or do you want to?’
‘You go,’ Joss said, her eyes brimming again.
‘Oh, love,’ I said.
I gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and left her sitting on the sofa while I went upstairs. Before going to Joss’s room I went to Adrian’s as I needed to tell him I was going out. His light was off and he was asleep in bed. As I approached the bed his eyes flickered. ‘Mum?’ he asked groggily.
‘I have to go out for a while,’ I whispered. ‘I need to take Joss to the police station.’
‘Why? What’s the matter?’ he asked, his eyes opening.
‘She’s been attacked. She’s all right, but we need to see the police as soon as possible.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ he asked. Bless him.
‘No. I’ll be OK. Thanks, love.’
I came out, drawing the door to behind me. In Joss’s room the clean laundry I’d left for her to put away was still in a pile on her bed, so I quickly selected fresh underwear, leggings and a top. I returned downstairs and put the clothes into a carrier bag, and then went into the living room. Joss was as I’d left her, sitting on the sofa with a tissue pressed to her face. Toscha had taken up the space I’d left and was now curled close beside her as though sensing she needed to be looked after.
‘All right, love, let’s go.’ I threw her a reassuring smile.
She stood, and Toscha raised her head to look at her.
In the hall I slipped on my shoes, unhooked our jackets from the stand and passed Joss hers. Leaving the hall light on, we went out. The night was clear but chilly. As we got in the car Joss said quietly, ‘Thanks for not going on at me.’
I looked at her, a pale and frightened child. ‘There’s no need to thank me,’ I said. ‘You’re not to blame. You’re a victim.’
‘But if I’d done what you’d said and stayed in more and found some other friends, none of this would have happened.’
I couldn’t disagree. In my heart of hearts I’d known that something like this might happen, but what else could I have done to prevent it? It was a question that not only I, but also the social services and all those involved in Joss’s care would be asking ourselves in the future. Joss was a vulnerable thirteen-year-old, and together we’d failed to protect her.
Chapter Seventeen
Remorse, Guilt and Regret
Joss was silent as I drove to the police station, and other than offering a few impotent words of reassurance I was quiet too. It was nearly midnight and there was little traffic on the roads, although some late-night revellers were hanging around on street corners in the town. An ambulance sped by with its light flashing and siren blaring. Ten minutes later I was parking in the side road adjacent to the police station, anxious and desperately worried for Joss.
‘I hope Mum comes,’ Joss said as I cut the engine.
‘I am sure she will if she can,’ I said. I could appreciate that despite everything that had happened between Joss and her mother, she would want her with her in a crisis.
‘You’ll stay with me if she doesn’t come, won’t you?’ Joss said, her eyes filling again.
‘Yes, of course. Try not to worry. I’ll be with you.’
We got out and Joss linked arms with me for support as we walked round to the front of the police station and then up the steps to the main entrance. Arriving at the security-locked glass door I pressed the button for the bell. Through the glass I could see into the brightly lit reception area where a young male police officer stood behind the counter, working on some papers. He looked at us and then released the security lock. I pushed open the door and we went in. The second door opened automatically into the reception area. There was only one other person in reception – a young man with long hair, sitting on one of the chairs. I approached the counter while Joss waited to one side.
‘How can I help you?’ the officer asked, still holding his pen and his elbow resting on the counter.
‘My name is Cathy Glass,’ I began quietly, so the man waiting couldn’t hear. ‘My fostering agency, Homefinders, telephoned this station a short while ago to say we were coming. Joss, the girl I’m fostering, has been sexually assaulted.’ I felt my pulse rise.
‘Is this the young lady?’ he asked, straightening and looking past me to Joss.
‘Yes.’
‘What’s her full name?’
I told him.
‘Take a seat, please, and I’ll find out who is dealing with this.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
We went over to the steel-framed chairs as the officer disappeared through a door behind the counter. Joss sat beside me. The young man opposite kept his gaze down and away from us. Distant voices could be heard coming from elsewhere in the building and a police officer’s radio sounded. A couple of minutes passed and then the bell on the main door rang, making Joss start. The three of us looked out to see a middle-aged man, poorly dressed and who could have been sleeping rough, gesticulating through the glass that he wanted to be let in. Clearly we couldn’t do that. The man opposite us shrugged and looked away, while I pointed to the empty reception desk. The man outside banged on the glass and then went away as two uniformed officers let themselves in.
As the officers passed through reception the first one said a polite ‘Good evening’, then paused as he recognized Joss and added a playful, ‘Not you again!’
It wasn’t appropriate, but he wasn’t to know why we were here, and I caught a glimpse of the Joss who was well known to many of the officers from all the times she’d been in trouble.
Joss forced a smile. ‘Yeah. It’s me,’ she said.
They disappeared through a door at the rear of the station and we were left to our thoughts again. Joss concentrated on the floor and chewed her bottom lip as the man opposite sat with his arms folded and legs outstretched, staring straight ahead.
‘Hopefully it won’t be too long,’ I said to Joss after a while, touching her arm reassuringly – although in truth I had no idea how long it would take, as this was new ground for me.
A couple of minutes later the officer who had been on reception reappeared. ‘Come through,’ he said, releasing a lock on the small gate in the counter. We went through and he locked it again behind us.
‘You can wait in the suite,’ he said. ‘It’s more comfortable in there. The interviewing officer is on her way.’
I thanked him and we followed him down the corridor, past closed and open doors on either side; some were signed as interviewing rooms while others led to offices. At the end of the corridor he opened a door on the right and stood aside to let us in.
‘Make yourselves comfortable. Would you like a drink?’
‘No, thank you,’ I said. Joss shook her head.
‘Give me a shout if you need anything,’ he said. ‘Ann, the interviewing officer, should be with you in about half an hour.’
‘Thank you,’ I said again.
He went out and closed the door behind him.
It was a pleasant room – if a room designated for victims of sexual assault could be described as such – and I could see why the officer had said we’d be more comfortable in here. As well as being private, it was designed to try to put those waiting at ease. Furnished like a living room, it had a fitted carpet, a sofa and an easy chair with
scatter cushions, and a coffee table with some reading material on it. The walls had been painted a light beige. Yes, it was like a small living room, except for the examination couch – which, although partially shielded from the room by a movable screen, was a chilling reminder of why we were here and what was to come. Jill had said that the interviewing police officer would be specially trained and sensitive to the victim’s ordeal, but it didn’t stop me from worrying about what lay ahead. Joss would be interviewed and then examined by a doctor. She sat beside me, a frightened child. I put my arm around her and we leant back on the sofa.
She snuggled into my side and we were silent for some time. There was one small window in the room, very high up, suggesting the room could previously have been a standard interview room. The air felt stuffy, although not exactly warm, and the room was quiet save for the occasional voices and footsteps that drifted in from the corridor outside.
Ten minutes or so went by and Joss yawned. ‘How long do you think they’re going to be?’ she asked. ‘I’m so tired.’
‘Hopefully not much longer,’ I said. ‘Joss, when the police officer interviews you, you know you must tell the truth. All of it.’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly.
‘Even the things you don’t tell me, like how much you’ve had to drink tonight, and if you’ve been smoking dope. They won’t blame you, but they will need to know all the details.’
‘OK,’ she said quietly, and began sucking her thumb.
Another five minutes passed and I thought Joss might be asleep on my shoulder, but then I heard her breath catch and she began to cry again. ‘I want to go home,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to stay here any more. I’m tired. Can we go now, please, Cathy?’
‘Oh, love,’ I said, holding her close. ‘It’s important we stay and tell the officer what happened while it’s fresh in your memory. And the doctor needs to see you.’
‘We can come back tomorrow. I want to go to bed now.’