‘And what about his mother?’ asked Clare. ‘What does Taylor Brown say about her son?’
Kim shuffled through her pile of papers. ‘Taylor reports that John has spoken, but her caseworkers indicate that she is an unreliable witness. Perhaps she understates the extent of her son’s disability because she fears she’ll be blamed for it.’
‘He talked to me,’ Clare repeated.
‘And told you what?’ said Kim. ‘That his name is Jack, when it isn’t? You must have imagined it, Clare. Files don’t lie.’
But records, Clare knew, were only as good as the people who kept them. And from her own observations of the overworked, under-resourced, burnt-out workers of the child protection system, the people weren’t very good at all. A slipshod assessment or a wrong diagnosis could follow a kid around for years.
Roderick peered briefly into the room. ‘Finished here, are we?’ he asked. ‘Ready to get back on the treadmill?’
Clare heaved a sigh, picked up the boy, whoever he was, and placed him on the chair beside her. She tried to be more objective. Jack had to go with Kim, no matter what, so they may as well both make the best of it.
‘I have to go now,’ she told him, giving his white-gold hair a stroke. ‘This is Kim.’ At the sound of her name, Kim smiled. It occurred to Clare that if she was a child she might think that Kim was a witch. ‘She’s going to take you to a nice lady, who’ll look after you until Mummy’s home.’
The boy shook his head violently, and crawled back onto Clare’s knee.
‘Come along, John,’ said Kim, in a cheerful voice. ‘We’re going to have a lovely time.’
The boy picked up a heavy stapler and aimed it at Kim’s head. His throw was surprisingly accurate. Kim shrieked as the stapler thudded into her temple. Her hand found the spot; there was blood on her fingers. Now the boy was screaming. He ran to the corner of the room and started to bang his head rhythmically against the wall. Bang . . . bang . . . bang. How could he do that? Surely it must hurt? When Clare tried to get close to him, he vomited up his lunch. A projectile stream that hit her skirt and dribbled down her tights.
In a truly impressive move Kim tackled him from behind, pinning his arms and holding him too close for his kicking feet to have much impact. The boy hurled himself backwards and struck her in the belly with the rear of his skull. Kim gasped like she’d been winded, but hung on grimly.
When Roderick rushed in, the boy was still yelling. Not crying, but yelling. Long, angry bellows, like an animal. Clare couldn’t bear to watch it, and ducked from the room. Even in the toilets, the boy’s cries reverberated through the walls, and Clare pressed her palms to her ears. The row grew fainter and fainter until at last, all was quiet again. She checked herself in the mirror. What a mess. Her face was red. Her tangled blonde hair had sticky bits that refused to comb out, and there was pickle on her teeth. Clare dabbed ineffectually at the sick on her skirt with some damp toilet paper. When she’d cleaned herself up as best she could, she ventured out, almost tiptoeing down the corridor back to her office. Inside, chairs were overturned and the files and pens that had been on her desk were scattered on the carpet. A suspicious puddle lay on the shiny faux timber floor near the door. She picked up the bag of Happy Meal toys. Jack’s special trading cards, too. He must have dropped them in the fight. Clare switched on Tepig. His purple light now shone pale and sad.
Debbie came in with a mop. ‘Don’t worry. Veronica’s seeing your next client.’ She looked around and shook her head. ‘He seemed like such a sweet boy. I wonder what happened.’
Clare began to collect the rainbow of multi-coloured paper clips dotting the floor. Yes, what had happened? The boy had been in care before. Where? How many times? Was that when the erroneous reports were made? Clare stood up, stepped over Debbie’s broom, and went to see Roderick.
He was on the phone when Clare entered his office. He waved her in, and she sat down to wait. ‘Still no sign, I’m afraid . . . I know it’s not an ideal arrangement for the boy, but what do you expect us to do? Produce his mother out of thin air? Potentially she’s unfit to retain custody anyway . . . Of course, you’ll be the first to know . . . Bye.’
‘Well?’ asked Clare. ‘What’s the upshot?’
‘You know what it’s like, trying to put a kid like that with a regular foster carer.’
Clare shifted uneasily. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means the placement fell through.’
‘So, what happens to the boy?’
‘They’ve found him some sort of short-term emergency housing.’
‘He’s four years old,’ said Clare. ‘You’re not telling me he’s going into a contingency unit?’
‘Brighthaven.’ Roderick shrugged. ‘What can you do?’
‘You’re not serious?’ asked Clare. But she could tell by the look on his face that he was. Contingency units were used as a last resort, usually for older children with multiple behaviour problems. One of her clients had been placed in Brighthaven a few days ago. Aiden. A teenage boy, in and out of state care all his life, accused of sex offences against a younger student. Brighthaven was a risky place for any child, let alone a four-year-old.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘Jack did tell me his name. And Rod, Aiden’s been placed in Brighthaven.’
She watched his face as he tried to make the connection. He looked puzzled and then concerned and then, finally, pale. She handed him his telephone. ‘You call Kim and tell her to bring him back or I do,’ she said.
Roderick opened his mouth as if he was about to argue, then smiled. ‘That attitude,’ he said, ‘is why you make such a good advocate. You’ve got two hours to find him somewhere else.’
Back in her office, Clare began to make calls. One call. Two calls. Three.
Five o’clock. It was déjà vu, all of them back in Clare’s office. Jack sat on her lap, clutching the bag of Pokémon toys. Kim finished her phone call, and wrote something down on a notepad.
‘Well?’ asked Clare.
Kim looked grim. ‘There is nowhere else,’ she said. ‘Nowhere. Nada. Nothing. Do you understand? He’ll have to go back to Brighthaven.’
Clare shook her head. ‘I’ll take him?’ The words startled out of her mouth. ‘For a little while,’ she said. ‘Until his mum comes looking for him.’
Kim looked at her for a considerable time without speaking. ‘A foster care assessment takes time,’ she said at last. ‘Months.’
‘What about a kinship care assessment? Can you do that?’ Clare already knew Kim could. Kinship assessments could be fast-tracked in an emergency, and only rough guidelines existed as to who a kinship carer might be. Nothing to legally rule her out. Clare gave the small boy on her knee what she hoped was an encouraging smile.
‘It’s a little unorthodox seeing as you and John aren’t related.’ Kim frowned. There was another long pause. ‘But the term kinship is a flexible concept, I suppose. For the purposes of this assessment, we can perhaps regard you as a person who shares a community connection with the child.’
‘Perfect.’ Clare could feel herself smiling and tried to arrange her face into a more professional expression. It was no use. Jack wrapped his arms round her waist.
Kim gave Clare a probing look. ‘Are you sure you want to do this? Jack has very complex needs. He belongs in a disability placement.’
‘Do you have one of those?’ asked Clare. They both knew she didn’t. ‘Just get on with it.’
‘I’ve seen people like you before,’ said Kim. ‘You think that if you can just love a child enough, you can cure him, make him normal. Love can’t cure autism.’
‘Who said anything about love? The kid needs a safe, temporary place to stay. You don’t have one, so I’m offering. Nothing more, nothing less.’
‘As long as you know what you’re getting into. It will only be until we find John somewhere else, so don’t get too attached.’
Clare nodded.
‘Okay, let’s get started. I need t
o be finished by six,’ Kim said. ‘We’ve got tickets to the footy. The Brisbane Lions elimination final.’ Her eyes lit up at the prospect. Clare could only nod. Kim was busy crossing questions out on the form in front of her. ‘That’s not pertinent for you . . . or that . . . Okay. How do you propose to meet the needs of such a challenging child? Clare didn’t have a clue. Kim believed the boy was mute and Clare knew he wasn’t, so they didn’t even agree on what those needs were. But Clare would play the game if it meant she could take Jack home. ‘Suppose John shows aggression,’ said Kim. ‘What would you do?’
Clare tried to remember what she was learning at puppy school with Samson. ‘I’d try ignoring it. Provide no response, no talking, no eye contact. Oh, and I’d give . . . positive reinforcement when his behaviour improved.’ Clare had almost said that she’d give him a dog biscuit.
Kim looked impressed. ‘Excellent. I see you’ve done a bit of child psychology along the way. That will be a great help.’
Clare nodded and smiled.
‘What else might you try?’
‘Um . . . Redirecting. I’d distract him with a toy when he starts to get agitated and refocus him on a calming activity.’ Kim beamed, and ticked off a series of boxes. The puppy training technique for children was working like a charm.
‘What about discipline?’ asked Kim. ‘What are your thoughts?’
‘No physical discipline, obviously,’ She wracked her brains for some more canine tips. Of course, crate training. ‘Time out, perhaps?’ said Clare. ‘Or a naughty chair?’
Kim moved on to easier questions. Stuff about the layout of her flat, and where Jack would sleep. For some reason, when asked about relationships, Clare didn’t mention Adam. Was it that they hadn’t been dating for that long? No, a year was long enough. It was more that she didn’t want Kim talking to him. Adam wouldn’t approve of her impulsive decision, any more than Roderick had when she’d suggested it. ‘You know the golden rule,’ he’d said. ‘Don’t get involved. A lawyer who breaks that rule is less effective professionally, loses objectivity, can’t function. You know all this, Clare. Let it go, will you?’
‘I’ll let it go,’ she’d responded. ‘Just as soon as you tell me you’ve found somewhere safe for the kid.’
As the assessment continued, she wasn’t entirely forthcoming about Samson, either. German shepherds had a bad reputation, so Samson was magically transformed into a cuddly labrador pup.
‘Before we proceed any further, you should see this.’ Kim handed Clare a few stapled pages, entitled ‘Report by Specialist Children Services on John Brown, aged four’.
Her eyes ran down a daunting litany of behavioural problems, listed by the clinical psychologist. Repeated and severe head banging, extreme tantrums, food obsessions. Clare took a deep breath. Hitting others, hitting himself, screaming, spitting, biting, bed-wetting, soiling. What on earth was she getting herself into? John has failed to develop language. He only communicates through yelling or by inflections of grunting (animal noises). His mother reports that John never cries. Given his diagnosis of mid- to high-range autism, he may never learn to talk. Perversely, this piece of misinformation cheered Clare up. Jack could definitely talk. If this bit of the report was wrong, maybe the rest was too?
An hour later, and the assessment was complete. ‘You’ll need to book him in for a general health check at your GP.’ Kim stood up. ‘Get his vaccinations up to date.’ That reminded her, Samson was due for his next set of shots too. ‘There’s funding available for child care,’ Kim continued. ‘You can arrange that yourself. Just make sure I sign off on it once it’s organised.’
Clare hadn’t thought so far ahead. What about that crèche just around the corner, from home? Jolly Juniors? No, Jolly Jumbucks. And it was right opposite Samson’s doggy day-care. She could drop them both off on her way to work. How long would those places care for a kid in one stretch, she wondered? Weekends, maybe? Maybe not. As long as they did late nights so she could still go out with Adam. He wouldn’t be able to stay at her place overnight for now. Not unless he jumped through some hoops, like submitting to a police check, and she couldn’t imagine him doing that. But perhaps, despite her misgivings, he might actually warm to the little boy? It was hard to say with Adam.
Kim handed Clare a business card with her phone number, and an after-hours contact. ‘For emergencies,’ she said. ‘There’s a spare car seat in my boot. I’ll just go and get it. And I’ll give you a ring in a day or two. See how you’re getting on.’ As Kim went to shake hands, she reached past Jack, who was still perched on Clare’s knee. The boy bit Kim on the arm. Clare could see his little teeth marks, opposing white crescents on Kim’s pink skin. Jack growled low in the back of his throat.
‘Good luck,’ said Kim, rubbing her arm and frowning. ‘You’ll need it.’
Had she lost all perspective? Lost all judgement? Was she just flattered that Jack seemed to like her and nobody else? She stroked his hair and he snuggled into her shoulder. Clare hugged him tight. What did it matter if her motivation was flawed? All that mattered was that Jack stayed safe and happy until Taylor came back. ‘Come on,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘Let’s go home.’
Chapter 3
The phone rang as they were leaving.
‘For you.’ Debbie held her hand over the receiver and mouthed a name. Adam. Clare nodded. It took her about one second to choose a white lie.
‘Adam, sorry, my phone’s been off.’ Clare took a deep breath. ‘I’m sick, Adam . . . yes, a pretty high temperature . . . it just came on so quickly . . . Apologise to your sister for me, won’t you? . . . Perhaps Heather could go instead? . . . I know you don’t need me to organise your social life . . . No, don’t come round. I just want an early night.’ Kim was walking towards her with the car seat. ‘Got to run.’ Clare ended the call. She’d almost added, Love you, but had thought better of it. Letting Adam down like she had, then lying to him? These weren’t especially loving things to do. And anyway, they were at that awkward stage of their relationship. Clare ignored the little voice that suggested the awkward stage was lasting a long time. Adam told her that he loved her in the heat of the night, but the phrase hadn’t yet passed his lips when the sun was up. Clare had once tested the water with a lunchtime I love you, and had been met with stony silence. She’d almost died of embarrassment.
With a relieved wave to Debbie, she and Jack were out the door. Kim helped her fit the car seat and waved goodbye. Clare struggled to strap the wriggling boy in and he slapped her in the face. ‘Ow,’ she said. ‘Stop that.’ This was already harder than she thought it would be.
A few minutes later, they were climbing the stairs to her flat. Clare unlocked the door and Jack trailed in after her. At least he’d let go of her leg. ‘Home sweet home,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
Jack marched into the kitchenette. He dropped his bag of toys, opened the fridge and began pulling out the contents. Bread, cheese, chocolate, carrots, half a tomato, lemons. He tipped over a milk carton. The liquid dripped onto the grey slate floor. He took a few bites from the cheese, a few bites from the chocolate and then dropped them in favour of bowling lemons along the tiles.
‘Jack, no.’ Clare retrieved the carton and dabbed at the white puddle with a sponge from the sink. Jack bowled a lemon at her legs. Clare caught it, put it on a high shelf and collected the others. When she tried to wrest the last piece of fruit from Jack’s grasp, he screamed and hurled it at her face. Clare dodged just in time. If her reflexes hadn’t been so swift, she would have had a black eye. It left her shaken. ‘You’ll make quite a wicket keeper one day.’
Jack ran into the minimalist, open-plan lounge room, bounced off the treadmill in the corner, then flung himself down on the white Georgetti couch. Not so white any more, not since Samson. She groaned. Samson. She’d forgotten all about him. She’d have to ring doggy day care. Maybe Helga could drop him off?
Clare sat down and the little boy hid his head under Samson’s old blank
et. ‘Jack?’ She lifted the corner. ‘Jack?’ He peered back at her, his expression blank. Pale skin, red tired-looking eyes. She picked up the remote and turned on the television, flicking through until she found a kid’s channel. Strange cartoon animals appeared out of magic balls, shooting fire and water and battling each other.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Look, it’s a Pokémon. It’s Tepig.’ Sure enough, an animated version of the funny orange pig was running around on the screen. Jack peeped out from under the blanket. ‘Do you want some milk?’
He nodded.
Clare pushed the glazed coffee table against the couch. She went into the kitchen, and picked up his bag of toys before pouring a glass of milk. Skim. It was all she had in the fridge. That, and chablis. Clare took Jack the drink and the bag of Pokémon. He rewarded her with an uncertain smile, the first since McDonald’s. She pulled up a chair next to him. He drank down the milk, curled up and promptly fell asleep. With a great, relieved sigh, Clare pulled Samson’s blanket up to his chin. She sneaked back to the kitchen, poured herself a generous amount of wine and sat down to think. The fog of emotion was clearing, allowing a little more clarity of thought. The enormity of what she’d done was finally hitting home and it was giving her a headache.
Her phone rang. Clare scrambled to retrieve it from her handbag before the jazzy tune woke Jack. It was Helga, director of doggy day-care, a veritable Valkyrie when it came to defending the rights of her canine charges, sometimes from their misguided owners. This was, apparently, one of those times. ‘Samson is still waiting to be collected, Clare. May I remind you, that this is becoming an all too regular occurrence.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Clare. ‘Could you perhaps keep him overnight?’
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