by Shane Dunphy
A decision about Katie’s future had to be made within the next few months, but no one seemed to know what to do with her. Several possibilities had been touted. Perhaps a more secure placement was necessary; but then, what could be more secure than having her isolated? Maybe her problem was physiological rather than emotional, and a medical unit was more appropriate. Unfortunately, however, there wasn’t a hospital in the world that could cope with her erratic moods and physical outbursts – except, of course, for a psychiatric setting, and she was certainly not insane; on the contrary, she seemed to know precisely what she was doing. If she was to return to communal living (and she would have to eventually), a population had to be found that could absorb her antisocial behaviour. That meant looking to settings that catered for juvenile offenders of the most hardened kind.
Dorothy was unhappy with all these eventualities, and suggested that Katie be given one final chance before she was condemned either to endless exploratory operations or to spending what remained of her childhood in a children’s prison. I was that last chance.
The playroom Dorothy brought me to contained just what a therapeutic play facility should. There was a good-sized dolls’ house, complete with furniture and figures the right size to fit it; a miniature town, with a supply of cars and shops and houses; a sandpit and water tray; paint, brushes and an easel; a set of bookshelves stocked with a variety of children’s books; a cheap nylon-strung guitar, a small, two-octave electronic keyboard and some percussion instruments; and a stereo, with a selection of CDs. Large, comfortable-looking beanbags were placed here and there, and soft safety mats, of the same kind as those in the Time Out Room, were rolled up against the wall. The room was decorated in primary colours, and a mural depicting a sunny day, green fields and a house with smoke coming out of the chimney adorned one wall. High up, near the ceiling, two video cameras watched us with their electric eyes. It was a bright, pleasant space, and it didn’t look as if it had been used more than once. The smell of fresh paint hung in the air, and some of the toys were still in their plastic wrapping.
I wandered over and picked up the guitar. It was, of course, badly out of tune, and I switched on the keyboard, got the G note, and began tuning the strings absently.
‘So,’ I said, as I turned the pins and plucked with my thumb. ‘What d’you think is really wrong with Katie?’
Dorothy settled herself wearily on to a saggy purple beanbag. ‘I haven’t got the foggiest idea. There was no build-up, no signs of disintegration. One morning she just woke up and was as she is today.’
‘Are there any particular idiosyncrasies, anything unusual about what she does that might give us a clue as to what’s motivating her?’
‘Well …’ Dorothy looked uncomfortable. ‘There is one thing, but I don’t know if it’s relevant or not.’
‘Okay. Let’s hear it.’
Dorothy took a deep breath. ‘She has an absolutely virulent hatred of men. We have no men whatsoever on the team here … can’t have, to tell you the truth. Her last social worker was a guy, and Katie put him in hospital, almost took his eye out with a pencil. Her attacks here are bad, but they don’t have the same sense of purpose and, well, meanness as when she’s around men.’
‘Brilliant,’ I said, strumming the chord of C – it wasn’t great, but it was close enough. ‘That’ll make my job a lot easier.’
Dorothy laughed, a little manically, I thought. ‘Won’t it,’ she said.
I began to pick a jaunty Cajun tune. It may appear rude, my continuing to play the guitar while talking to Dorothy about Katie and her problems. I had a feeling, however, that the manager was struggling to tell me something, and I thought that a small diversion would help her. Psychologists refer to it as the ‘third party’ method – putting something between you and the child who you hope will disclose.
‘There were male staff at her previous setting, though?’ I asked.
Dorothy stopped laughing. ‘Yes. One.’
‘And this change occurred suddenly – all this terrible rage and hatred of the male of the species.’
‘It did.’
‘It must have occurred to you that this male staff member could have had something to do with the transformation.’
Dorothy said nothing for a few moments. I continued to play the guitar, improvising around the melody line.
‘You’re quite good, aren’t you?’ she said, her eyes fixed on the mural.
‘I can carry a tune.’
‘The male staff member at Katie’s last setting is my husband.’
I nodded. I hadn’t expected that but tried not to let my surprise show. I’d been around childcare workers for long enough to know how absolutely devastated she must have been by what I’d just said, and was about to say. I took a deep breath, and continued. ‘I’m not the first one to suggest a connection, am I?’
‘No. But Katie has never indicated any interference, and she has been given ample opportunity to disclose. There was a half-hearted investigation – of course there had to be – but Claude was never even suspended from active duty.’
‘With the greatest of respect, Dorothy – he should have been, regardless of whether anyone believed Katie or not.’
‘I know. It’s just that, well, no one really thought he’d done anything, and Katie never for a minute actually said he’d touched her. She just … just seemed to start hating him. I know it was the most obvious thing to think. I didn’t, but I don’t blame anyone for wondering about it.’
‘The allegation still hurts, though, doesn’t it?’ I asked.
The biggest risk for any male working in child protection is that a child will allege that you have molested, abused or otherwise interfered with them. I have been incredibly lucky that in my fifteen years of practice I have never had a single charge brought against me. Part of the reason for this is that I am extremely careful in the way I interact with each child I encounter: I try to ensure that I am never in a room alone with them unless there is a window through which I can be seen, or the door is left open; I keep my tone of voice moderate; I never touch a child until a relationship has been built up, and then only when permission is given; I never raise my hand to a child in anger; when I hug a child, I keep my waist away from them, leaning into the hug with my shoulders to avoid any inadvertent genital contact. And there are countless other things I do that are instinctive – they’ve been drummed into me by people like Ben Tyrrell and other teachers, colleagues and professionals. They are a survival mechanism, and important for the safety and security of the kids as much as for my own.
Children get confused very easily. The line between reality and fantasy is never more vague than during the years of childhood. For children who have been abused, this blurring is even more intense. The imagination is often used as a tool for survival; children will pretend to themselves that the abuse never happened, or that someone other than a beloved father, mother, uncle or brother was the perpetrator, because that is easier than accepting the truth. False allegations are, unfortunately, common, but they are rarely meant maliciously. And of course each one must be taken seriously and investigated thoroughly. The problem is that once a complaint has been made, suspicion hangs in the air about the accused like a fog. Even when the investigation has been carried out and the individual’s name has been cleared, there is always doubt: maybe there wasn’t enough evidence; suppose the child was confused and certain dates got mixed up; perhaps the alleged abuser was careful and covered his tracks – after all, who knows how to manipulate the system better than someone working within that system?
‘Yes,’ Dorothy said, the pain evident in her voice and posture. ‘The suggestion that he might have done anything to hurt her is deeply upsetting.’
‘I’m going to ask you something, and please understand that I’m only asking because I have to. My job is to try to help Katie, and that means I have to look at every possible line of investigation.’
‘I know that.’
‘Do you
have any suspicion whatsoever that your husband may have actually abused her while she was in his care? Is there any doubt in your mind?’
Dorothy rubbed her eyes vigorously. I knew she had asked herself that same question dozens of times over the past ten months. But I needed her to look at the possibility again.
‘Of course I have doubts,’ she said. ‘You know as well as I do that abusers don’t look like monsters, and that this type of work sometimes attracts people for the wrong reasons. But, in my heart, I know Claude could never, ever do anything to hurt a child. I trust him.’
‘Okay, then.’ I put down the guitar. ‘It’s as likely to have been that social worker you mentioned, anyway.’
‘No. She attacked him the first day she met him. Her old social worker had been transferred to the disability section.’
There wasn’t much to say to that, so I let it go. ‘What’s Katie’s background?’
‘It’s pretty ordinary, really, for a child in care. She’s an orphan. Her parents were killed in a house fire when she was six years old. She had been in and out of care before their deaths. They were both young, barely out of their teens, and she was always a neglected, frightened little thing. The first time she came to the attention of Social Services was when she was three. She had been abused by a babysitter, a friend of her father’s –’
‘A female?’
‘Yes, unfortunately. It would have answered a lot of questions. Katie’s mother, who wasn’t exactly an ideal parent herself, found out about it and placed her in care voluntarily but applied to have her back after six months. There were regular complaints to the Health Services from neighbours and pre-school workers that had her on and off the books for the next couple of years. Then the fire occurred – Katie was staying over at an aunt’s house when it happened; otherwise she’d have died too. And that’s it, really.’
‘Nothing else unusual happened to her between then and now?’
‘Nope. I wish something had.’
‘I have only one other question.’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you have any decent coffee in this place, because I am hanging out for a cup?’
She smiled, looking decidedly relieved. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
They only had instant, as it happened, so I opted for tea instead. Dorothy and I chatted about everything and nothing, most of our conversation revolving around this strange thing we did for a living. I went out of my way to keep things light, and threw in as many inane jokes as I could. She appeared to need a laugh and to cut loose. The job of running this house was proving to be a heavy burden for her. I guessed that she had taken it on out of some twisted sense of responsibility for what her husband had been accused of – it was like a penance. I did not know at this stage whether he was guilty or not, but I guessed that, for Dorothy, working with Katie must have been like having a splinter that was causing her constant pain but was too deeply embedded to be prised out. I felt sorry for her. She seemed a genuine person, and I sensed no anger or hatred towards the child, which might have been understandable under the circumstances.
Around forty-five minutes later, an exhausted-looking woman came in and plonked herself into a chair at the table with us. I recognized her as Martina, the woman who had, to her detriment, loosened her grip on Katie before it was safe to. Dorothy introduced us.
‘She’s in the playroom,’ Martina said to me, pouring herself a cup from the teapot. ‘You will get absolutely no good out of her, but, on the positive side, she’s too knackered to go for you.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ I said, and stood up. To Dorothy I said: ‘Would you mind switching on the cameras, microphones and whatnot in the playroom, and keeping an eye on things? Particularly considering her attitude to men …’
‘Of course. I meant to record your sessions with her anyway.’
When I went into the playroom, the child was sprawled on two beanbags that she had pulled together to make a kind of couch. I came in and pushed the door closed, then stood leaning against the wall, close enough to still be in her line of vision but far enough away to pose no physical threat.
‘Hello, Katie,’ I said. ‘I’m Shane. I know you were told I was coming today. Is that why you got so angry?’
She turned her head to look directly at me. The girl held my gaze without flinching. People with intellectual disabilities and psychiatric problems find making eye contact difficult, but not Katie. She had a strong, handsome face, with prominent cheekbones and an almost oriental slant to her eyes that, combined with coal-black hair and a dark complexion, gave her an exotic look.
‘You can fuckin’ stand there and talk. I’m all shagged out; otherwise I’d goddamn well friggin’ have you. But take one step closer, and I swear to fuck that I will ram my fist right down your Christ almighty shite-spoutin’ throat. Right?’
I shrugged and stayed where I was. She had a colourful and imaginative talent with profanity. I’ve been around people who use expletives liberally, and am not averse to the odd outburst myself. But Katie’s command of vulgarity was almost poetic. I was impressed.
‘I get the feeling you’re kind of pissed off I’m here.’
She returned to staring at the ceiling. ‘Jaysus. How’d you pick that one up, you snot-arsed cunt?’
‘Call it intuition.’
‘I tell you what.’ She pushed herself up on to an elbow. ‘You shut the fuckin’ hell up, and I’ll chill out over here. I suggest you stay for a little while and then feck off, and we’ll let on you did your bit of whatever arseholin’ nonsense you’re meant to be doin’. How’s that sound to ya?’
‘Can I sit down?’ I asked, pointing to the beanbag nearest to me.
‘Suit yourself.’
I sat. ‘Look, I’m not going to ask you any questions. I’m not a shrink. All I’m here to do is to give you some time to play with the stuff that’s in this room. If during the time I’m with you, you want to lie on beanbags, that’s your call. I think it’ll get pretty boring, but this is your time.’
‘You talk so nice. All these wonderful bastardin’ promises. You’re just like all the others. You want to find out why I’m such a human wreckage.’
‘You know they’re talking about where to send you next, don’t you? None of the places they’re looking at are very good. I’d like to be able to give them some options. And Katie, you’re unhappy. I mean, you’re really miserable. If I can change that, I’ll have done something worth while.’
‘Yeah, okay. Whatever. I’m going to have a rest now. You can see yourself out when you’re ready.’
She feigned being asleep, but I knew she wasn’t. She was like a coiled spring, ready to snap into action the moment I got too close. I sat for a few minutes, watching her.
‘Look, I’m going to sort through some of the toys,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to do anything. I just want to see what’s here.’
‘Come near me and I’ll burst ye.’
‘You’re quite safe, believe me.’
‘But are you?’
I ignored her and began to look through the cars and figures for the miniature town. I set them out in rows, and began to play a game, moving a couple of cars around the little streets and making some quiet sound effects to accompany what I was doing. From the corner of my eye I could see Katie watching me. I made no sign that I had spotted her, and continued to play. After five or six minutes it all got too much for her.
‘What the skankin’ hell are you doin’?’
‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘How the fuck can I sleep when you’re playin’ Bob the motherfuckin’ Builder over there?’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. Just got a bit carried away.’
‘You’re a fuckin’ wank stain.’
She rolled over so her back was to me. I picked up a Tonka Truck and started to make the loudest, most offensive engine noises I could muster. That, as I had hoped, was as much as she could endure.
‘Wha
t in the name of Bill’s bollix are you playin’ at?’
She rolled off the beanbags and stormed over, snatching the truck from me and giving me a punch that was so half-hearted it was more of a gentle shove.
‘I’m playing. What’s the problem?’
‘You boys are all the cuntin’ same. Cars and trucks’re all you’re into. Stupid, sucky, shitty-arsed baby games.’
‘What’s stupid about them?’
‘They don’t mean anythin’. Diggers and dumpers and concrete mixers. Empty-brained, fuckin’ bollix skid-mark stuff.’
She threw the truck as hard as she could against the wall. It bounced off and hit the floor with a thud. She picked up another car, a model of a Ford Fiesta, and began pushing it aggressively around the narrow streets, smashing it into some of the buildings and knocking them off kilter. She made a car noise that was even more vulgar than the one I had been emitting. Suddenly she swerved the car off the road and knocked down two little plastic figures. She paused for a split second, before reaching over, picking them up and putting them into the back of the car. She moved it off again, pushing it around the track a couple of times, then parked it outside the model of the hotel.
‘Come on, Barbie, let’s go party,’ she said in a loud, mock jovial voice. The two figures were taken out of the car and moved into the hotel. ‘Drink, barman. Loads of drink for me ’n’ Barbie.
‘Yes, sir, Mr Ken, sir.’
I sat back, saying nothing. I had picked up on the ‘Barbie Girl’ reference (years working with children have left me, regrettably, with an above-average knowledge of novelty pop), but I could already see that there was something deeper afoot.
‘More drink, Mr Barman.
‘No problem, Mr Ken. Here’re more pints for you and your good lady. Don’t be gettin’ drunk now.
‘Oh, we won’t get too drunk, barman. Sure, haven’t we a baby at home to mind?’