by Shane Dunphy
‘Peer abuse is extremely common in residential settings, Karl. Some statistics I’ve read suggest that as much as sixty per cent of all sexual abuse perpetrated upon children is carried out by other children.’
‘I’m aware of the studies. Finn feels, and I agree with him, that children in care should be free from such activities. He just isn’t sure how to go about eradicating the problem.’
I lit a cigarette and considered. ‘First thing you need to understand: it just isn’t possible to stop peer abuse completely. If a child is determined, he or she will bide their time, and that one second you’re not watching will be the time they strike. Also, calling it abuse is not strictly accurate. It is often consensual experimentation between peers. The tone of it is probably what makes it abusive. Children who have been abused approach normal, adolescent sexual exploration in a violent and aggressive manner, because that’s how they’ve experienced it themselves.’
‘Understood.’
‘The obvious thing I’d do is to ensure that all children have their own room, increase staff-to-child ratios and, if there isn’t already one, introduce a live night-shift, with regular patrols to safeguard against bed-hopping. I’ve read of places that have installed closed-circuit television systems, but that might be a little over the top.’
‘It’s a thought,’ Devereux said. ‘I could get one quite cheaply.’
‘I’ll bet you could.’
The little boat dipped and bobbed through the water, and the skyline of the city we both loved and, sometimes, loathed, got ever closer through the rain and salt and freezing wind.
It was four weeks until Christmas.
PART TWO
Piggy in the Middle
They laid me in the prison and they threw away the key.
I heard a young boy screaming as the night came down on me
I swore they wouldn’t break me, that I would still be strong
But last night I woke up crying – I guess that I was wrong.
‘Prisoner’s Blues’, traditional blues song
6
They parked the shiny, metallic-coloured mobile home right beside a cracked, pot-holed footpath not far from the thunderous docks, the brown, stinking River Torc flowing in a rippling, seemingly alive torrent of eddies and treacherous currents below it. I was far from happy with where it was sited – this was not a safe place for Tilly’s children. Yet she was insistent. They were in danger from her husband’s relations now, and she had family parked near by who could protect them. This was the best place for them to set up camp.
The young woman was still treating me with a liberal dose of distaste, but my delivering a brand-spanking-new four-bedroom trailer with its own electrical generator certainly raised me in her estimation. She stood at my side by a low metal railing that was supposed to prevent people from falling into the river, shivering against the biting, sleet-sodden wind, and watched as new furniture was loaded into the mobile home.
Since the awful night I took her and the children from the halting site, there had been a gradual, almost painful rebuilding of trust between us, spurred on by the fact that the children all seemed to like me – and they were, in many ways, all she had left.
I had long since learned that, in situations such as this, tenacity was my greatest asset. Tilly could try to freeze me out by leaving every time I came into the room, or by totally ignoring me if she had to stay; she could make every effort to thwart me by not bringing the children to see me at prearranged times. But I kept on coming back, and continued to talk to her with a pleasant, easy tone. When she blanked me, I made a point of responding as if she had answered, filling in the gaps in the conversation myself if I needed to.
However, I also knew that, in reality, this type of interaction (or lack thereof) could not go on for ever. If I were ever to really help this family, the bridges I had been forced to burn would have to be reconstructed. I figured that there was only one sure-fire way of getting that started – bribery.
I have always said that there is no shame in resorting to a good old-fashioned bribe if all else fails. I needed Tilly to start interacting with me, and, although I was beginning to sense a thawing, it was happening far too slowly. So, the previous Monday, I arrived at the shelter where she and the kids (all except Johnny, who was still in hospital) were staying with a catalogue for new mobile homes. Ben had already approved the purchase, so I knew I had the financial wherewithal to back up my promises.
Tilly was still dealing with me in only the most superficial manner, so I simply came into the sitting room where she was absently watching television, sat opposite her and began to leaf through the brochure, ensuring she could see the large pictures of trailers that adorned each page. I watched her out of the corner of my eye and waited for her to make some comment. She held out for ten pained minutes, until finally she could take no more.
‘What’re ya doin’ with that?’
‘I told you that we’d get you a new trailer, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah …’
‘Well, you’ll need to pick one out. I figured you’d want to look in some catalogues first, and then you, me and the kids can go to see some. This company has a yard not too far from here. You could try out a few for size.’
She eyed me warily. ‘You’re really gonna buy me a new caravan.’
‘I am. The money’s been cleared. We have five thousand to spend on the mobile home, some new furniture, an electrical generator, and whatever else you all need.’
She shook her head and looked down at her knees. There was that internal struggle again. How could she trust me? I was male, from the settled community, a representative of Social Services – there were so many reasons to refuse to play ball with me. But the promise of a new home for her and the children was simply too good to pass up.
‘Here, throw that over,’ she said at last, looking at me openly for the first time in many days. ‘I bet you don’t know the first thing about trailers.’
And so the particular model (a tube-shaped creation that reminded me of some kind of spaceship) was settled upon, and a purchase made.
By the river, the wind picked up with renewed ferocity. Tilly glanced over at me as I brushed a wet strand of hair from my face and stamped my feet to reintroduce some sensation. ‘This is a nice thing,’ she said, suddenly unable to hold my gaze. ‘No one never done anything like this for me nor the childers ’fore.’
I grinned, and nodded at the side of her head. ‘You’re welcome, Tilly. I hope ye’re all happy here. You might find that hard to believe, but I genuinely do.’
I dropped in on the Curran children, who were at the refuge while their mother and her brothers moved furniture and possessions. The kids were either in bed or having their suppers before going to their respective rooms. Those still up were ebullient, excited at the prospect of having their own place again. I got roped into reading Milly and Benjy a couple of chapters of Roald Dahl’s The Twits, which we had been working our way through, and then had a hurried cup of coffee before driving to the hospital to see Johnny.
The thing that always affected me the most when I visited Tilly’s son was just how helpless and delicate he looked, bundled up in a bed that seemed far too big for him, his head still covered in bandages, the swelling and scar tissue visible about his eyes and nose. I found, each and every time I entered the ward, that I was, for a moment, almost overwhelmed by a rush of sadness and anger at this child’s plight. Children never bring abuse upon themselves, but somehow the injuries done to this little boy seemed to me to illustrate perfectly just how cruel, random and thoroughly unfair the world can be. Johnny should have been out playing, having birthday parties and collecting Yu-Gi-Oh! cards. Now, it seemed, he was unlikely to be doing any of those things for a very long time.
Travellers, as a rule, do not like hospitals, the old adage that you enter them to be born or to die causing a good deal of discomfort for Tilly each time she visited Johnny. So she came only about once a week. I tried to s
ee the little boy every day, often flouting normal visiting hours and seeing him early in the morning before work if I knew I’d be clocking off too late that night to make it worth my while coming over (sitting by the boy’s bedside while he slept seemed a bit daft).
When I arrived that evening, Johnny did seem to be sleeping, but, as I pulled the heavy, uncomfortable chair over to him, his eyes flickered open and a wan smile spread across his pale face.
‘Hey, there,’ I said. His tiny hand reached out for mine. I took it, and we sat like that for a while.
The prognosis for Johnny Curran was bleak. Two days after he was admitted, I had dragged a seething Tilly to talk to the doctors who had operated on the child, in an effort to limit the already substantial harm done to him. Tilly stood beside me, her body taut and trembling, as a young intern explained that Johnny would, in all probability, never make a full recovery. I waited for her to ask questions, to respond to this news, even to express disbelief or horror, but she never moved or uttered a sound. The doctor looked uncomfortable, shuffling from one foot to another, and finally made an excuse and left. Tilly had walked slowly to a side door, pushing it open and descending the steps to the car park, where she crumbled into a heap, sobbing uncontrollably. I watched her for a time, wanting to go out and put my arm around her, but instead I went to sit with her son. My comfort would, at that stage, have been unwelcome.
The swelling around Johnny’s brain had subsided, but he was still gravely weakened by his ordeal, and unable to do anything except lie in bed. I had brought in games, some big colourful picture books and a few basic tactile activities, like large beads that could be threaded on to strings. Other than the stories, which he seemed to love, the equipment ended up sitting on his bedside table untouched. It was all just too much for him. It broke my heart, and I continued to bring in something new every day, but so far he had only looked at the toys and learning materials with a vacant expression.
I was promised that he would eventually receive some physiotherapy, but that he needed to regain strength first. The physiotherapist, a muscular, short-haired woman, told me that, in fact, we should not expect too much from this child. ‘In all likelihood,’ she said, ‘he’ll need to learn how to walk and talk all over again. It will be a painfully slow process, and I’m not convinced his mother will stand the long haul. Without a huge amount of support, children like this can often just stagnate. I’ve seen them waste away, regress. That woman won’t be able to provide that kind of consistency. Mark my words.’
I felt myself bristling at this. ‘He’ll get whatever help he needs,’ I said.
‘What,’ the large woman had scoffed. ‘From you? You’ll get bored and move on. You’ll have other cases. And when he starts to get frustrated and maybe violent, he won’t appear half so cute. They do, you know. A year or two stuck in bed, and even the sweetest ones start to get narky.’
Was she testing my resolve? Was she trying to see if I’d run right then and there? I was agog at a medic speaking in such a negative manner, but her facial expression was still jovial as she patted me on the shoulder and wandered off down the corridor, humming the theme tune to The Archers.
My mind wandered back to that conversation as I sat with Johnny. With his huge liquid eyes, his skin improving under the sterile conditions of the hospital, aided by the improved diet, he certainly was cute, and I could not deny that the trauma of his injuries and my involvement in getting him into hospital in the first place had possibly caused me to become even more attached than I usually would. But, after much soul-searching, I decided that no, regardless of cynicism, I was not by this kid’s bedside out of some inflated sense of duty or an over-romanticized belief in the healing power of love. I was there because I knew he needed me. And I would be there as long as that need remained. I hoped that, eventually, Tilly would rise to the challenge, but, until she was in a position to, I would continue to visit and do what I could.
And anyway, it was not as if he was just lying there staring at me. Despite his immobility and silence, there was a huge amount of interaction. He had responded from the moment he regained consciousness. What I sensed from Johnny – and I will admit that this was based on nothing but my own instincts – was that the child I had encountered before the injury was locked up inside the present one. What we needed to do was untangle the wiring and find a way to let him out. As a childcare worker, I had little understanding of the physiology of Johnny’s condition. Having done Biology at school, a year of what had been referred to as Child Health Studies when I was at college and one or two first-aid courses during the years of my professional career, I was as far from a medic as it was possible to get. I did, however, have a wealth of experience with hurt and damaged children. I had learned to trust my gut feelings. Somewhere, within the shattered body that lay before me, holding on for dear life, was a child crying out to be helped, begging us not to give up on him. The little hand squeezed mine tightly.
‘What would you like to do this evening, Johnny?’ I asked him. I knew he couldn’t answer, but I always chatted to him anyway, trying to read his responses as best I could.
The boy seemed to squirm in the bed, moving his chin slightly, rolling his eyes; a stream of saliva ran down his chin. I took a tissue from a box on his bedside locker and cleaned off the drool.
‘Would you like to play a game?’ I asked as I wiped the spittle away.
No response.
‘What about threading some beads together? I’ve got lots of different colours.’
Again, no change.
‘All right, how about a story?’
A huge smile, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, erupted across Johnny’s bruised and battered face.
‘A story it is, then. Y’know, I’ve been reading this one to your brother and sister. It’s very funny, about a mean old man and woman, and a family of monkeys that live in their garden.’
His eyes opened wide at this information. It was as if he was saying A family of monkeys! I want to hear more about that.
‘Shove over in the bed so I can show you the pictures.’
I helped him to slide over a little and perched beside him, leaning over so he could get a good view of Quentin Blake’s wonderful, grotesque depictions of Mr and Mrs Twit and their terrible house.
One of the things I love about Roald Dahl’s books is that they tap into aspects of children’s psyches in a way that very few other children’s writers have ever dared to do, with the exception of those who wrote the old, traditional fairy tales. I don’t think there is another relatively contemporary writer who ploughs such a rich, dark furrow, while maintaining a sense of wonder, fun and outright joy within the fabric of each book. His tales also present simple and recognizable but complex characters, which children can latch on to immediately.
In the case of The Twits there is a long sequence about bearded men. Mr Twit is a filthy, ill-tempered, old grouch, with a spiky, bristly beard that covers most of his face. Dahl proposes the idea that bearded men are inherently dirty and duplicitous, as they cannot possibly wash their faces properly (there is a truly glorious picture of all the food Mr Twit has managed to get stuck in his moustache, which is worth getting the book for alone) and wish to hide behind something.
I am, of course, a bearded man myself (although nowhere near as impressively adorned as Mr Twit), which means that, when I read The Twits to a child, I always come in for a fair amount of ribbing. I was interested to see how Johnny would react – if he would be able to respond at all. I could see right off that he was carefully watching the pictures, and there were a couple of rapid intakes of breath as we read the first pages. Finally, as the beard sequence got into full swing, I suddenly felt a sharp nudge in my ribs. I looked down, and there was little Johnny, grinning broadly, pointing up at my face.
‘What?’ I said, unable to contain a smile myself. ‘You don’t think I’m like Mr Twit, do you?’
Still pointing, Johnny nodded, and then suddenly, bubbling up fro
m within him like a fresh spring, a laugh. It was full of merriment and innocent joy, and I thought I would almost burst with happiness myself. This was a major breakthrough. A sense of humour, as unimportant as it might at first appear, is a clear indication of intellect. If you can understand that something is funny, then you can reason. What this meant was that, mentally at least, Johnny was not as badly injured as we had feared. There was still much work to do physically, but his mind, and his spirit, remained intact. Laughing along with him, I gave him a tight hug, and then continued on with the story. And we laughed again and again, as Mr and Mrs Twit waged a war of practical jokes against one another – putting worms into each other’s spaghetti, frogs in their beds and glass eyes in glasses of beer. The rain and snow beat on the window, but on the ward it was warm, and I was never so glad to be able to do the work I did.
Roberta Plummer unlocked the door and stood back to allow me inside her brother’s old bedroom. I turned to her before going in.
‘Are you sure you’re okay with this? If you’d prefer that I didn’t, I’ll understand.’
She took a deep breath and tried to smile. ‘You must do what you have to, Shane. I want him to get better. If this will help, I’m all for it.’
‘But you think it’s an invasion of privacy.’
She laughed. ‘As you pointed out to me when we met some weeks ago, we’re not friends. It is not easy to bring you into my home and let you into my little brother’s private quarters like this. I admit to feeling slightly … violated is perhaps too strong a word, but it nevertheless feels a little like that. However, I know that you’re very good at what you do, and I also realize that you wouldn’t have made the request to see his room unless you thought it was absolutely necessary.’