Читать книгу A Stolen Childhood: A Dark Past, a Terrible Secret, a Girl Without a Future - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 10

Knowing that, in all likelihood, I wouldn’t now get the chance to have lunch in the dining hall, I nipped into the staff-room to grab a sandwich from the new vending machine, and of course another coffee to warm me up. It was safe to say that the heating, or lack of it, was the hot topic of conversation, even if the grumbles and complaints were all about the cold. After waiting for a minute or so for the corridors to clear of the last remaining children making their way outside, I went along to the learning support department to see Julia Styles.

‘Ah, Casey,’ she said, smiling as I entered her office, ‘I thought you might be popping in. I guess you want to know a little bit more about your new students. Grab a chair and I’ll see what I can find. Not that I’m any wiser than you are at the moment, to be honest. Don’t even know who they are. What with the blasted radiators and everything, I’ve not even had a chance to look myself yet.’

‘Well, yes, that would be helpful,’ I said, sitting down on the chair to the left of her desk, ‘but no rush. Actually I’m here about a year eight girl. Kiara Bentley? I just picked her up from the assembly hall after that fracas earlier. You know about that?’

Julia nodded. ‘I do. Don stopped by before he left and filled me in.’

‘He took the boy himself then?’

Julia nodded. ‘And fingers crossed all is well. Though the consensus seemed to be that he was a great deal more fixated on – ahem – another part of his anatomy.’

I smiled. ‘I’m not surprised.’ I told her the version of events Kiara had outlined to me – a version I didn’t doubt was pretty accurate, too.

She rolled her eyes. ‘So he’s had something of an education today, by the sound of it. And how’s Kiara? She okay now? Don said she was in a right state.’

‘She’s okay now. I’ve just left her. She’s taken herself off to lunch. But I’m going to track down her form teacher and see if she can come back to me this afternoon. There’s something about her … I don’t know, Julia. It might be something or nothing, but she’s clearly over-tired, and she’s got this hair-pulling thing going on. You know what I’m like,’ I added, seeing the grin spreading on my colleague’s face. ‘Just a bit of an itch I’ve got.’

‘We-ell,’ she said, ‘funnily enough, there is something on Kiara Bentley’s record, so that itch of yours certainly isn’t way off-beam. It’s historic, though, so don’t get too excited. An incident from back at the start of year seven. Hang on,’ she said, rising from her chair, ‘I’ll pull her file out.’

It didn’t take Julia long to find the file, and to explain that not long after Kiara had joined the school, another year seven pupil had reported that she’d had cuts up her arm – cuts that, when questioned by the child, Kiara had freely admitted she’d done herself. When confronted by her teacher, Kiara had been equally upfront, brushing it off as silliness; saying that she’d read a magazine article about self-harming and, stupidly – her admission – had decided to try it herself, just to find out ‘if it hurt’.

Which naturally got my itch going all the more. ‘She was apparently quite matter-of-fact,’ Julia said. ‘I remember talking to the teacher myself. Said she had absolutely no intention of doing anything so silly ever again. Though, naturally, not entirely convinced, we brought the mum in for a chat. And she was extremely upset about it all, as you can imagine, but could offer nothing in the way of an explanation for it. Had no idea what had possessed her, apparently. Her inclination was to put it down to attention seeking, and we were inclined to agree with her. She did say she’d been working long hours – perhaps too long – and, well, we all know what it’s like for some of our working single parents, don’t we? And I don’t think there’s much in the way of extended family to provide support. Anyway, Kiara was offered counselling, obviously, but she point-blank refused, after which there was little we could do about it other than try and keep an eye on her.’

‘So it was left at that point?’ I asked. ‘No one continued to monitor her?’

Almost as soon as the words were out I felt myself redden, realising how incredulous my tone had been. I saw something flash across Julia’s face too, perhaps unsurprisingly, as if she couldn’t quite believe I might be daring to insinuate that she’d not done her job probably.

But it soon disappeared; I think she realised I really wasn’t pointing fingers. She had had a big, busy department to run, and she ran it brilliantly. And she couldn’t possibly be expected to have eyes and ears everywhere, any more than the rest of us could.

Even so, stated so baldly, it did seem surprising that something so potentially serious could have been dropped so quickly. No, I wasn’t backing down in that regard. And the itch was itching fiercely.

‘Well, of course we did what we could for a while,’ Julia assured me. ‘Kept our eyes open; informed the obvious teachers in the PE and Drama departments to be on the look-out for cuts and scratches on her arms and legs and so on. But other than that, our hands were – and are – a bit tied.’ Julia spread her palms then. ‘And, well, since then, there’s been nothing to ring alarm bells. Yes, she’s a bit of a loner. Not a garrulous child. Keeps herself to herself. But this was back at the start of year seven and we’re now more than halfway through year eight, and, as I say, no one’s flagged up any cause for concern more recently.’

Yet, I thought. Yet. And I begged to differ. ‘I think there might be now,’ I said, hoping I didn’t sound as if I knew better, but at the same time aware that it needed to be said. ‘I think she’s still self-harming, just a lot more discreetly.’

‘Really?’ asked Julia, leaning forward in her seat, if not exactly pricking up her ears. It was always a delicate balancing act, trying to observe the protocols of position and seniority; it wasn’t up to me to try and tell her her job. ‘And what makes you think that, Casey?’

‘Not cutting,’ I quickly clarified. ‘Nothing like that. But she has got a bald patch on her head – quite a big one – and I watched her myself as she was pulling her own hair out; she’s not even really aware that she’s doing it. I know that in itself doesn’t scream self-harm – it’s more like a tic – but given what you’ve just told me about her history of self-harming, I’m even more inclined to think than I was when I got in here that there’s some underlying problem still present. And she’s clearly come into school exhausted this morning.’

Julia picked up a pen and clicked the end a couple of times as she thought; a little tic of her own. Then she nodded. ‘I take your point. We certainly shouldn’t ignore it. And you never know, if you have a couple of hours with her, you might get her to open up – sniff out whatever’s to be sniffed out in your usual Sherlocky style. But what about the other kids you’ve got coming tomorrow? Shall we run through them quickly now together?’

I shook my head. ‘Don’t worry now,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you can spare me ten minutes at the end of the day instead? Or first thing tomorrow?’

Like me, Julia was invariably in early. In a job that often meant being reactive once the children were put into the equation, there was a lot to be said for having 30 or so precious minutes at either end of the day in which you could be proactive instead, not to mention time to organise your thoughts. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Just come and find me – I’ll be here. And right now, you need to get that sandwich down you, don’t you? Mind you, a hot toddy would be preferable today, wouldn’t it? Honestly, Casey. It’s not on, this, is it? I mean, it’s not as if it’s –’

‘Rocket science?’ I supplied for her, grinning.

I checked my watch as I hurried back to the staff-room. We had a bank of computers there, in the quiet room that was just off the main communal area, and if there was one free, I probably had just enough time to log in before the bell went, and do a bit of speed-research as I ate.

And I was in luck. I was able to get onto one right away.

I never failed to be awed by the usefulness of the internet. Luddite that I was (most new technology tended to baffle me initially) I had come to really embrace the amazing free resource that was the plethora of information on the web. What would probably be taken for granted in no time at all was, at that time (for me, at any rate), an incredibly helpful tool. You had to be savvy about it, of course – there was probably plenty of mis-information on there too – but much to my own children’s consternation and horror, I’d enrolled in a course at our local library during the last holidays; a kind of idiot’s guide or, as my son called it, ‘idiot old person’s guide’ to the magic of the internet. He might have laughed – and he did, like all smart-alec computer-savvy kids – but I’d actually found it very useful. I’d learned a lot; in fact I now considered myself able enough to even keep tabs on what the young people who came to me got up to when I allowed them to work on my computer in school – a teaching skill of increasing importance.

Having opened my typically impenetrable plastic sandwich wrapper as quietly as I could (you weren’t supposed to eat and drink near the computers) I typed ‘pulling out hair, children’ into the search engine. Up came the results, and the first was one long word: trichotillomania. Intrigued by the fancy name (I had to read it twice, slowly) I started to read.

What I learned immediately was that I was wrong to assume that Kiara’s hair pulling was a sign of continuing self-harm; in terms of something or nothing, perhaps it was a ‘nothing’ then. Because according to everything I was reading, it had nothing whatsoever to do with wanting to hurt oneself, or indeed give oneself a bald patch. It was a neurological condition, more like a compulsion than a habit – indeed a tic – and once started was extremely difficult to stop. It was more common in girls, apparently, and the usual age for onset was around 11, though it could apparently start earlier than that.

What did stand out, though, was that hair pulling wasn’t confined to any particular cultural or social group; even the happiest, most settled children could develop the compulsion, just as easily as an unhappy or abused child could. But as I’d suspected, it was a reaction to stress, and since that bald patch had clearly been there for a while, it was a stress that was ongoing.

So it was probably a case of finding out what form the stress took, and on that score I had little to go on. It might be something as straightforward as the start of puberty and anxiety about the changes that were going on inside Kiara; many girls developed issues with body-confidence around that time, and, physically, Kiara seemed quite a ‘young’ 12-year-old to me. It might be bullying – in which case, was it a response to the stress inherent in coming to school? Or was it home-based – something to do with her relationship with her mum? There could be so much going on that we didn’t know about, after all.

But it was pointless to speculate. All I could do was watch and wait and wonder – and try to tune into what it might be that gave her that look – as if she had the weight of the world on those narrow shoulders. That and the evident fatigue. What was that about?

‘Now that’s a very serious Casey face,’ came a voice from behind me. ‘I can see it in the screen. You want a coffee before the off?’

I swivelled around on the swivel chair to find Kelly in the doorway, brandishing my mug. There was an encouraging tendril of steam coming from it, too.

‘Just concentrating,’ I told her, accepting it gratefully. ‘Been trying to find out a bit about trichotillomania. Tricho – yes, I got that right. Trichotillomania. Did you hear about the hoo-hah in the year eight assembly?’

‘Sure did,’ Kelly said. ‘All poor Donald needed.’

‘Well, the girl, Kiara Bentley – I took her back to the Unit with me. Hence the search. She’s got quite some bald patch in her hair. And the whole business – I mean, just how tired d’you have to be to end up with your head in a boy’s lap?’

‘Assuming that was the case. He’ll probably say differently.’

I shook my head. ‘He might well, but I’m pretty sure I believe her.’

‘And you know what?’ Kelly said, pointing a finger towards the screen. ‘That does figure. Yes. It really does. One of the Maths teachers – whatshisface – was talking about Kiara the other day – yes, I’m sure he said the name Kiara – and saying that she kept falling asleep in lessons. Yes, I’m sure it was her. I’ll double check.’

‘Would you? And if you run into anyone else who might have dealings with her, ask them about her as well. I just have this sense that there’s more to this whole thing than meets the eye. Anyway, she’s coming back to me after lunch. Maybe I’ll get something more out of her then.’

‘And some cheap labour too,’ Kelly said, winking. ‘Nice work, Dr Watson!’

Kiara was already outside my door when I returned after the lunch break, having let her form teacher know she’d be with me for the rest of the day. Once again, I was struck by how doll-like she looked, from her petite, elfin face, to her nicely pressed school uniform, which looked as if it had only recently been bought. Now she was composed again, she positively gleamed with grooming, and I mused that if the school had to select a poster girl to reflect their sartorial benchmark, then this little girl would be she.

‘Ready to roll your sleeves up?’ I asked her, as I unlocked the door and opened it. ‘What are you getting out of this afternoon anyway?’

‘Double English,’ she said, without hesitation.

‘Well, we’ll be doing double decorating instead,’ I said. ‘That okay with you?’

‘That’s fine, miss,’ she said, taking the pink backpack from her shoulders and parking it on a nearby chair. ‘I’m good at decorating. I painted a whole bedroom wall last weekend, all by myself. Pink,’ she added, grinning.

I smiled at her. ‘How did I know you were going to say that? So, what would you like to do, sweetie? My walls all look bare, the glass in my door looks boring, and all my plants need a watering and a talking-to, so – take your pick. What are you best at?’

She chose to create some artwork for the door, which suited me fine. Doing something physical was often key to getting kids to open up. Rather than sit them down and start interrogating them, I’d learned over the years that a softly-softly, lateral approach was usually better – get them doing something alongside you that kept half their minds occupied, and a child would often relax enough to open up a little.

I was quite the expert at it, in fact. With my son Kieron, who had a mild form of autism called Asperger’s Syndrome (as it was known back then, anyway), I had become well practised in winkling out the nuts and bolts of anxiety in a child who preferred to bottle everything up. If he was struggling with something, I’d nag him to help me with something in the house or garden and then, once he was ‘in the zone’ of whatever he was doing, he’d be so much more receptive to sharing what was on his mind and we’d be able to find a solution together. It was never quite as simple as that with the kids in school, obviously, because we didn’t have that history and mother/son bond. But, eventually, after building up that all-important trust, they usually did start to talk.

And hopefully Kiara would, too. ‘Right then,’ I said as I clapped my hands together. ‘The door it is. I’ll leave the design ideas to you.’

Kiara threw herself into the work with gusto. Within ten minutes, she was carefully cutting out the giant cardboard Easter egg shapes she had decided would be perfect. She’d made four of them in total, having checked with me first, one for her to write her name on – ‘Kiara woz ’ere!’ she joked – and one for each of the three children who I told her would be joining me in the morning. She was using different coloured card for each and decorating them with contrasting borders. ‘You can explain to them that they have to write their names across this middle bit,’ she said. ‘And then they can stick them to the glass in the door. That should brighten the place up a bit, miss, shouldn’t it?’

A girl after my own heart, I thought, as I remembered the flowers that had previously adorned the door, all decorated by my last brood of children. I also noted that she seemed both alert and engaged and, with her hands fully occupied, was refraining from absent-mindedly fiddling with her hair.

‘That’s a great idea,’ I agreed, having a bit of a re-think, ‘and since you’re so good with the art stuff, you can put up some new borders round my display panels, while I get on with sorting out the books.’

‘I’ve always been good at practical things,’ she said. ‘I get it from my mum. That’s what she always says – that we’re both really good with our hands. But I’ll help you sort the books out as well, once I’m done. I’m good at that too.’

But it turned out there was something Kiara Bentley was even better at. The decorations made, she did indeed join me in the quiet corner and between us we pulled out every single book in there, dusted them off, categorised them and put them all back in their new positions, after which I left her to it, putting labels on the front of the shelves so everyone who borrowed a book would know where to put it back, while I had a quick clear-out of my desk.

I hadn’t gleaned a great deal, only snippets of rather bland info; that this slight and pretty 12-year-old liked pink, enjoyed pop magazines and wearing make-up, that her mum didn’t like her dad so they got divorced when she was little, and that, mostly, she didn’t really have friends round the house because her mum didn’t like the place being messed up when she was out at work. There was nothing much, all told, to inflame the itch further, and perhaps, despite the hair-pulling, there wouldn’t be. Perhaps she was just a lonely-ish kind of kid, living a less than perfect childhood, with a mum who worked long hours, and who wasn’t getting enough sleep; she wouldn’t have been the first and she wouldn’t be the last, after all.

I’d try to keep an eye on her, as far as I could, and I had shared my concerns. But I knew that, come tomorrow, I’d have three new demanding charges, all with problems needing interventions that would probably fill both my time and my head. ‘You want another orange juice, love?’ I asked her as I flicked the switch on the kettle. And when she didn’t answer, I immediately went over to the quiet corner, already knowing what I would probably find there.

And I did. I put my head round the bookcases to find her curled up on a bean bag, fast asleep again and gently snoring. I stepped away again, made my coffee, finished clearing my desk, and only when it got to five minutes before the bell was due to buzz for home time did I return to the quiet corner and shake her gently awake.

She woke up wide-eyed, disorientated, blinking.

I smiled, hands on hips, as she rubbed her eyes and stood up. ‘You are definitely burning too much midnight oil, young lady,’ I told her. ‘Early night for you tonight and that’s an order.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I just sat down to do the labels on the bottom shelf and … well,’ she added sheepishly, ‘I must have drifted off.’

‘Tell me, Kiara,’ I said, driven by a sudden and very powerful instinct, ‘would you like to come back here tomorrow?’

It would prove to be the best instinct I’d had in a long time. A life-saver, almost. A childhood-saver, definitely.

‘Yes, please,’ she said. And thank God she did.