Читать книгу Little Prisoners: A tragic story of siblings trapped in a world of abuse and suffering - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 10

‘We come bearing gifts!’

It was a week or so later, and my mum and dad had arrived to see the children. Fostering was always going to be a whole-family occupation, but with the two we had currently (and with the knowledge that they might be with us for a while yet) I felt it doubly important that we get all our close relatives on board. They were happy to get involved – they always had been, from the outset – but I also felt the children could really benefit psychologically from being in the thick of a big, loving, ‘normal’ sort of family, their own childhoods, so far, having been so barren in that respect.

‘Oh, Mum, you shouldn’t have,’ I said, grinning at the sight of Dad trailing behind her, carrying a big carrier bag from our local toy superstore.

‘It’s our pleasure,’ she said. ‘Really, love. We thought we could all do some painting. Give you an hour’s break, perhaps,’ she added, kissing me.

Olivia, by this time, had come out of the living room to see who’d arrived, and was jumping up and down with glee and asking to be picked up. She was really so much like a toddler, I reflected. ‘Nan an’ granpa here!’ she shrieked delightedly, while Ashton, now in the doorway, smiled shyly.

We all trooped into the kitchen and I set about making a pot of tea for them while the kids pulled them over to the table. Ashton seemed to take to Mum straight away, and pulled a chair up close beside her almost as soon as she sat down. ‘Now then, young man,’ she said, as Dad placed the bag in front of them. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got for you both, shall we?’

Olivia, meanwhile, having now persuaded Dad to pick her up, was busy stroking his hair and kissing his cheek. I kept an eye on her. Privately, I was becoming a little concerned about Olivia, my fostering antennae already twitching. Much as I was pleased to see her – to see both of them – being affectionate with the family (the opposite, sadly, is often true of damaged kids), I had noticed she tended to behave differently around the men. She was so little, yet there was still this definite sense of flirtation; she wouldn’t be aware of it – how could she, she was six! – but it was there. It was tangible, and slightly unsettling.

And today was no different. ‘Gwandad,’ she was asking him. ‘Can I sit on your knee? Casey got bony knees so I don’t like going on her lap. But can I sit on yours to do the painting?’

Dad laughed, as he settled her instead onto a chair. ‘Much easier to paint on your own chair,’ he suggested. I smiled to myself. And much less chance of him getting paint all down his trousers. ‘Come on,’ he said, as Mum began opening up the pots they’d bought. ‘What shall we paint? How about a picture of your nice bedroom?’

But Olivia was having none of it. She pestered and pestered, till Dad eventually conceded and let her sit on his lap after all. And before long, the noise level had fallen to a hush, as both children immersed themselves in the task at hand.

Leaving them to it, I turned around to find some biscuits for everyone and pour out Mum and Dad’s mugs of tea. But within moments, I heard my dad speaking sternly. ‘No, Olivia,’ he was saying. ‘You mustn’t do that. If you don’t keep still,’ he went on, ‘then you’ll have to get down.’

‘But I was only wiggling for you, Gwandad,’ she said, her expression completely guileless. ‘Don’t you like it when liccle girls wiggle for you?’

Dad looked every bit as horrified as I felt. I rushed across and plucked Olivia from his knees. I could see that he was completely at a loss for words. And with good reason. ‘Come on, sweetheart,’ I said to a bewildered Olivia. ‘Come and sit here by your brother. Granddad’s going to have his cup of tea now and it’ll be hot.’ She pursed her lips now, clearly miffed to have been relocated next to Ashton, then folded her arms on the table and placed her chin on them. ‘I miss my gwandad,’ she said, pouting. ‘When can I see him?’

‘I don’t know, sweetie,’ I said. ‘But I will try to find out. I know. How about you paint a pretty picture, just for him? Then Anna could take it to him for you.’

This didn’t mollify her. She pulled a face. ‘Gwandad hates Anna. She stoled us from him, an’ we’re not to tell her nuffink!’ She was becoming quite animated, and I knew she had my parents’ full attention. She certainly had mine. She lifted her arms now, waggling them to emphasise how exasperated she was by this. ‘Speshly my special Gwandad cuddles. It’s not right! My poor gwandad don’t have no more liccle girls to wiggle for him. An’ he’ll be lonely!’

Her curious form of words was as arresting as ever, but it was the words themselves that shocked most. I could sense how uncomfortable Mum and Dad were becoming, as the import of what she’d said hit home. ‘It’s okay, love,’ I soothed, stroking her hair. ‘It’s okay. I’m sure your granddad knows how much you love and miss him. Tell you what, why don’t we leave the painting for a bit, and you and Ashton go and play in the garden with Bob, while Nan and Granddad and me have our drinks?

Thankfully, this idea seemed to appeal to Olivia. She jumped down off the chair and grabbed her brother by the hand. ‘C’mon Ash,’ she said. ‘Let’s go play ball with Bob.’ The two off them then trotted off.

Dad shook his head as he watched them go. ‘Dear me, Casey, love. That was just all so wrong. What the bloody hell was she going on about? Special granddad cuddles?’ He was silent for a moment. We all knew exactly what she’d been going on about. Not the extent or the detail, perhaps, but certainly the implication, and I could see it made my father’s flesh creep.

And my mother’s, too.

‘I wonder what’s happened to her?’ she said, as I passed her the mug of tea. ‘What she’s seen …’

‘Way too much, by the sound of it, way, way too much,’ Dad finished.

‘It’s just horrible,’ Mum said. ‘I mean, it’s the most natural thing in the world to give little ones cuddles. But when you don’t know what they’ve been through … had done to them …’ she shuddered. ‘Well, it just makes it all so awkward, doesn’t it? I mean, it shouldn’t do, should it? But it does.’

What it most did for me, though, was answer my unspoken question. This granddad, if Olivia’s innocent comments were based in fact, would appear to have been up to no good. I tried to think if a granddad had been mentioned in any of the reports we’d been given, but I had no recollection of it. I resolved to take another good look later. And to continue to keep a close eye on Olivia. Ashton, too. Just how grim a can of worms had her words inadvertently begun to reveal?

And there was more to come. As we notched up a full second week with the children, I began to realise how knowledgeable they were about their bodies, and how lacking in personal boundaries they were. That they were close was obviously good, but they were physically a bit too close, touching one another in inappropriate places, and with what looked like very clear sexual overtones.

It’s generally not useful to over-analyse sexual touching in young children. It’s normal for little ones to want to explore their whole bodies, and to introduce sanctions, or adult notions of sex and propriety, can only result in creating a tension around it, which can lead to emotional problems later on. But these little ones seemed so sexual, it was confirming my suspicion that whilst their parents might have neglected them in terms of attending to their needs, someone – this granddad, almost certainly, and others? – had actually been paying them quite a lot of attention. Children simply didn’t do some of the things these two were doing, not without there being some adult input.

It was to be Lauren, Kieron’s girlfriend, who’d get the next piece of tangible evidence of what I was fast believing to be a worrying state of affairs.

Lauren was currently on her summer break from college, where she was studying dance and drama, and was often round at the moment, helping Kieron with his job-hunting. It was the following Tuesday, and the two of them were on the computer, in the living room, trawling the internet while the children were playing on the floor with building bricks. Kieron had come out in the kitchen to get a drink, and the two of us were having a chat about progress, when Lauren appeared in the doorway, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘Um, Casey,’ she said. ‘Can you come back in the living room a second? It’s the kids.

They’re … well …’

She didn’t finish her sentence and didn’t need to. I could tell by her expression that something weird must be going on.

I put my mug of coffee down and followed her back in, wondering what it was I might find.

I saw Ashton first. He was lying face down on the sofa, on top of Olivia, who was lying face up. Ashton was busy gyrating his torso, as if simulating sex, while his little sister lay, pretty much passively, beneath him, except for the fact that she was doing something else. She was rhythmically patting his bottom.

‘Ashton!’ I snapped. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing? Stop that immediately! Get off your poor sister!’ I crossed the room and pulled the two of them up. I then sat them down, side by side, on the settee. ‘Now,’ I said sternly. ‘I need you to tell me what you were doing.’

There was a predictable silence from both for a moment, Ashton looking doggedly at the floor, his shoulders drooping, though little Olivia was grinning from ear to ear. Then she spoke, and at the same time placed her hand inside her shorts. ‘We were just tickling our pee pees, that’s all.’

I kept my stern face in place, but knelt down to their level. ‘Stop that, Olivia,’ I said. She pulled her hand back out again. ‘We don’t do things like that in front of other people, okay, sweetheart? Your body is private,’ I explained.

‘Yeah,’ said Ashton, who’d suddenly become animated, watching her. ‘We can only do that in our bedroom, Liv, stop it!’ He leaned towards her. ‘Remember – walls have ears!’ ‘An’ eyes, too!’ she answered, dramatically, gesturing to her own now. ‘Sorry, Ash,’ she finished. ‘I forgetted.’

If the implications of what they were saying hadn’t been so awful, their choice of words would have almost sounded comic. As it was, it was chilling, and a picture came immediately to mind: of this ‘Gwandad’ or whoever, making it clear to these poor mites just how important it was to keep their secret.

‘No!’ I said, firmly. ‘We don’t touch people like that at all! Not down here, not in your bedrooms, not anywhere. Walls don’t have ears, or eyes, but other people do. Other people who know it isn’t right to touch others’ private parts.’

They both stared at me in utter confusion. Which made it hit home to me even harder. They simply didn’t understand me. They so obviously thought what they were doing was normal. Except not quite, as they clearly knew – well, Ashton did, anyway – that the adults close to them wanted it kept a secret.

‘Not even family, Casey?’ Ashton asked me, quite innocently, as if he was in a classroom asking a teacher a question. ‘It’s all right if it’s family. It doesn’t matter if it’s family.’

‘Yes, it does matter, love,’ I tried to explain to him. ‘Our bodies belong only to us, d’you understand? Which means it’s wrong to let someone else touch our private parts. It’s wrong of them to do that to you. Even family.’

They both stared at me, two pairs of wide, uncomprehending eyes. They really didn’t understand what I was on about. I stood up again, and glanced across at Kieron and Lauren, who were still framed in the doorway, open-mouthed. We exchanged a look that said it all; if it was as entrenched as it appeared, this was going to be a massive thing to deal with. A five-minute chat with them wouldn’t even scratch the surface.

Taking my rising as a cue that the lecture was over, the children both got up off the sofa, and began playing with the building blocks again. Whatever they were building, all I could think of was icebergs. And how I’d just got a glance at the great seething mass beneath the tip of this one.

I spent much of the week that followed making notes on the computer, carefully recording every incident I witnessed and reporting it by email to both John and Anna. There was clear evidence here of an even darker family background, and it was vital the authorities know about it, particularly with the hearing coming up. I also recalled the allegation of abuse by their father’s cousin. No smoke without fire? Maybe so.

But it wasn’t just the sexual behaviour that was disturbing. Just as difficult a problem to try and manage was the children’s lack of hygiene and their toileting behaviour.

I had already started waging a war on poo, as it had become clear from the start that the first night’s bout of bed wetting was by no means a one-off, brought on by stress. It was actually the tip of another iceberg in itself – this one composed mainly of excrement. If my nose had been wrinkling in distaste on Day Two, it was positively beginning to curl up now. The children had clearly not had any sort of potty or toilet training. Ashton just always seemed to poo in his pants, and the little one seemed to have no consistent pattern – so I was soon finding bits of faeces everywhere. There would also be smears of it on the toilet walls, and on the walls of the children’s bedrooms – even, on more than one occasion, on my banister. It was sickening and I began to feel nervous about touching anything, not before I’d zapped it with bleach.

And, as with the sexual behaviours, nothing I said seemed to sink in.

‘Olivia,’ I said to her one day, having taken her by the hand, up to the toilet, so that we could together take a look at what she’d used to decorate the toilet wall. The smell was so intense that I was gagging as I did so, but she seemed completely oblivious. ‘Do you know what that is?’ I said, pointing. She nodded and smiled.

‘Poo!’ she said, grinning. ‘It’s poo! Poo poo poo!’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Poo. And now poor Casey has to clean it. And that’s not very nice for me, is it?’ She looked at me blankly. The concept of ‘cleaning’ was obviously new to her, and I wondered in what sort of God-awful place she must have lived. ‘Look, sweetie,’ I said gently, once I’d banished the offending streaks. ‘Let me show you how we go to the toilet, okay?’

I took a few sheets of loo roll and held them in front of Olivia. ‘After we’ve done a poo, we take some paper from the roll – like this – then we wipe our bottoms – very carefully – and pop the paper in the toilet. Like this, see?’ I then did some acting. It was probably a good thing that no one could see me, because I then took more loo roll, started la la la-ing, as if singing to myself, and proceeded to mime what one did when one had finished on the toilet, wiping the paper across the seat of my trousers in an exaggerated fashion and saying ‘pooh!’, before depositing the paper in the toilet with a flourish, and pressing the flush with a grand ‘ta da!’

Olivia, transfixed, found all this riveting and, like any six-year-old, was keen to play ‘pooh!’ herself. I let her practise about five times before she tired of it, then took her to the basin, where we then spent a splashy ten minutes practising hand-washing too. I hoped, I just hoped, that if I kept this up long enough, my banisters – my whole house – would thank me.

But it wasn’t just a case of learning new skills. Olivia’s problems, in this regard, were more disturbing than I’d first thought, as I would find out a couple of days later.

It was evening, and, dinner over, both the children were in the kitchen, busy completing a giant jigsaw with Mike. I’d decided to use the time to change the children’s duvet covers – washing and turning around bed linen for them had become one of my new daily chores.

I went into Olivia’s room first, and was hit at once by the smell. I was used to bad smells now, but this was something else. It had been a hot afternoon and her windows had been closed, but even by current standards – stale urine, soiled underwear – the stench was both arresting and overpowering. I opened the windows and immediately set about trying to find the source, feeling my irritation rise, even though I knew the poor mites couldn’t help it. I was a clean freak, always had been, and living in such fetid squalor was really beginning to get me down. Gritting my teeth, I reminded myself why I took the job in the first place, but I still couldn’t help feeling angry at social services. If they knew these kids as well as they should have, they would have known about all this. For them to not brief us fully was just so bloody annoying!

I checked the bed, and then under it, then the wardrobe and chest of drawers. But found nothing. I didn’t even know what I was looking for; only that whatever it was, it wouldn’t be pleasant. I then began clearing the toys on the floor. And then it hit me, as I passed the book case, that the smell had suddenly become a lot stronger. I put the toys down, and gingerly began pulling books from their shelves. Now the stench was so strong that I actually retched. I almost dropped the books I was holding when I finally found the cause. Hidden behind the books on the bottom shelf, squashed against the wall, were three packages of human stools, loosely wrapped in tissue paper. I backed away, disgusted, and called down to Mike from the landing. ‘Love, can you bring Olivia up here a moment, please?’

They were up seconds later, and I gestured to Mike to take a look. He clapped his hand over his mouth and I could see that, like me, he was struggling not to gag. Olivia stood, quaking, in the doorway.

‘Why?’ I asked her gently. ‘Why did you do this, sweetie?’ I was genuinely struggling to make sense of it, particularly after the toileting lesson we’d so recently shared.

‘I not done it. Me never done it. I didn’t, Casey, honest.’ She looked terrified.

I crossed the room and put my arm around her. She immediately flung her arms around my waist. ‘I think you did, love,’ I said. ‘But don’t worry. We can sort it all out. Don’t be scared. We just want to know why. It’s made your pretty room all smelly, and you don’t want that, do you?’

She started crying. ‘It’s just my poo,’ she sobbed. ‘That’s all. I just wanted to keep it. But I won’t do it no more if you don’t like it.’

‘Sweetheart, poo must be done in the toilet, like I showed you. Always. Every time you need to go. You must do it in the toilet from now on. Nowhere else, okay? It has germs in, and it could make you sick. Make you very sick. And we don’t want that, now, do we?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘So from now on, when you need to have a poo, where do you go?’

‘To the toilet,’ she said meekly. ‘I promise.’

‘I was thinking,’ said Mike, half an hour later, the little cache of horrors now disposed of. ‘What was that slogan the agency used?’

Olivia, by now, was back playing with her brother. I just hoped what I’d said to her had sunk in. ‘You mean the one in the ad?’ I said. ‘The one on the leaflet I brought home?’ I did remember it. And well. I was unlikely to forget it. ‘Yes,’ I went on. ‘“Fostering the unfosterable.” Why?’

Mike grinned ruefully. ‘I think I’m beginning to get what they were on about.’