Читать книгу Little Prisoners: A tragic story of siblings trapped in a world of abuse and suffering - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 9

It felt like the middle of the night when I woke up. I didn’t know what it was that had woken me, either, only that something had startled me. I wasn’t sure what. Had I dreamt it? Imagined it? I reached across to press the light button on my alarm clock. 4 a.m. Maybe one of the kids had got up to use the toilet. I slipped out of bed quietly, so as not to wake Mike.

Once on the landing, tiptoeing quietly, I peeped in to check in Ashton’s room. I could hear him snoring gently, so it couldn’t have been him. But then I noticed that not only was Olivia’s door closed – I had left it open, as promised – but there was a strip of light visible at the bottom.

I pushed against the door softly, conscious that I didn’t want to frighten her, and as it began to open so did my mouth. I simply couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

She was squatting on the bed, clutching what I realised was an open jar of jam, and met my gaze with huge terrified eyes.

‘Olivia?’ I said softly, though in incredulous tones. ‘What on earth is going on?’

She swiped her fringe from her eyes with a jam-covered hand. There was jam everywhere it seemed, on her face, in her hair, smeared down her front, on the bed. In fact, as I took in the scene I could believe it even less – the whole duvet was covered in food.

‘No, lady,’ she answered tremulously, scuttling towards the wall and clutching the jar even tighter to her chest. ‘I didn’t do it. I didn’t do anyfink!’

My principal reaction was one of sadness. In any other circumstance it would be one of anger, I knew, but looking at her, crouched in the midst of all this mess, the only thing I felt for her was pity. The bed was in chaos, playing host to an upturned bag of sugar, an open tub of butter and two empty boxes of cereal. There were also God only knew how many empty biscuit wrappers strewn around. She must have already had quite a feast. In fact, it looked, for all the world, like there had been a major eating binge, of the type you often hear about in magazines, illustrating the distressing practice of teenage bulimics. But this was a six-year-old – hardly more than a baby! What had prompted it, I wondered? This was surely not down to hunger. She’d eaten normally during the day and had done nothing to indicate she was starving, yet she’d amassed, and clearly munched her way through, one hell of a lot of food.

It was psychological, clearly. Something to do with her background. From what we knew, and from the scrawny state of them, it was highly likely food was scarce for these children. Perhaps this was a behaviour born out of fear about where the next meal might be coming from. Or perhaps sneaking down for food in the night was the only way she could be sure to get some. Poor little mite. I crossed the room and perched on the end of the bed.

‘Olivia, sweetheart,’ I said to her gently. ‘You mustn’t do things like this, love. It’s wrong. For one thing, you should be sleeping, and for another, it’s, well, it’s taking things that don’t belong to you, isn’t it? Stealing.’ She continued to stare at me, as if in a trance. ‘Love, were you hungry?’ I persisted. ‘Was that it?’

Now she shook her head. ‘Not hungry, miss. Sorry. I swear to God almighty, I won’t do it no more, miss. I promise!’

I couldn’t help but raise my eyebrows at her strange choice of words, as I held my arms out to her, beckoning her towards me. ‘Come on love,’ I said softly, braced for the sticky paws that I knew would soon be wrapped around my neck. ‘Come here and let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart. And get this bed straight so you can get back to sleep, eh?’

As I’d anticipated, Olivia let me scoop her into my arms, and after stripping her of her filthy nightwear and scrubbing her down with baby wipes – all of which she now seemed perfectly happy to submit to – I gathered the whole duvet and its contents into a ball, and replaced it with a spare from the airing cupboard. I could sort out the chaos in the morning.

Olivia then scooted meekly back under the clean covers. No point, I decided, in engaging her in further conversation. ‘There,’ I said simply, bending to plant a kiss on her forehead. ‘All tucked up, nice and clean. Now back to sleep, okay?’

She nodded and then obediently closed her eyes for me. But I was wide awake. I barely slept for the remainder of the night. These children were going to be some challenge.

‘So did you sleep at all, love?’ Mike asked, as I greeted the new day to see – and smell – a steaming mug of coffee being placed on my bedside table. I’d need it, I thought, as I pushed myself up to a sitting position and realised the lateness of the hour.

‘Not much.’

‘I thought not. So what happened, exactly? She wet the bed? I saw the bedding on the landing.’

I shook my head, and filled Mike in on what had actually happened. ‘Not unsurprising,’ was his considered opinion, once I’d finished. ‘They really do seem like something out of a Dickens novel, don’t they?’

I sipped my scalding but oh-so-much-needed coffee and frowned at him. ‘And it’s our job to haul them back to the 21st century.’

‘But not for long,’ Mike soothed. ‘Anyway, I’ll go down and sort the breakfast things, shall I?’

I grinned. ‘If you can find any cereal, that is!’

That was the good thing about mornings. A new day, and everything suddenly seemed more manageable. As I gathered both my wits and my dressing gown to face whatever this one held, I could hear the two of them chattering away happily in Olivia’s bedroom, and felt my normal positive, can-do mood returning. It was slightly dented, admittedly, when I went in there only to have my nose assaulted by the stench of urine, but common sense told me this was all par for the course. ‘Neglect’ was such a small word for such a big, wide-ranging, multi-faceted problem. These kids, it was clear, had never been potty trained. But that was something I could easily do for them, starting now.

The TV was blaring away to itself, and the two of them were sitting cross-legged on the floor, busy piecing together a jigsaw. ‘C’mon, kids,’ I said, stepping over them to go and open up a window. ‘Time to tidy that away now and come down for breakfast, okay?’

Olivia, seeing me, leapt up immediately, and tried to cling to me like a baby panda. It was good to see she was so affectionate, I thought, as I scooped her up onto my hip, but rather less good to see – or rather, for it to slowly, damply dawn on me – that she was also wringing wet. And so was I, now. Ashton too, I saw as he also stood up, had a suspicious wet patch all up the back of his night things.

I herded them both into the bathroom, and began stripping Olivia out of her wet things. Ashton, taking my cue, undressed likewise, ready to wash, and though I made an effort not to pay him too much attention as he did so, noticed that he was clearly embarrassed. Now that, at least, was a good thing, I thought to myself. Feeling uncomfortable about bed wetting was at least half the battle. I felt confident I could soon have him dry. In fact perhaps he was dry, and this was just a lapse, due to the trauma of the past couple of days.

Ignoring his damp things completely, I turned to Olivia. ‘Did you have an accident?’ I asked her gently as I filled the basin. The question was rhetorical – of course she’d had an accident – but her answer still flagged up the extent of the ‘neglect’.

‘Yesh!’ she told me, proudly, as she picked up her sodden pyjama bottoms, gleefully showing me what she obviously considered to be a very impressive stain.

‘It’s okay, Casey,’ Ashton added, in a reassuring tone. ‘Don’t worry. She’ll soon be all dry again.’

Bless him, I thought, as I sponged his sister down, diplomatically leaving him to sort himself out for now.

Once they were both clean and dry, I got them dressed in some of the new clothes Riley had bought for them and we eventually got downstairs for breakfast. True to his word, Mike had everything laid out ready, but it soon became evident that neither of them were interested. In fact, by now, they seemed much more interested in winding each other up; punching each other and running around madly, laughing manically for no apparent reason. It was almost as if they had morphed into different children, the shyness of yesterday having completely disappeared. Ashton, particularly, suddenly seemed a different child; one who now delighted in driving his sister mad; pulling her hair and teasing her and generally being a rather bullying big brother, something that would also need addressing.

‘Right,’ said Mike sternly, in an attempt to regain control. ‘Enough of all this. Time to sit up nicely at the table! It’s time for breakfast!’ But his words fell on completely deaf ears.

Trying to balance the two full bowls of cereal I’d poured, I approached the table and tried myself. ‘That’s enough!’ I snapped, trying to get and hold their attention. But it was hopeless – they just ignored both of us. Perhaps, I decided, I needed to change tack. Perhaps raised voices were something they had got used to simply tuning out. So instead, placing their cereal bowls on the table, I spoke more quietly. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘This breakfast will be on the table for five minutes. If you haven’t sat down and begun eating it quietly by then, I shall assume you don’t want it and will take it away, and there’ll be nothing more to eat until lunchtime.’

This, thankfully, seemed to work. Finally, two sets of suspicious eyes were on me, and the children, my words having obviously sunk in, climbed onto their chairs, picked up their spoons and started to eat.

It was still like feeding time at the zoo, though. ‘My God, Case,’ whispered Mike as we stood by the kitchen partition and watched them. ‘If they carry on like this, this is going to be a nightmare! I hope they start calming down a bit!’

Shit! I thought suddenly, remembering. ‘Mike, their medication! It’s the bloody ADHD, all this! They must have to have their tablets first thing – of course!’ What with everything, I’d completely forgotten to ask what time of day they needed to take their pills. And now I’d had my answer. As soon as humanly possible after they wake up! I hurriedly gave them one each, and made sure they took them, then prayed that they were pretty fast-acting. Because it really was like watching feral children in action. Though they’d picked up their spoons, they were mostly using their hands to eat, shovelling the food in at an alarming rate, and spilling half of it on the floor. They also didn’t sit on their chairs, but crouched on them, like chimps, almost as if ready to pounce or flee.

Noticing Olivia’s bowl was empty now, I reached to take it from her, but stopped mid-way, as the six-year-old began to growl at me. She raised her hands in front of her, bent her fingers into claws and began hissing at me – it really was something to witness. I was then startled when Ashton banged his fist down on the table. ‘No, Livs!’ he barked at her. Olivia hung her head and immediately began whimpering, clearly scared. I just couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing.

It took an hour for the children to completely calm down. I had tried jigsaws and colouring books, a game of football in the garden … I’d even tried to make a game of them all helping me and Mike to clean up. Nothing had worked, not until the drug had kicked in, upon which the transformation was as sudden as it was huge. I’d seen the effect of Ritalin in school, of course, but never so dramatically as this. And, right now, I couldn’t have been more grateful.

The downside, however, was that they were now a bit like zombies; though ready to follow instructions, which was a positive, they were also confused and a bit droopy, with dampened spirits. Theirs must be, I thought sadly, a pretty strong dose. I made a mental note to take the pair of them to see Dr Shackleton; our local doctor had been the family’s GP for many years, and was always happy to support us with the children we fostered. Perhaps with support, and the right environment, we might be able to lower it slightly. It would be good to pass them on having made some progress in that regard, at least, even if, in the time-frame we probably had available, something of a big ask.

By now Kieron, who had finished college and was now busy job-hunting, had come downstairs. Now the kids were so much calmer, he was happy to stick around and help Mike to mind them while I went into town with Riley to do a proper shop for them. In time I hoped I’d be able to take them out with me, but for now, while they were still such an unknown quantity, I felt happier leaving them safely indoors. I had to hurry, too, as the social-work team were due later. So it would definitely have to be something of a smash and grab – I just hoped the same wouldn’t be happening at home.

Riley and I loved to shop. Always had. In fact, after playing with little Levi, going shopping with my daughter was one of those simple pleasures that I really enjoyed. Whatever the stresses in my life, there was little that couldn’t be made a bit better by spending mother-and-daughter quality time with Riley.

And we could certainly shop. In no time at all we had amassed five sets of underwear each, five cold-day outfits, five warm-day outfits, two pairs of new shoes, two coats, two more sets of pyjamas plus two of pairs of novelty children’s slippers. We also added more jigsaws, a tub of Lego, a stack of books and two new PlayStation games, the ones we had being too geared to older children. We’d picked up a couple of new dolls for Olivia, too, one with long hair, and one a baby doll that could drink and wet its nappy. It came with a potty, and I thought it might prove useful when it came to potty training – something I clearly needed to address quickly, particularly with Olivia. I’d easily doubled the amount the social worker had given me, but I didn’t care. I would be able to claim it back eventually.

‘I can’t wait to see their little faces,’ I told Riley, as we hauled our booty into the boot of my car. Riley neither. ‘Can I give Olivia the Baby Born one?’ she asked. ‘Oh, I used to love mine when I was little!’ I nodded, belatedly picturing Mike’s face as well, and the expression it would have on it when I told him what I’d spent. But no matter. These children needed a lot more important things than toys – security, routine, love and boundaries, decent discipline – but they needed to play too.

And we were soon to get a stark reminder of just how much they did need. Our return, and the opening of all our carrier bags, was greeted not with joy, whoops of delight and barely contained excitement, but instead with blank faces and disinterest. Yes, they were both polite, and said thank you – and to both me and Riley – but as for interest in the toys and games and books we had bought them – there was none. They looked for all the world as if they didn’t even want them. Such a sad and dispiriting thing to witness.

The cars rolled up at 2 p.m. as planned, for our promised meeting. Anna and Robert were in the first car, while John, who’d obviously travelled separately, was behind.

By now we’d given the children lunch (happily, now they were dosed up, a much less manic affair than breakfast) and they were sitting in the living room, glued to the TV. So I left them to it, and while Mike organised teas and coffees for everyone, ushered our three guests into the dining area of the kitchen. I smiled to myself as Mike grandly placed the matching milk jug and sugar bowl on the table. I’d only acquired them recently, specifically for the purpose of these meetings, having never been someone who’d have owned such things before. I remembered my mum’s comment when she’d first clocked them in my kitchen cupboard. ‘Ooh, check you out, Casey!’ she’d teased. ‘All this posh crockery! You know you’ve made it when you own a milk jug and sugar bowl! Just don’t be getting too big for your boots, now!’

We’d both laughed. We were definitely not a family for airs and graces. But if I was going to be hosting meetings for all these social services professionals, I felt I needed to smarten up my act on the china front a bit. Ironic really, when you thought about what most of the meetings were about.

Hellos all done, and Anna and Robert having formally introduced themselves to John, this one kicked off without any delay. Straight away I could sense a bit of tension in the air, though I had yet to find out what the cause was.

John got started. ‘Right, then,’ he said. ‘Two things I need to know. First, some more background on the family and the situation and, second, the length of the placement. Mike and Casey –’ he glanced at us here – ‘are a valuable resource on my team and, as I’m sure both of you appreciate, this temporary placement with them is a favour. But one, as I’m sure you know, that we can’t extend indefinitely.’ Straight to the point, no messing around. That was John. I looked at the other two, now shifting uncomfortably in their seats. I wondered what it was we were about to hear.

‘I’ll try to answer your questions as honestly as I can, John,’ Anna answered. ‘I do realise that this is a lifeline you’ve thrown us, and we appreciate it.’ She smiled ruefully at me. ‘And we know it’s above and beyond the call of duty.’ She started shuffling among her pile of paperwork, and pulled out some pages. ‘Okay,’ she continued. ‘So the family first came to our attention some eight years back. At that time Ashton, of course, was the only child. Karen and Kevin Wardhill – the parents – both have learning difficulties, as you know, and apparently Kevin’s cousin, Sue, was the one to make a complaint to us, saying that they were neglecting the baby. Forgetting to feed him, going out and leaving him unsupervised – things like that. So we intervened, but the report from the social worker was unequivocal. Ashton was deemed both happy and healthy, and that, therefore, was pretty much that.’

I interrupted. ‘But surely, if it was the father’s own cousin who was worried …’

Anna shrugged. ‘The report’s clear. At that time, her fears were deemed to be unfounded. And you never know what people’s motivations are, of course … But the plot thickened, as they say, because she then went to the police a year later and reported that her cousin – this being Kevin again – had sexually abused her from a young age. This time, of course, the police demanded action. Given her new allegations about her cousin, we agreed it would be prudent to keep a regular eye on both Ashton and any further children.’

‘And?’ asked Mike.

‘And the cousin then retracted the sexual abuse story – I have no information about the circumstances – but we were now, of course, involved. And the seeds had already been sown.’

I thought about how much time had passed – and how many offspring were now involved. This was turning into quite an epic. ‘And then what?’ I said. ‘They had four more children, and you say social services have been involved since Ashton was a baby? So how did we get from there to here?’

Anna cleared her throat. She looked embarrassed. And seeing her expression made me sure that we were about to hear an all too familiar story. But you were damned if you did and damned if you didn’t where social work was concerned. ‘Robert,’ she suggested, ‘why don’t you run through some of the follow-up reports and recommendations?’

Robert duly plucked a file from his briefcase, which was on the table. ‘I know how this will look,’ he said, ‘when you see it in black and white, but there’ve been a succession of different social workers attached to the family over the years, each with their own priorities and agendas. In retrospect, it’s clearly a family that should have been dealt with a long time ago, but you have to remember –’ he looked earnest – ‘that our primary aim, always, is to help parents cope. To give them strategies and tools to assist them. The last thing we want is to break up loving families.’

I stared at him incredulously. I’d barely had them two days, and on that evidence I could hardly believe that he believed – or at least, seemed to – that these kids should still be with their parents. Was that what he was saying? ‘So why did they come into care, then?’ I wanted to know.

‘Well, in the end, we realised they couldn’t cope. They’ve had several warnings and there’ve been lots of interventions, but after year after year of evidence, such as them being sent to school unkempt’ – I smiled wryly: such a benign word to describe the state of them! – ‘and not being fed, running around at all hours of the night … they were stealing and getting into trouble from a very young age. Eating out of bins, pinching the contents of other children’s lunchboxes … I can obviously leave you a full report to read … Anyway, the list went on, and we eventually applied for a court order.’

John had been listening to this intently and scribbling notes. ‘Ah, the court order. I understand this is still ongoing. Is that right?’

‘Yes,’ Anna confirmed. ‘And, um, it’s just been adjourned again. The final hearing was supposed to be this week but it seems the parents have a new solicitor who is insisting upon new psychological reports being compiled for both parents, plus the children.’

‘Do we know why?’ John asked. ‘Are they mounting a defence? And what does this mean in terms of looking for a placement?’

‘Well, that’s the problem, to be honest,’ Anna admitted. ‘Until it’s ruled that the children are officially in the care of the local authority, it’s going to be extremely difficult to get a full-time placement for them. If we do that, we are obviously pre-judging the outcome of the final hearing, and the parents’ solicitor will have us for that.’

I was a bit lost by now but, thankfully, Mike seemed to understand. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, having been mostly silent up to now. ‘So what you are actually saying is that this “short-term” placement – this “interim” placement – may, in fact, not be that at all.’

John obviously understood the implications too. ‘Yes, Mike,’ he said, as he slammed down his pen. ‘I think that’s exactly what Anna is saying. I’m not at all happy about this. To be frank, it feels like we’ve been duped. Surely you knew this when you contacted me last week?’

Harsh words and apologies began flying around the table then, but, even with one ear on the recriminations and accusations, my other was on the sound of the two little mites in my living room. I could hear them chuckling, presumably at the cartoon they were watching, oblivious of the fact that their future – their stark, uncertain future – was being discussed in the very next room. It seemed clear to me, then. If we didn’t keep them, who else would? And when it then came to light – John was nothing if not dogged – that social services had, in fact, been searching for some where to place them for a whole year, I realised the enormity of the damage they’d probably already suffered; no wonder the two of them seemed so feral.

I knew then that we had to keep them – for as long as was needed. They needed a home and some security; a civilising influence. Why couldn’t we be the ones to give them that? I caught Mike’s eye then, and I could tell, to my relief, that he felt the same. These poor ‘neglected’ tots could at least count on us, I thought.

Though I might have thought differently if I’d known what was coming.