Читать книгу Angels with Dirty Faces: Five Inspiring Stories - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 7

Chapter 1

It was the Sunday before Christmas. Almost my favourite time of year. Actually, in some ways my most favourite time of year, because it was the date of our annual family pre-Christmas dinner – or my practice run, as my son Kieron had always called it. Which was just like the main one, only in lots of ways nicer, as it involved all the fun without any of the stress, plus the anticipation of Christmas proper still to come.

Well, to my mind, at any rate. I should have known better than to mention it to my ever-loving husband Mike. ‘More like a prelude to a nightmare,’ he quipped, ‘with this gaggle of little monsters around. Look at them. If this level of mania is anything to go by, heaven help us when we get to the actual day!’

I knew, what with the house full of grandkids and mayhem, that he was probably only half-joking. He had a point, too. I winced as I watched Marley Mae, who was deep in the realm of the terrible twos now, almost collide with the Christmas tree. And for the umpteenth time today, while the film I’d put on (in the vain hope of keeping Riley’s three occupied) blared to itself in the corner. Much as I loved Arnie Schwarzenegger – the film was Jingle All the Way – I could barely hear myself think.

‘Shut up, you old Grinch,’ I told Mike. ‘You know you love it really. And how can you say such a thing? Bless them,’ I added, scooping Marley Mae into my arms. ‘You’re not a monster. You’re our little princess, aren’t you?’

It was a phrase that would very soon come to haunt me.

We’d had the luxury (in a manner of speaking, since it had been a pretty hectic time) of taking a few months off from fostering. After seeing our last foster child, Flip, off to her forever home the previous spring, we’d decided to take a bit of a break. With our Kieron and his partner Lauren having given us our fourth grandchild, Dee Dee, we’d taken the decision to devote some time to just being there for them. With Kieron’s Asperger’s (which is a mild form of autism), we’d been all too aware that they could really use the extra support. So, apart from Tyler, our permanent foster child, and very much now part of the family, we’d only accepted a couple of short-term emergency placements. We’d had a singular lad called Connor, veteran of the care system, for a brief but intense period, and a misunderstood five-year-old called Paulie, who’d been rejected by his mother and stepfather, and who was now settled with a long-term foster family.

Both had proved to us – if proof were needed – that you couldn’t fix everything for every child; sometimes you could only help smooth the transition from one kind of life to the next. Life was different for us too now – keeping Tyler had changed everything. With the fostering we did at present, we had to keep his needs always in mind.

It had been a happy time. And at the centre of it was the joy of being grandparents. That and the gratitude – Mike and I counted our blessings daily. And not least because Dee Dee had proved to be an amazingly easy baby – and Kieron and Lauren, despite the usual wobbles, very natural parents. I could still find myself welling up whenever I thought about it; just how lucky we’d all been that our anxious, fretful son had met, in Lauren, such a perfect and loving soulmate.

Today, then, was all about the simple joys of family, and as I beavered away in the kitchen, putting pans on and keeping an eye on my roast potatoes, that was what was very much on my mind. So when I saw a car pull up and soon after disgorge our fostering link worker, John Fulshaw, I found myself smiling. Trust him to be working on a Sunday. And how nice it would be to welcome him in – perhaps I’d even be able to persuade him to have a festive glass of sherry.

John always appeared at some point in the run-up to Christmas. It was one of his traditions to ‘do the rounds’ at this time of year, bestowing all his foster families with a poinsettia. ‘All the way from sunny San Diego!’ he’d always remind us as he handed it over, San Diego apparently being the poinsettia capital of the world.

There was sun for us too that particular Sunday. Sun, and the sort of frosty air that promised ice tonight, if not snow. But as I watched John walk up the path, there was no pot plant in his hand, just his usual battered briefcase. And, worryingly, no seasonal smile on his face, either. Just a deeply etched frown. I could see it clearly, even in the gathering December dusk.

I dried my hands and went out into the hallway. No poinsettia for me today, I thought, glancing down at the place I usually reserved for it – at the back of the hall table where it was generally safe from little hands.

‘Can you keep an eye on the veg for me? We’ve got a visitor,’ I called to Riley. She was still playing lion tamer in the living room with Mike, Kieron and Lauren, till Tyler returned from an outing with his half-brother, Grant, when he would assume his role as chief entertainer of the little ones till we ate.

I opened the door just as John was reaching for the knocker. Nope, it was a definite. There was no pretty red plant behind his back. ‘Come in, come in,’ I said, gesturing with my hand. ‘You look half-frozen.’

He put his case down just inside the door and rubbed his hands together. ‘Brrr,’ he said. ‘Too right. It’s really cold out there today.’

I agreed, and hurried to help him off with his coat. But I could already see he was somewhat distracted. ‘What’s up, John?’ I asked him as I threw it on top of the pile over the newel post.

He sighed. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, glancing towards the living room. ‘This is not the best time is it? I did call, but …’ He gestured towards the cacophony. ‘But thought I’d try popping over, since I was out and about anyway. I was hoping you and Mike could help us out.’

By ‘us’, I immediately knew he meant the fostering team. Christmas was always a stressful time of year for them, for all the usual, depressing reasons. Family flare-ups, often compounded by the stresses of the festive season. And compounded too by the fact that – for the same festive reasons – foster carers were temporarily thin on the ground. Sad though it was, it was part and parcel of the job. He must need us to take a child in. That much was immediately evident. Not a poinsettia, but a child – most likely one in distress. And it must be urgent for him to turn up after only trying to call once. He knew what I was like, and how often I mislaid my mobile.

‘If we can, you know we will,’ I immediately reassured him. ‘But hang on – let me grab Mike and get the little ones out of the way, so we can have somewhere quiet to talk.’

Which was easier said than done, obviously, given the size of the house and the number of people currently in it. But in the end I set Riley and Lauren to work in the kitchen, minding the dinner, while Mike, Kieron and David minded the children in the living room, leaving us the conservatory – the only room in the house not yet festooned with fairy lights, which, given John’s grim expression, seemed the most appropriate.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said again as we went in.

I have seen and heard an awful lot in my fostering career, some of it the sort of thing I wished I hadn’t had to. The sort of thing that, once seen and heard, you couldn’t un-see or un-hear; testament to the reality that the world could be a cruel, ugly place. And you get a sixth sense, when you’ve worked with someone as long as Mike and I had with John. Seeing his expression as he sat down in one of the two wicker armchairs, I realised this might just be one such occasion.

‘We are desperate,’ John began, ‘or I wouldn’t have come to you. I know how much Christmas means to you, and particularly this Christmas. But the truth is that I don’t have anywhere else to turn.’

Nowhere else to turn. The kind of statement that’s almost a cliché. Not to mention one I’d heard before, as it’s a bit of a theme in fostering. And sadly, when a link worker or social worker says it, it’s usually the literal truth.

Riley popped her head round the door. ‘I’ve made some coffees. You both want one?’

We both nodded and she smiled John a hello. She knew the potential score. She and David fostered too these days, though, sensibly, with three little ones on their hands, they only did it intermittently, to provide respite for full-time foster carers.

I pulled the table across in readiness, while she went to get our drinks for us. I could still hear Arnie and co jingling their merry way in the living room.

John was anything but merry, and I wondered quite what he was about to tell me.

‘So,’ I said, ‘you want us to take a child in.’ He nodded. ‘Just for over Christmas? Or are we looking at a more permanent thing?’

John rubbed his hands together again. They were pinkish, and mottled from the cold. ‘I don’t know yet. It’s a big mess. Police involved. Shocking. All very sudden, so there’s no care plan in place yet, obviously. Shocking,’ he said again. John wasn’t easily shocked. ‘It’s a little girl,’ he went on, grimacing. ‘Literally just been brought in to us. And you’ll need to prepare yourselves. Ah, Mike,’ he said, looking up. ‘Good.’

Mike came in with the coffees, having presumably left Riley and the others to deal with what needed dealing with – which, it occurred to me, could usefully involve turning the TV off.

‘Go on, then,’ I urged John, once Mike had pulled up another chair. ‘Exactly how shocking? How bad is it?’

Pretty bad, as it turned out, even to our experienced ears.

‘Her name is Darby,’ John began. ‘Six years old. Lives with both parents.’

I knew this could mean everything and nothing. Many foster kids – most of the type we tended to foster – came to us having already been involved with social services, from dysfunctional families, fractured ones, the kids of addicts of various kinds – and a fair few who’d already been in the care system for a while. That this girl came from a home with a mother and father could mean lots of things, good or bad, so I couldn’t pre-judge. What I knew it wouldn’t be was some sort of tragedy, such as both parents having been killed in a road accident. Police, he’d said. A big mess. That was telling.

‘She’s come to our attention,’ John continued, ‘via a known paedophile. And, as I said, you’ll want to brace yourselves …’

The word was galvanising. We did. In fact, I don’t think I’d sat so stiffly to attention since I’d last been to a lecture on fostering protocols. Though this time it wasn’t so I didn’t drift off to sleep. On the contrary, I’d rarely been so riveted.

The little girl, Darby Sykes, had indeed come to them via a known paedophile – one who’d been browsing through his usual diet of hardcore child pornography when he thought he recognised a child that he knew. That the images would have been disturbing wasn’t in question – physical abuse of small children was the kind of material he mostly went for, but in this case, realising he knew the child lit some flame of disquiet in him. Identifying the actual victim meant he couldn’t switch off the part of his brain that was required to pipe down in order for him to enjoy what he was doing.

And what he’d been doing, John explained, in a quiet, measured voice, was watching little six-year-old Darby, on film, on his laptop, initially dressed up, and made up, but soon almost fully naked, and acting out various scenarios with a variety of sex toys. Above each moving picture was apparently a banner. It read ‘Our Little Princess’.

Chapter 2

The known paedophile, John continued, had been sickened. He smiled grimly, once he’d told us that, as if to say I know – even paedophiles as depraved as this one had their limits. ‘He was apparently really sickened,’ John went on. ‘Which he must have been, mustn’t he? Because he reported it to the police even knowing the probable consequences – that, when they seized his computer, which they obviously would do, he’d be in big trouble himself. They live on the same estate,’ he continued. Then spread his palms wide. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about, really, does it?’

‘I feel sick too,’ Mike said, echoing my own sentiments. ‘Six? You say she’s six?’ He shook his head. ‘And her parents are filming her for paedophiles? I honestly just can’t imagine anything more terrible.’

John sipped his coffee. ‘Yes, six, and an only child, thank God. Which is not to say the couple haven’t …’

‘Jesus,’ said Mike. ‘It’s so sick.’

‘But she’s safe now. The police acted swiftly, thank goodness. She’s safe with us now.’

‘Since when?’ I asked.

‘Since two hours ago.’

‘At the office?’

He nodded. ‘But look – listen, both – don’t say yes if you don’t think …’

‘How could we possibly say no, John? God!’ I said. ‘What kind of a state must she be in?’ I tried to imagine what kind of mental turmoil the child was in. Had she been held prisoner in her own home? Forced to ‘perform’ under threat? Would she be glad to have escaped? Desperate? Hysterical? Or, on the other hand – and the thought crept unavoidably into my brain – was she more distressed at being taken away from all she knew? Was what she’d been forced to do her version of normal?

Mike and I exchanged glances. I knew his thought processes would be similar. A few years previously we’d fostered siblings who’d been born into a family that were at the centre of a terrifyingly huge paedophile ring. The older one, Ashton, was his grandfather’s son – one of several children he’d sired with his own daughters. Most chillingly, however, was that, groomed virtually from birth, these two terrified innocents had been distressed, no doubt about it, but not about the sexual abuse, which for them was just another way of showing love – no, they were distressed at being taken from their ever-loving granddad.

Hearing the shouts and whoops of my own grandchildren coming from the other room, my heart felt suddenly leaden. ‘Then go and fetch her,’ I told John, returning Mike’s affirmative nod. ‘Bring her here. Of course we’ll have her. That’s settled.’

John’s frown lines smoothed out slightly. A box had been ticked. A problem shared and halved. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and I knew he really meant it. ‘I knew I could depend on you two. And, of course, I’ll go back and organise for her to be brought to you right away. But you need to be aware of what you are taking on. Seriously. I know you’ve a lot of experience of this sort of thing –’ He spread his palms. ‘Would that it were otherwise, eh? But this appears to be a severely damaged little girl. And in all kinds of ways. It’s in a different league, honestly –’

Mike laughed grimly. ‘You said it, mate. Sheesh. You’re telling me.’

‘Horrific,’ John agreed.

‘And the parents,’ I said, thinking suddenly about the monsters who’d done this evil. ‘What’s happened to them now?’

‘Arrested,’ John said. ‘Not sure what’s happening next there. But if you’re absolutely sure you’re happy to take little Darby, even if just in the short term, I’ll go back and sort things. She’s already been allocated a social worker – though I’ve not met her myself yet – and she’s the one who’ll bring Darby over to you. Say an hour or so?’ He glanced back towards the kitchen, sniffing the air. ‘Give you time to have your dinner at least.’

Dinner, understandably, was the last thing on my mind. And, unsurprisingly, I had entirely lost my appetite. We ate anyway, because, aside from everything else, the rest of the family were all starving – all bar Tyler, who pitched up not long after John had left us, and in doing so reminding me why we did what we did. I hugged him extra hard, as if he were a living, breathing talisman against the evil that was going to come and visit, in the shape of the reality it forced into our minds.

We told Riley the bare minimum, and a white lie to Kieron – he found any kind of child abuse extremely distressing, so we simply said her parents had been arrested for unrelated offences, which, having no other family, had left her with nowhere to go over Christmas.

We also took the decision to end the family gathering early. Again, the kids were used to such things, and, with Christmas still to come, the little ones weren’t bothered either. We just explained to Levi and Jackson that we were taking in a little girl over Christmas and, so she wouldn’t be too traumatised, we needed a slightly quieter household when she arrived. Which was probably true anyway. John had told us that she’d been inconsolable. There’d been much clinging and screaming and sobbing apparently. It would be a pretty intense job for the poor social worker.

Levi, who’d just turned nine, was excited. A sociable little chap and a typical eldest, he was always in his element when there was a new young friend to take charge of, and wouldn’t leave without a promise that he’d be meeting her soon, which I was only too happy to make for him. Once she’d settled, I told him, what she’d need would be the same as all kids need. Comfort and routine and to be enveloped in love. ‘I’ll give her lots of hugs, Nana,’ he solemnly promised me.

First of all, however, she’d need a bedroom. So, as soon as we’d waved everyone off (in my case, with a pang of regret, as I watched the cars disappear down the road, Mike and Tyler in one of them, taking Kieron, Lauren and a rudely awoken Dee Dee) I hotfooted it upstairs to the bedroom.

Which wasn’t so much bedroom as junk room just lately. Since little Paulie had left it had slowly reassigned itself, almost without me realising it was happening. Knowing we’d not be needing it for a good while, we’d both found it all too easy to say ‘I’ll just pop this here’ and ‘It can stay there for the moment,’ and to such an extent that there was very little floor space – particularly since Mike had one of his major garage clear-outs and earmarked a ridiculous amount of stuff to go on eBay. ‘Yeah, right, Dad,’ Tyler had said. I remembered that well now. ‘Yeah, right, bet you a tenner it’ll still be here this time next year.’ Though to his credit, he’d downloaded some ‘app’ (apps were still something of a mystery to me) and managed to sell a good deal more than a tenner’s worth, at a hard-won but decent commission.

Still, there was a fair bit that still needed shifting, not to mention the fact that our Christmas presents were all stored there, safely away from several pairs of prying eyes, till such time as I poured myself an eggnog, popped on a favourite Christmas movie and settled down to wrap them in peace.

John had laughed about that, the tension broken as he’d left, having correctly identified the look of sudden stress on my face. ‘Look at her, Mike,’ he said. ‘Full-on panic mode now. Thinking about how she won’t have time to go out buying new curtains and duvets.’

Mike had laughed too. ‘You know her too well, John. But under the circumstances, Casey,’ he’d placed a hand on my shoulder, ‘I don’t think you need to be worrying about that.’

It had set the tone again, that, after our brief moment of levity. He’d been right. What this poor kid needed was a safe place. A sanctuary. Not a frilly duvet and a pair of matching bloody curtains.

Still, she needed a clean space, and this definitely wasn’t that, so once I’d cleared the floor somewhat and piled the presents in our bedroom wardrobe, I ran back downstairs for a bin liner, disinfectant spray and cloth. And then, as an afterthought, ragged the small set of fairy lights from around the hall mirror. After all, they weren’t going to be needed to illuminate any poinsettia, by the looks of things. And, for all that little Darby wouldn’t need a new Frozen quilt cover, she would need a light in her current darkness, however small.

Chapter 3

Mike and Tyler were back within half an hour and, to at least stem the tide of typical Tyler-questions (which was totally reasonable, as he’d come to us as a traumatised child himself) we told him just a little – just enough to satisfy his curiosity. We told him Darby had been abused by her parents, that it was physical rather than just mental, but we left it at that. We were of one mind, Mike and I – and it had never been any different. No child should have to know about such things – that such things went on in apparently normal families. Not until they had to, at any rate. Of course, the hardest thing when Darby came to us would be to ensure that remained the case, but as Tyler, now off school for Christmas, had a packed programme of football and various teenage gatherings, I hoped we’d be able to achieve that much at least.

‘So what do you think?’ I asked Mike as we all trooped up to the bedroom, their presence required to relocate some of the junk from landing to loft.

‘It’s fine,’ Mike reassured me, while Tyler pulled down the loft ladder. Then, ‘Love, stop fretting about the décor. More important is how we’re going to play this. You know, I hate this. And it seems to be the way more often than not now. Going in blind. Nothing to go on … not knowing how to deal with her.’

I could see what we’d been told was still weighing heavily on him, and I got that. How could it not? He was a father. And, more specifically, of a daughter – not to mention two granddaughters. Though you’d have to be naïve not to be well aware that it could equally have been a little boy.

‘I think there’s a car pulling up,’ Tyler shouted down from the loft, being blessed with superhuman hearing.

And indeed there was. A swift glance out between the spare bedroom curtains confirmed it. The headlights snapped off and I could see the car door opening. ‘Well, here goes nothing,’ I said, as Mike followed me down the stairs, Tyler clattering down the ladder and close behind.

The social worker, whom I’d not come across before, was as grim-faced and stressed-looking as John had been. She introduced herself as Katy Morris, and gently touched the shoulder of the little girl by her side. ‘And this,’ she said, smiling down at the tiny child, ‘is Darby.’ She leaned down slightly. ‘Are you going to say hello, Darby?’ she said gently. ‘This is Casey, and that’s Mike. Remember, I told you all about them in the car?’

‘And this is our son Tyler,’ I added, conscious of how the little girl kept her head down, unwilling to look at us, but sufficiently interested to briefly look up at the sound of my voice. Her gaze flickered past us and I imagined Tyler beaming his mega-wattage smile. He could be a handful – he was a teenager – but I don’t think he’d ever forget what it felt like to be dumped on a stranger’s doorstep.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Katy Morris said. ‘I literally had about ten minutes to read your file.’

She looked so apologetic that I felt like patting her reassuringly on the shoulder too. She must have been on call. What festive delights had she been dragged away from? She was also quite young. No more than late twenties, I reckoned. Though with a reassuring air of quiet confidence.

Even so, this would have been a grim day for her too. ‘No apologies necessary,’ I reassured her, liking her immediately. ‘Come on. Come on in. Follow me,’ I chirped, leading the small procession into the living room, where it still looked as if a small typhoon had recently passed through. ‘Grab a seat anywhere you like,’ I added, willing myself not to start straightening cushions. ‘How about a hot drink? It’s so cold out, isn’t it?’

She nodded. ‘Can I?’ she answered. ‘I’d love a quick one. It’s been manic, as you can imagine.’ She put her bag down on the floor and started unbuttoning Darby’s coat, talking to her all the time in soothing tones. It was an old coat and cheap-looking, and I belatedly realised it was the only thing she had with her. Had they not even had the chance to gather up some familiar clothes and toys? Evidently not.

Mike, ever practical, put the TV back on, flicking from DVD player to the channels as he did so. ‘How about some cartoons?’ he suggested to the girl, as he navigated the remote for something child-friendly. ‘Would you like that, Darby? While the grown-ups have a quick chat? And a biscuit, perhaps? And a drink of juice or milk?’

At the mention of food and drink, Darby finally properly looked at us, and I was immediately struck by the arresting nature of her looks. She had the sort of dirty-blonde hair that young actresses paid a fortune for, shoulder length, fine, with a messy, choppy fringe that looked like it had been done with kitchen scissors. Behind it, I could now see a hauntingly beautiful little face. She had clearly been crying a lot – her cheeks were streaked with tear stains and very grubby, but those eyes! They were an amazing, almost luminous electric blue. Wide set and almond shaped, they were framed by thick lashes. Of the kind young actresses probably paid good money to have stuck on, too. It was a face that could stop you in your tracks, and, along with an appreciation of her gorgeous elfin looks, came the same sense of revulsion as had come earlier. People had paid good money. Bad people.

Sick people, I mentally corrected myself, trying to banish the image. Sick people watched her – I intuitively knew that – but it was bad people, evil people, who put her on show.

She smiled shyly at Mike. ‘Yes, please,’ she said politely. ‘I’d like milk.’ She glanced at her social worker. ‘And I’m hungry.’

‘I saved you a chicken dinner, Darby, if you’d like that?’ I asked her. ‘D’you think you could eat a dinner?’ I gestured towards the coffee table. ‘You can eat it in here if you want to watch some cartoons.’

Again she nodded and, again, gave that ghost of a smile. ‘Yes, please,’ she said simply. ‘And then I’ll go home to Mummy and Daddy.’

It was a statement rather than a question, which spared us the necessity of having to answer, so I went straight to the kitchen, Tyler following along behind, while Mike showed Katy Morris to the dining-room table, where Darby could still see them. And while Tyler microwaved the plate of food for her and poured her a tumbler of milk, I made us strong coffees. It could well be a long night, after all.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ Katy said, once we were assembled around the table, and Tyler had plonked himself down in front of the telly while Darby set about her food. ‘It must be her age. She’s very young to make any sense out of what’s happened this afternoon. Although I explained it all to her as simply as I could during the ride over, she just isn’t taking it in. I think she assumes that we’ve collected her for an outing and that she’ll be going back home after she’s eaten.’

‘She’s not going to understand,’ I said, grateful for the volume coming from the box now, and mindful that we were all of us reeling at the moment. ‘She’s probably in shock … This must be extremely confusing for her after all. But she’ll be fine,’ I added. ‘Honestly. Don’t worry. Once you leave, she’ll get that she’s staying with us for a bit.’ I smiled reassuringly. ‘We’ll take it from here.’

Katy sipped her coffee, and I noticed the way her hands gripped the mug, whitening her knuckles. ‘It was horrible,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘I was there. The police just burst in. And I followed.’ She looked like she was reliving it as she spoke. ‘And there was a whole filming setup in the back bedroom – camera on a tripod, arc lights. The lot. And manacles attached to the bedhead – seriously, it was horrible. The mother was screaming. The father was trying to drag Darby from me. It was just awful. The poor kid didn’t know what was going on and just kept crying for her mummy. Honestly, just when you think you’ve seen it all …’

She left the rest of her sentence hanging. I could see she’d been badly affected by the afternoon’s events. I smiled gently at her. She was so young herself.

‘I know what you mean,’ I said. ‘And it doesn’t get any easier, does it?’

‘It shouldn’t,’ Mike said. ‘The day we are no longer shocked by this kind of thing is the day we become desensitised. And that can’t happen – not in this job.’ He glanced across at Darby. ‘God help us.’

The handover paperwork was minimal, so, given that Darby had begun stealing glances across at us as she ate, I left it to Mike and went to join her in the living room.

‘Blow on it, sweetie,’ I prompted as she was about to load a forkful of hot potato into her mouth. ‘Do you normally have a fork, or would you like a spoon?’

Darby blew hard as directed, and bristled a little. ‘I’m six,’ she said, before putting it to her mouth. ‘I’m allowed a fork. And a knife,’ she added accusingly. Tyler grinned.

‘Wow! You’re a big girl, then,’ I said, dropping down to my knees on the other side of the coffee table. ‘A fork and a knife! It’s almost like you’re seven – not six!’

That earned me a smile, once she’d finished chewing, followed by a belch. ‘Pardon me,’ she said, smiling sheepishly. There was no faulting her manners. What kind of humans made a child say please and thank you, and, at the same time, abused her so foully?

Darby speared a piece of broccoli. ‘Is the lady taking me back to Mummy when I’m finished? ’Cos I have to go back for bedtime.’

‘Sweetie,’ I said, leaning in towards her. ‘We have a lovely big girl’s room here for you to sleep in tonight. It’s got fairy lights and a pink rug. And teddy bears.’ I tried to gauge her reaction, but her blue eyes betrayed nothing. Just stared. And a horrible thought flew into my head. Did they drug her with something when they had her perform? I’d heard of such things more than once.

But no. She was just trying to take things in, clearly. ‘There was some trouble earlier, wasn’t there?’ I persisted gently. ‘At home. You remember? And Mummy and Daddy have had to go and speak to some policemen. Which means, well –’ I glanced over at Katy, who was just closing her folder. ‘Well, Katy, there, who brought you, well, she has to leave you with us for a bit. So you’re going to spend some time with us – us and Tyler here. That’s right, isn’t it, Tyler?’ He nodded and smiled encouragingly. ‘Just till things are a bit better. Sorted out. Do you understand?’

The broccoli sat untouched on the end of Darby’s fork. Then began to wobble, then was thrown down, fork and all, on the plate. The wailing began almost immediately. ‘I want to go home!’ Darby cried, making fists and rubbing her eyes hard with them. ‘I want my mummy and daddy! I’m sorry if I was a bad girl! Tell the lady! I’m sorry! I’ll be good! I promise I’ll be a good girl. Oh, please, lady, please let me go home!’

I came around the table and sat beside her on the arm of the sofa, trying to pull her towards me for a hug, but was repeatedly pushed away. She was surprisingly strong.

‘Oh, darling, you haven’t been bad,’ I said, trying to get a grip on her, to help calm her. ‘That’s not it at all. The grown-ups just have to sort some things out so that you don’t get hurt. and then, once that’s happened, we can talk about what comes next.’

‘Please!’ Darby cried. ‘No one will hurt me! They won’t. I want to go home!’ She seemed to have a revelation. ‘If you take me home, Daddy will give you some of his pennies. I promise. And I’ve got some in my piggy. You can have those as well. Please, lady, please …’

She was shaking as she sobbed now, and I finally got a hold of her, even though she was still trying to drum angry fists against my chest. Ransom money. Was that it? That she thought she’d been kidnapped?

Behind Darby’s back, Katy took in the jerks of my head and, with a thumbs up, she mouthed her goodbyes. And in responding I obviously loosened my grip on Darby too much, because she sprang from me, almost knocking over both tea tray and coffee table, and sprinted to where her little coat was over a chair.

Katy looked at us helplessly, and took a step to gently part child and coat, but Mike, who’s so good in such situations, beat her to it. Sweeping Darby up, with a bright ‘Come on, let’s see your bedroom, shall we?’ he took her off up the stairs, one decisive step at a time, weathering her kicking and bucking and screaming.

Chapter 4

Darby had cried her eyes out for almost two hours after Katy had left. Having seen the bedroom and having allowed Mike to bring her back down again, she’d sat briefly on the sofa, seemingly drained of all emotion – or, more likely, realising resistance was useless – then was off again, in some sort of panic attack, stamping her feet, pulling her hair and railing at us all to go away, then dissolving into paroxysms of gulping, racking sobs, which went on well into the evening.

Unable to comfort her, I let her cry. She probably needed to cry it out a bit in any case. At least if she did so she’d have a chance of falling into an exhausted sleep. Because, in truth, there was almost nothing anyone could do for her – not in the short term, anyway. We couldn’t grant her wish to go home, and we couldn’t make any promises about the future. From the few details we already did know – particularly about the collusion of the mother – there seemed little possibility she’d be allowed to return home ever again.

And she did eventually tire, and she did eventually stop, and though I had to accept that there was no way we’d be able to bath her or get her into pyjamas, I was happy enough for her to sleep in her clothes.

And now it was morning. Tyler, being naturally curious about why she’d come to us, was bombarding me with questions I couldn’t answer.

‘But what did they do?’ he wanted to know. ‘Why did the police have to bang the door down?’

‘Tyler, they didn’t exactly bang the door down.’

‘But the social worker said they burst in.’

‘Knocked on the door –’

‘And wasted no time in taking Darby out, Mum.’

‘You, young man,’ I said sternly, ‘do a great deal of earwigging.’

‘So did they beat her up? She looks okay. And she obviously loves them. And they obviously didn’t want her taken away, did they?’

I didn’t miss the look of wistfulness that visited his face briefly. No matter how much love he was showered with by his new forever family, the memory of his rejection by his father would never wholly go away.

I pointed towards the kitchen clock. ‘Don’t you have to be showered and dressed in ten minutes, my lad?’ I asked him pointedly. Mike, who was thankfully now off till New Year, the factory he worked at being closed, was taking Tyler and Kieron, and Tyler’s mate Denver, on some tour of their beloved football club’s ground. Santa was said to be putting in an appearance but, of course, everyone was much too old to care about that. It was a gift for me, however. A big one. It meant the day I’d earmarked for a long list of wrapping and prepping was at least free for me to focus on our tiny visitor.

‘Okay, okay,’ Tyler said, picking up his last half-slice of toast. ‘But you know, Mum, I am old enough to know this stuff, you know.’

‘So you are,’ I said. ‘And ugly enough, too,’ I teased. ‘Seriously, I know that. Not just right now, though, eh, Ty? We barely know anything ourselves.’

Which seemed to satisfy him. And would give me time to decide on the edited version. You were never old enough – or ugly enough – to need to know this particular kind of ugliness.

Once Mike and Tyler had left, I kept popping upstairs and listening stealthily at the bedroom door. I could see only the shape of Darby’s lower half from my vantage point, and didn’t want to disturb her because I was keen that she wake up naturally. Which she did eventually, having slept a solid thirteen hours.

While I was waiting I used the time productively, going through the piles of children’s clothes I kept in the wardrobe in the other spare bedroom – the one I didn’t use for foster kids on account of the wardrobe being the kind that, in a happy kid, would conjure dreams of trips through a forest of coats to Narnia and, in an unhappy one, just your bog standard nightmares. It was a family heirloom, however, so there was no question of getting rid of it, and it did sterling service as a repository for all my fostering essentials – clothing and bedding, plus all kinds of toys and games that I’d picked up from various charity shops down the years.

I pulled out a selection of items to which clung familiar memories – of Olivia, one of the siblings who’d been in such similar straits. I wondered how she was now and tried to calculate her precise age. Tried to picture the beautiful young woman she’d soon become. Physically perfect, yes, but how badly scarred? Would she ever be able to form normal relationships? I tried to console myself that her youth when she’d been abused was always on her side. More so, I remembered grimly, than her elder brother, Ashton. What scars – and proclivities – would he carry through his adult life? The saying the abused often becomes the abuser came to mind, and I shook it away as I shook out the little outfits.

I didn’t want to think such things. There was no benefit in doing so. What I had to do with Darby was live entirely in the moment. Take care of her needs to the best of my ability, and leave the professionals to chew over The Bigger Picture.

I picked up my selection and made my way back across the landing, and seeing the shape in the bed had moved, pushed the door gently open with the pile of clothes in my arms.

Darby was sitting up in bed, knees to chest, the butterfly duvet cover pulled up to her chin, and she visibly flinched when she saw me.

She’d been crying again, and continued to as I put the clothing down on the chest of drawers and went to her.

‘I want my mummy,’ she sobbed. ‘I want to go home to my mummy and daddy.’

I sat on the edge of the bed and stretched out a hand to comfort her. She pulled her hand away. ‘Darby, I’m sorry, baby, but, like I said last night, you need to stay with me and Mike for a little while. Do you remember?’

‘But I want to go home!’ she sobbed. ‘Why can’t I go home?’

‘Because you can’t, sweetie, not right now. And I’m very, very sorry. I know how scared you must be. And how strange this will all seem. But nothing bad is going to happen here, I promise you. Come on, sweetie,’ I said, taking hold of her hand more firmly. ‘Let’s go downstairs to watch some cartoons and have some breakfast. How about that? I have banana or chocolate milk. Do you like either of those?’

She didn’t answer the question, but at least she didn’t try to fight me as I gently pulled the duvet back so she could get out of bed.

Her T-shirt had ridden up and I noticed that her tiny, elasticated-waist jeans had left a deep red weal around her waist. I really needed to get her into the bath as soon as I could and into some fresh clothes. But not until I’d fed her. She’d eaten hardly anything the previous evening, and I knew a full belly would be at least a little of the battle won.

And she clearly was hungry, especially when I told her she could have anything she wanted. ‘Well, as long as it’s not toenails of toast,’ I had quipped, ‘because I’m all out of those,’ which at least elicited a wan smile.

So, chocolate milk and jam sandwiches it was – apparently her favourite – and while she got stuck in I chattered on about the family – about my own children and their partners and my gaggle of lovely grandchildren, all of whom I promised her she’d get to meet and play with over the coming days. Being an only child, and given the depravities that went on in her own home, I had a hunch she’d be sorely lacking in normal play dates.

‘In fact,’ I told her, ‘I thought I’d have Riley bring the children over today. So you can have someone to play with. Would you like that?’

She nodded, seeming ever so slightly cheered up by the news. A temporary respite from the fear and bewilderment, at least. Which would still be there – how could it not? – but at least she’d be distracted. ‘So,’ I said, ‘after breakfast, we’ll run a nice bath for you, shall we? With lots of bubbles and ducks and mermaids, and then we’ll get you dried and dressed. I’ve found some lovely outfits for you to choose from –’

‘But not high heels and lipstick,’ she said, pouting now a little.

‘No, sweetie, of course not. Not high heels and lipstick. Just nice little girls’ clothes. I think I have a princess jumper – would you like to wear that? It has Rapunzel on the front, and someone else on the back, and I’ve got some lovely pink leggings to go with it. They’ll just fit you.’

‘But not high heels and lipstick,’ she said again. It wasn’t a question. ‘I don’t want no high heels and lipstick today.’

Since Riley was climbing the metaphorical walls just as much as I was plumbing the metaphorical depths, she was only too happy to bring the kids over to play, seeing it as something of an unexpected bonus.

‘How’s she been anyway?’ she asked, when she arrived and had disgorged her small three-person wrecking crew into my festive front room.

‘Up and down,’ I said, ‘as you’d expect, but mostly up for the moment. Forgetting everything else – which I am trying extremely hard to do – I think she must have led a pretty lonely life. So this is a blessing for both of us, even if it does mean my to-do list will have to go hang.’

And, as I so often did, having adult sensibilities, I watched them all shouting and laughing and pulling out the dressing-up clothes, and found myself marvelling at just how quickly Darby was assimilated into the crew; not to mention happily taking Leo’s orders. ‘You’d never even know, would you?’ I mused to Riley, as Darby, in her turn, began organising Marley Mae’s toy buggy for her. And you really wouldn’t. She seemed a world away from the distress of having been dumped with strangers. Children, particularly young ones, really were astonishingly adaptable, their ability to shut off parts of their brain and compartmentalise never failing to impress me.

Perhaps the placement wouldn’t turn out to be as traumatic as I’d predicted. Perhaps Darby would be resigned, in the short term, distracted by the children, and we’d manage to do all we could under the circumstances – give her a peaceful and as-happy-as-it-could-be kind of Christmas, and see what was what in the New Year. We were due to return to full-time fostering then, after all.

Which just goes to show that, when the situation seems to need it, adults are good at compartmentalising as well.

Chapter 5

The next day, to my undying gratitude, Riley brought the grandchildren over again and babysat Darby for a couple of hours, so that Mike and I could dash into town and get the poor girl some presents.

Darby had come with nothing, of course, but that wasn’t to say that some familiar things couldn’t be collected for her. So I’d called Katy and double-checked, and she’d even managed to get a message through to Darby’s parents on remand. And it turned out that they’d not done their Christmas shopping yet (no surprise there), so, no, there were no presents to be collected. And no, we couldn’t have access to the house, because it was a crime scene – so that was pretty much that.

It felt weird, that; discussing such normal family matters with Katy, about a pair of parents who’d used their own child as a tiny porn star – the toast of the most depraved websites.

I pushed the thought away. My focus was on Darby and Christmas and the business of making sure she had a sackful of presents to open on Christmas morning – an emergency payment was now winging its way into my bank account, and I intended to use most of it on the purchase of things she could unwrap and play with and be distracted by.

This was no wanton extravagance on my part. The grandchildren invariably spent Christmas Day at ours, which was wonderful, and our tradition was for them to open most of their presents once the whole family were assembled. To bring Darby into that mix, with just a very modest number of presents, would only add to her sense of abandonment and distress.

We’d had the odd child, of course, for whom Christmas had to be a non-day, so raw were the memories and the pain, but in Darby we had a child who would appear to gain a great deal emotionally from being in the bosom of a family – of being wrapped in the security blanket of family rituals and love.

I therefore shopped speedily and well. And by the time Mike and I returned we were weighed down with riches; a baby doll, a little pram (she had been very covetous of Marley Mae’s buggy the previous day), a selection of doll’s clothes, a couple of new outfits for Darby herself, some books, a big jigsaw and, of course, the obligatory chocolate selection box. I was quite sure we’d spent a lot more than would be going into my account the following week, but it would be worth it, I knew, to see her face.

We opted to leave it all in the car, planning to bring it in and wrap it once she was in bed, and headed up the path, gasping for coffee.

‘That’s odd,’ Mike observed as he singled out his door key on the car fob. ‘Very quiet in there, don’t you think?’

I listened. It was. And the quiet was even more obvious when Mike slipped the key in the door and swung it open. ‘That’s some magic touch,’ he observed as he slung the keys down and shrugged his coat off.

‘Either that,’ I said, ‘or she’s got them playing sleeping logs.’

It was neither. They were quiet because they were stuffing their faces with popcorn, watching another Christmas movie (Elf this time – just a glance and I could identify them all).

Riley herself was sitting at the dining table flicking through a Christmas gift guide. She looked up then, and I noticed a strange expression on her face.

‘Everything okay?’ I asked her, as Mike and I went through the living room and into the dining room. ‘I see you’ve got them all settled down. And if that’s not a Christmas miracle, I don’t know what is!’

Taking off my cardigan, I then noticed Levi glancing strangely at his mother. Riley gestured to the folding doors that we hardly ever used, but which could divide the dining and living areas into two proper rooms.

‘Come in here,’ she said quietly. ‘And close the doors for a minute.’

I did so, a sinking feeling appearing from somewhere in the pit of my stomach. We both sat down. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, half not wanting to know.

Riley glanced at both of us in turn. ‘I don’t even know where to start,’ she said. ‘Honestly.’

‘What’s happened, love?’ Mike asked her. ‘Just spit it out. Bloody hell, we’ve only been gone an hour. How bad can it be?’

Nearer two, I thought distractedly. But that was of no consequence. Riley shook her head. ‘Bad, Dad, believe me.’

I’m not usually one for regrets in life generally, and, by and large, the same applies to fostering. But sometimes, and thankfully these times have been few, I get this big whump of guilt about the choices Mike and I make, and how it might impact on our children and grandchildren. This was one such time. A moment when I wished I’d chosen differently. Said no. Because the last thing I wanted – in line with every parent everywhere – was to have my cherished grandchildren’s Christmas memories tainted. I wanted a Christmas without drama, or trauma, or sadness. I wanted not to have that evil eddying around in my house.

But it seemed it was.

‘Levi and Jackson wanted to play in the garden,’ Riley told us. ‘So I made them put their coats on, gave them the football and let them out the back. And I am so glad I did. Which left Darby and Marley, with the toy box emptied out, and as they had no interest in playing out, I was happy to leave them to it while I went and rustled up some hot dogs for lunch.

‘Next thing I know, Darby’s come into the kitchen, asking if they could have some chocolate spread. Course, I thought nothing of it – I just said no, and that they’d be having their lunch soon, so, after a bit of a pout, off she trotted. And that was that. Or so I thought.’

I felt the sinking feeling resolve itself into a cold, solid lump. We had elected to tell Riley so much, but only so much. Much less that we knew or ever wished to know.

‘And?’ Mike said.

‘Go on, love,’ I added. ‘Then what?’

‘Oh, Mum, it was awful,’ Riley went on. ‘It was vile. I didn’t hear anything for a bit, but then I heard Marley raising her voice – and sounding a bit weird, you know? So I went in to investigate. And there she was, standing in the middle of the living room with her leggings round her ankles and her hands in her pants.’ She lowered her voice to little more than a whisper. ‘And she’s thrusting her pelvis forward and there’s Darby, showing her how to do it, saying, “That’s it, pretend you’re licking chocolate spread off your twinkle and go ‘mmm’,” and all kinds of disgusting shit like that. Christ only knows what I’d have found if I’d given her the bloody Cadbury’s jar.’

It wasn’t often that my daughter swore – it wasn’t her style. And not often that my husband’s face turned so pale. ‘You have got to be joking,’ Mike said, knowing she was doing no such thing. ‘No way, Riley!’ He turned to me. ‘Casey, we can’t have this, we can’t. Not with the kids.’

I was still taking it in. ‘What did you do?’ I asked Riley.

‘I just picked Marley up, and told Darby that she wasn’t to play games like that. Which, of course, made no sense to her at all. She was just playing “growd ups” – no, sorry – playing for the “growd ups”.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Just what kind of terrible things did her parents do to her? I’m in shock, Mum. No, really. I could hardly believe what I was seeing. Licking chocolate spread off her crotch? Jesus! Thank God the boys weren’t there, that’s all. I don’t know how I’d have even begun to explain it to them.’

I felt awful. ‘Is Marley okay?’ I asked. ‘Did she say anything?’

Riley shook her head, almost irritably. ‘No, she’s fine, Mum. Of course she is. She was fine right away. I just told her it was a stupid game and that little girls shouldn’t play it. And to be honest she seems to have forgotten all about it. As does your little mada –’ She checked herself. ‘As does Darby. But, Christ, Mum. What were they thinking, sending a child like that into a family?’

And I knew Riley had a point. And I could see Mike agreed, which didn’t surprise me one bit. ‘You need to phone John,’ he said, his jaw set.

‘I will,’ I said, ‘but, you know, Darby won’t even know she’s done anything wrong, will she? It’s not like it’s her fault. She’s only acting out what she knows.’

‘I’m already aware of that,’ Mike snapped. And I understood his annoyance, too. We had been here before, sadly. More than once. No, there was no harm done. But there were limits to how much we should expect to have to deal with. Again, that sense of evil visiting us was strong in me. ‘Sorry, love,’ Mike said immediately. ‘But I’m afraid we’re not guinea pigs. Casey, abused children can’t just come here and carry on with our kids and grandchildren. It’s not right!’

Mike had a very good point. As did Riley. None of this was Darby’s fault – she’d been abused so horrendously. She’d suffered so much, and not least because she didn’t even appear to see it as suffering. An inconvenience sometimes, yes – her comment about not wanting to put on high heels and lipstick made that obvious. But she obviously did what she was told on that sleazy ‘film set’ – perhaps even derived some weird, non-sexual pleasure from her parents’ doubtless lavish attention and stage direction. And the worst of it was that she had no idea that what she did, and what they did to her, was depraved. That her parents, whom she loved, were so abusing her. For money. The term ‘ill-gotten gains’ never seemed so apt.

So she was an innocent victim, clearly. But Mike was right, too. Perhaps we weren’t the best people for her to be around. In a situation like this, did we have the luxury of putting her needs first? I doubted it. We had to think of the well-being of our own family.

You’re right,’ I said, my mind made up. ‘I will go and phone John and see if there is somewhere else she can go. Perhaps someone who doesn’t have any children.’

But Riley surprised me, as she does sometimes. She immediately shook her head. ‘You can’t do that, Mum,’ she said. ‘Dad, she can’t. That would be too cruel. There was no harm done,’ she added, as my eyes widened in shock. ‘Marley is too young to have understood what was going on, and Darby didn’t know any different, did she? No, it would be too cruel to abandon her – especially so close to Christmas. We’ll just have to make sure we don’t leave any of the kids alone, won’t we?’

‘Too bloody right,’ Mike said, pushing his chair back and standing up. ‘Not for a moment,’ he said, going to unfold the partition doors. ‘It’s all right us knowing that she can’t help it,’ he added before he opened them. ‘But there’s no way our family should suffer for it. No way. And, Casey, you make sure you report it.’

‘And now she knows it’s unacceptable, perhaps that will be the end of it,’ I soothed.

Perhaps. After all, she was only a little girl.

Chapter 6

John Fulshaw was sympathetic when I called him the following morning, obviously. But he was also anxious to confirm that we’d keep Darby for a bit longer, which I assured him we would, because Riley’s unexpected words had hit home. She was right. We couldn’t abandon Darby. Not at Christmas. Not at all, perhaps. Not once she’d settled in.

About which I was beginning to feel very ambivalent. ‘So we’ll be keeping a very close eye on her,’ I told John. ‘And, if you’ve no objections, I’ll have my whole our bodies are private chat with her. She’s old enough to hear it. Though whether it sinks in or not is another thing.’

‘A good idea,’ John agreed. ‘Because I’m certainly not going to be able to get anything organised with CAMHS before Christmas. Flying pigs being pretty thin on the ground right now.’

CAMHS stood for the Child and Adolescent Mental Health Service. Usually, with foster children, anything that constituted counselling was dealt with by them. Which was the best way – we provided care, and a safe place and routine; matters of emotional health, when it came to the big, complicated things, were best left to those who’d been trained to give such help. ‘And I’ll stop by tomorrow, if you’re around,’ he said, ‘because some other things have come to light now, and I’d like to put you properly in the picture.’

‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘that sounds ominous. Is it more bad news?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ he said.

Visit arranged, I hung up, took a deep breath and joined Mike and Darby in the living room. No visit from Riley today, but Mike being home was a blessing. Though I was only too happy for Tyler to be off round at his friend Denver’s, because the events of the previous day had made me doubly cautious about him acting as any kind of child-minder either.

Mike was helping Darby do a jigsaw on the coffee table. And the peaceful domestic scene was so at odds with the reality that it sunk me into an uncharacteristic gloom. Darby was beautiful to look at. And clearly a sweet, polite girl. It made me feel sick to know that she had been exploited by the very people who were meant to protect her, and I realised that her exquisite features probably added to the allure that attracted sick paedophiles to seek her out.

‘You okay, sweetie?’ I asked as I knelt down at the table to help. ‘Oh, The Little Mermaid. This is my absolute favourite jigsaw.’

‘I love The Little Mermaid,’ she said, inspecting a piece she’d just picked up. ‘I’m a little mermaid sometimes, too.’

I braced myself. ‘Are you?’

‘Yes, sometimes, at bath time. We don’t have bubbles, though.’ She looked up at me. ‘It’s all right if you both want to bath me. I don’t mind.’

I was going to grab a puzzle piece, but I stopped mid-reach. Mike was growing pale again. He looked horrified. ‘No, no,’ I quickly answered. ‘It will be just me who baths you, Darby. And as you’re such a big girl now, I think you’re probably big enough to wash yourself. I’ll just help you with your hair. How about that?’

Darby shrugged. Then she looked at Mike. ‘You can still watch, though. If you want to.’

‘No, darling,’ I said quickly. ‘Mike definitely doesn’t want to watch.’ This was probably as good a time as any, and Mike was clearly lost for words. ‘Darby, you know your body is a very private thing. Do you understand that? Do you know what “private” means?’

‘Course I do,’ she said, discarding the piece in her hand in favour of another.

‘Good,’ I said, ‘so you’ll understand that when something like your body is private, only you get to choose who sees it. D’you understand that? And you should never have to feel uncomfortable about it. Do you understand that too?’

She nodded, but I could see that her attention was all on the jigsaw. And even had it not been, this conversation – which, in theory, should be so straightforward – was very difficult. How could I tell a child that she shouldn’t allow strangers to see her naked, when I was a stranger myself? Yet here I was, calmly telling her that I’d be bathing her later.

It was all wrong. At her age, I should have been able to explain that it was safe for her mummy and daddy to see her body, but, of course, in this case, I couldn’t even do that. Which was why issues around child abuse and grooming were all so fraught in such young children. Bar the usual sanctions about hitting – lashing out and being lashed out upon – they’d yet to have the first inkling that certain types of non-hostile touching were also wrong.

She had no such anxieties, which made it all doubly depressing.

‘It’s okay,’ Darby said. ‘A body’s just skin and bones. Nothing to worry about.’ She attempted to fit the piece into the jigsaw in the wrong place. I looked helplessly at Mike. What a peculiar thing to say. She’d obviously been told it often. Skin and bones. Nothing to worry about. It was sick.

But for Darby herself it was all completely normal. And that was the sickest thing of all.

Darby was still running around in her pyjamas when John was due to arrive the next day – the pyjamas we’d bought for her and which she’d whooped in delight about, and which she was only too happy to allow me to change her into after she’d had her bath and I’d washed her hair. She was an affectionate little thing, but I keenly felt the abuse she’d suffered. And Mike, usually so physical with the little ones we fostered – the king of tickles and bear hugs – was at constant pains to avoid being physically close to her.

And I completely understood that. In fact, when he had offered to take her to the park with him and Tyler while John visited – at Ty’s suggestion; he would be playing a game of five-a-side football – it was me who had vetoed the idea. Awful as it sounds, I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do. Should such a vulnerable child be alone with a male adult? I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to risk it. I had heard of such things before and knew that, as a precaution against any allegations, it was always better to have two adults around at all times. Instead, we decided that when John got here I would take him through to the conservatory, and Mike and Darby could make a game of preparing lunch.

She was full of beans, too, having obviously – though she never actually voiced it – come to see her little stay as something of a holiday. That worried me as well. I’d have expected her to display more of her initial behaviours, and to keep remembering she missed her mum and dad. But she didn’t. Which meant potential attachment issues were a possibility in the mix. And that didn’t bode well at all.

‘Catch me, Casey!’ she yelled as she leapt through the air from the sofa. I held out my arms and almost got knocked over for my trouble. ‘Wow,’ I said as I placed her down, ‘either I’m getting too old for this or you are actually much, much bigger than six!’

She squealed with delight. As with any little girl, age was very, very important to her. ‘I am six!’ she insisted, giggling. ‘Look,’ she said, lifting her pyjama top right up to her chin. ‘See! I don’t even got no boobies – only nipples yet!’

I gently tugged the top down. ‘Darby, love, remember what I said? Your body is private, and you shouldn’t show it off.’

She looked crestfallen – as if upset that she’d done something terribly naughty. But any further exploration of the subject would have to wait, as the knocker went and I heard Mike welcoming John.

Which was good, because at least now I’d have a little more to go on. Though what that might comprise was anyone’s guess.

‘I’ll get straight to it,’ John said after we were settled in the conservatory. ‘And it’s not good, so fair warning, Casey. They found hundreds of images online during the investigation – pictures and videos, even evidence of a pay-per-view operation. And just as many physical photographs were found hidden in the house. All depicting children – including Darby, obviously. And all very definitely being –’ He paused and shook his head, as if to try to shake off the pictures. ‘Well, you know the drill. Being exploited and abused.’

‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘So it wasn’t just her parents then? This was part of a bigger picture?’

John nodded. ‘Your regular common-or-garden paedophile ring, I’m afraid. The father’s still denying everything – though what good he thinks that’ll do him, I don’t know, given the evidence. Not to mention the fact that the mother’s admitted everything and is fully co-operating with the police.’

I felt a glimmer of hope. ‘What’s she said?’

‘The usual. That her husband is some kind of monster. That he is violent and controlling and that she was in fear for her life. That she was too afraid of him – and his cronies – to do anything other than exactly what he told her. Says he brainwashed her into doing everything he said.’

Shades of Rosemary West? Myra Hindley? And there were countless cases documented where women apparently ‘stood by’ and let their men abuse their children, because they were convinced that, if they didn’t, the children would come off even worse. Could this be one such case?

I shook my head, even so, because it still stuck in my throat. I understood the notion of a man controlling a woman in that way – we’d even had lectures about it during training – but even so, my instinct was still strong: how could a mother let such disgusting things happen to her child? Wouldn’t a mother do anything to protect her child from harm? Why hadn’t she taken Darby and run away? ‘I’m sorry John,’ I said. ‘But she must take some responsibility for this. It was her own daughter, for God’s sake.’

‘Oh yes,’ John agreed, and surprisingly quickly. ‘And trust me, she is most definitely taking responsibility. Through the courts. She has admitted her part, in detail –’

‘Good. Well, not so much good, as good for justice.’

He raised a hand. ‘And she’s been honest. Says she’s more than happy to be sent to prison –’

‘Really?’

He smiled grimly. ‘Oh, yes. Champing at the bit to be banged up, by all accounts. Apparently, she’s happy to do anything that will help her get away from him.’

His words began to sink in. So it was really that bad, then. ‘But what about Darby?’ I asked. ‘What has she said about Darby?’

‘That – and I quote – she is now in the best place.’

‘But doesn’t she care?’ Silly question. Given what we already knew.

‘Apparently not. As far as her mother is concerned, Darby seems to be dispensable. She’s expressed no interest in seeing her again. Indeed, thinks it probably best that she doesn’t.’

‘But she’s her daughter!’ I was aghast. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. So this vile woman had simply held her hands up and said, ‘Fine, you got me, now take me away, I want to forget all about it’? But almost as soon as I bridled I remembered that, in all likelihood, you’d go back into Darby’s mother’s history and find a whole host of abuses had been visited on her too. Men like Darby’s father chose their partners very carefully. And evil was invariably not born but made.

I looked out to the fairy lights Mike had wound through one of the bushes in the garden. And which one of us had, that morning, forgotten to switch off. In the daylight, the light coming from them was barely visible. But it was still shining, reminding me of the one thing we could do. Give Darby Christmas – a little light, a little respite from the darkness, by which to see her way into some sort of future.

Chapter 7

‘Morning, love,’ Mike whispered as he shook me awake. ‘Merry Christmas.’

I smelt coffee. Smelt pine. Realised what day it was. ‘6 a.m.,’ he added, obviously anticipating my first question. ‘I knew you’d want to be up early to make a start.’

He was right. Christmas Day in our house was the most hectic of the entire year and, because I was a control freak and found it hard to delegate domestically, I always had a ton of things to do. Which was not to say I minded. The day would surely come when I had to hand the reins over. When, as with my own parents, I’d be poured a sherry and told to put my feet up. And I didn’t want that happening anytime soon.

First up, I had to play Santa Claus. I had carefully wrapped up all of Darby’s presents the night before, as she slept, and then hidden them out of sight just in case she got up during the night. Like all children of her age, she needed to believe that Santa’s helpers or, ideally, the great man himself, had delivered the gifts and placed them underneath the tree in the wee small hours.

‘What, no eggnog?’ I joked to Mike as I picked up my coffee. ‘I’ll just drink this, then, and we can then take Darby’s pressies downstairs.’

Mike shook his head. ‘No need. All done,’ he said. ‘All nicely stacked beneath the tree. And I’ve even peeled a huge pan of sprouts for you.’

Sprouts were my least favourite vegetable and my least favourite chore. Well, bar the chore of eating six of them as part of my Christmas dinner, which bizarre ritual dated back to when Riley and Kieron were little. On this one day, I had this thing that if I didn’t down a few of them, I’d no business making them either.

I grinned at my husband. ‘Okay, spill. What are you after?’

He looked pained. ‘Absolutely nothing! I did it for love. Well, and as a down payment on a leave pass for the football tomorrow afternoon. But mostly for love,’ he added quickly.

And I believed him, because we both knew it would be a particularly busy day. My parents were joining us for dinner, as were Riley, David and the kids, and Kieron, Lauren and their new baby Dee Dee.

And, of course, Darby, who had been much on my mind since John’s visit. She’d been absolutely no trouble in the intervening forty-eight hours or so, but neither had she shown very much interest in the coming revels, and I wondered about her family Christmases past. This, too, I understood, because we’d fostered all sorts of children and, difficult as it had been for me to believe it before we became foster parents, there were children for whom it really had little meaning, hard though it was to avoid.

These were kids who really did live on the edges of society. Children who were kept out of school, who had no televisions, who were part of no normal community. Children who had nothing, and no expectation of ever getting anything either; no presents, no parties, no fun. Children whose parents were so poor they actively avoided anything to do with Christmas, and children who’d been so badly abused, scarred and neglected that they didn’t really know what it was to be happy. I had a feeling Darby fitted into the latter category.

Which was why it mattered so much that we gave her a Christmas she could revisit as a happy time in her memory in years to come. And hopefully to an extent that it went some way to softening the memory of being taken away from all she knew.

Because the developments with her mother had brought it home to me that she was done with her former life now. That, although she didn’t know it, she’d in all likelihood never see either parent again. A clean break. Which, given she was still so young, was probably best. ‘Should I go wake her now?’ I asked Mike for the tenth time in as many minutes, having finished the bacon and eggs we’d prepared to set us up for the day.

He checked the time: 7 a.m. And, at long last, relented, even if it was while bearing his ‘you’re a fifty-year-old woman, for heavens’ sake’ expression. ‘Go on then,’ he said. And I was straight out of the blocks.

As Mike had already predicted, Darby was still half asleep – there was clearly no 4 a.m. badgering of parents in her repertoire. I shook her gently awake and she started, her eyes struggling to focus. ‘Father Christmas?’ she asked then, sitting upright, and presumably remembering the carrots, mince pie and sherry that we’d put out for Santa and his reindeer before she went to bed. ‘Has he left me stuff?’

‘He most certainly has,’ I said, pulling back the covers for her.

‘But Casey,’ she said as she slid her warm little body out of bed, ‘I was thinking last night. How did he find me?’

‘I sent him a letter, of course,’ I said. ‘That’s what we always do when we have children staying at Christmas.’

‘To the North Pole?’

‘Of course! Here, pop your dressing gown on. No need to get dressed yet, because it’s Christmas!’

Darby pushed her arms into the sleeves of the fluffy pink dressing gown I’d found for her in my just-in-case box, and, bleary-eyed, tied the belt with clumsy fingers. I wasn’t sure she was even half as excited as I was, but if I had one aim today it was to instil in her an understanding that family life could be all about laughter and love.

And presents, which, on seeing them, did elicit a response. One of disbelief. ‘Did Santa send all these for me?’

I was only too happy to answer in the affirmative, and was then able to enjoy the simple pleasure of seeing a small child who had nothing, and whose life had been so brutal, opening gifts that had been chosen just for her.

‘Oh, look!’ she cried, ‘Look, Casey! My very own baby! And she’s got a bottle and food and – look – even her own potty!’ and, ‘Oh, Casey – look – he’s sent a buggy! How did Santa know I wanted a buggy? I can take my doll for walks now! Can we take her for a walk today? And – oh – pink fluffy pyjamas! Can I wear them today? Can I wear them for Christmas?’

I grinned at her. ‘Yes, sweetie, you can wear them for Christmas if you want to. But not just yet,’ I added, forestalling an immediate strip. ‘Let’s have breakfast first, eh? Don’t want to get them dirty, do we?’

Her expression changed then, and she looked up at me with those enormous blue eyes. ‘What about after? When I go home? Can I take everything with me?’

Mike and I exchanged glances, both thinking the same thing. That there was to be no going home now. ‘Yes, of course, you can take everything,’ I reassured her, and her mouth opened in a smile.

‘That’s all right, then!’ she said, and returned to her raptures.

By the time Mum and Dad arrived mid-morning, Tyler had opened his presents too, and with the pair of them fully occupied with the construction set he’d wanted – to build a remote-control car – my to-do list was shrinking fast, and I had already allowed myself a small glass of sherry to get into the spirit of things.

Mike and I had dressed, but had purposely kept Darby in her nightwear because I knew my mum had bought her a beautiful red velvet pinafore dress with a silver and white striped T-shirt to go underneath it. They had yet to meet Darby, but there was no question of them not getting her something; one of my enduring joys was the support my parents had always given us with our fostering. And not just on a practical level. On an emotional one as well, in that any child who stayed with us was treated as one of the family, which, from chats I’d had with other foster carers, wasn’t always the case – leading to children who were already feeling lost and unwanted being treated differently, and so feeling more unwanted still.

Needless to say, my mum and dad found Darby as adorable as we had. ‘Oh! Aren’t you just lovely,’ my mum said after I made the introductions. ‘And what a lovely, lovely name!’

‘My mummy picked it,’ Darby said as she held her hand out shyly to shake. ‘And guess what? Casey wrote to Santa so he’d know I wasn’t at home. And he found me all by himself,’ she explained, warming to her theme, ‘and bringed me loads and loads of stuff. I never had so many presents in my whole life!’

‘How lovely,’ Mum said. ‘And do you know what? He must have known we were coming to see you today because he dropped an extra present off for you at our house as well!’

Darby’s eyes grew wider still. ‘Oh, lady!’ she said, as Mum gave her the parcel and she ripped into it like a pro. ‘Oh, lady! Another present, all for me?’ She gasped then, as the dress tumbled free of the paper. ‘This is just like a proper princess dress, like in Disney! Oh, thank you!’

But again, in a moment, her expression completely changed. ‘I don’t have to work, do I?’ she said, looking up at me now.

‘Work?’ I said, confused.

She held the dress up. ‘Like Snow White and Belle,’ she said. She might easily have added ‘stoopid!’ ‘Like Cinderella did,’ she explained, as if Mum and I were clueless. ‘Everyone knows! She was a princess, but nobody knowed it and she had to work all the time.’

‘Of course not,’ my mum said. ‘It’s Christmas, you silly sausage. No one works on Christmas Day. Well, bar Casey here, obviously.’ She winked at me and grinned. ‘And doctors and nurses and firemen and so on …’

‘And me,’ piped up Tyler. ‘I’ll be on plate clearing and washing up, as per.’

‘That’s okay, then,’ said Darby, who, to Mum’s consternation, whipped her dressing gown off and started pulling down her pyjama bottoms.

‘Hold your horses,’ I said, rushing to pull up her pants. ‘Tell you what, let’s leave my mum and dad to sit down for a minute, and we’ll go upstairs to get you changed, yes? I can fix your hair, too. I’ve got a bow that will match that dress exactly. How about that? Get you looking all Christmassy and pretty?’

Which, being a little girl, Darby accepted without dissent, gathering up the dress, and the dolly – so she could be ‘made Christmassy too’ – and trotting upstairs with me gleefully.

It didn’t take long to get Darby washed and dressed and ready, me pulling her hair into a ponytail and tying the red bow into it, while she did the same with her dolly. The dress, too, fitted perfectly, and she couldn’t wait to show it off. Well, till she came down the stairs and saw Kieron in the hall, at least.

Which seemed to completely startle her. She stopped dead on the second to bottommost step, and so suddenly that I nearly cannoned into her and knocked her flying.

‘What’s the matter, love?’ I asked her.

She pointed at Kieron. ‘Him! That man!’

The penny dropped. A strange man had come into the house. Was that a regular occurrence at home?

But her response, given the fact that this was obviously her ‘normal’, seemed a little OTT. Because she immediately burst into tears, and pushed me aside so she could run back up the stairs.

‘Darby,’ I called after her, pulling a ‘what the …?’ face at Kieron and Lauren. I then hurried after her, only to have the bedroom door slammed in my face.

It wasn’t locked – it didn’t have a lock – but she was surprisingly strong, so it took a bit of pushing and a lot of coaxing to get into the room. And as soon as I was in there she was screaming at me and ripping the ribbon from her hair, then pawing at the dress, which did up at the back and, in frustration that she couldn’t undo it, yanking violently at the collar.

‘Sweetheart, what is it?’ I said, rushing over to her, and trying to gather her into my arms. I was at a loss to understand her near-hysteria. ‘It’s just Kieron, my son. He won’t hurt you!’

‘Liar, liar, pants on fire!’ she yelled at me, her cheeks pink and hot now. ‘Liar, liar! You’re a liar, and I hate you!’

Still at something of a loss, I took a firmer line and gathered her close to me, then sat down on the bed so she was clamped on my lap. ‘What do you mean, love?’ I asked her. ‘Why am I a liar, liar?’

‘Because you said I didn’t have to work!’ she sobbed. ‘An’ that lady said it too! And then you tricked me!’

‘Tricked you?’

‘You got me a pretty dress and you tricked me!’ She was gulping her sobs now. ‘You’re a liar, liar, pants on fire, and I don’t want no dress anymore! I want it off!’

‘Then you shall have it off,’ I told her, loosening my grip on her slightly. ‘See?’ I said, dealing one handed with the buttons down the back. ‘There,’ I said. ‘Hop down and step out of it. That’s the way.’

She did so, and stamped on it a couple of times for good measure. I let her. ‘Better?’ I said finally. ‘Pyjamas again? What?’

‘I want my jeans on,’ she said pointedly. ‘I don’t want your dress-up princess dress!’

‘That’s fine,’ I said, getting up and going to the chest of drawers. She stood and pouted, scowling, in her vest and pants and woolly tights. ‘But Darcy, can you explain why you’re so cross with me?’ I asked her gently. ‘Because I honestly don’t understand.’

‘I told you,’ she said, crossing her arms across her chest and pushing her lower lip out. ‘Because you said I didn’t have to work. And you told a lie!’

‘You don’t have to work.’

‘But you got a man with a camera!’

The penny dropped. What had distressed her had clearly been Kieron’s bag of tricks. Being a bit of a techie – not to mention a new dad with a baby – he was keen to record every precious moment of this particular Christmas, and had accordingly brought his super-high-tech camera.

And, with the benefit of hindsight, I could have kicked myself, truly, for being every bit as clueless as Darby herself had already pointed out.

‘Kieron? But he’s my son, Darby. Levi and Jackson’s uncle – you already know that.’

The ridiculousness of what I’d just said struck me. My son. Somebody’s uncle. A succession of men coming round. I cringed inside. Coming round with one thing in mind. To provide material for the delectation of their sick friends, for money. Coming round, to see Darby, to film her playing dress up – then undress – as their little princess.

Which meant she must be thinking that we had … It didn’t even bear thinking about. ‘Sweetheart,’ I said, dropping to my knees in front of her and taking her hands. ‘You do not have to work. You will never have to work again – not in that way. That’s a promise. No one will ever make you dress up, or take your clothes off, or work here, you understand that? Never. The dress is for you. It’s for you to wear because you want to. Not because anyone wants you to get dressed up to work. It’s …’

I floundered. How the hell did you discuss such vile things? How did you begin to explain something so horrible? What words did you use to explain to a six-year-old that she was not going to have to spend any part of Christmas Day being photographed and filmed simulating sex acts with toys for God knows how many men, pay-per-view?

I handed Darcy her jeans, suddenly remembering a headline I’d seen calling for paedophiles to be castrated. It wasn’t that simple. It would never be that simple. But right at that minute, I couldn’t have agreed more.

In the end, after another bout of tears, and many assurances, Darby decided she did want to put the dress back on. So I re-dressed her, did her hair again, and listened to her talking about how work could be so boring sometimes, and how sometimes she got a very sore twinkle, and how at other times men came round who didn’t smell nice and shouted at her when she didn’t play properly.

She had really begun to open up now – which was distressing in itself, as I realised her former reticence about telling of her experiences was simply because she’d been told that if she said anything to anyone, the consequences would be dire. And that was up to and including her mum saying if she wasn’t good, she’d not be allowed out of the ‘pink fluffy handcuffs’ and miss her tea.

She talked of ‘only ever being allowed to wear pretty clothes for the pictures’. Of not ‘minding it so much most of the time, only sometimes’, but of being lonely. And of wanting to ‘have friends round to play’, and not ever being allowed to. Out it all came – all of a chitter-chatter, as I tied her second ponytail. All so much everyday girl talk.

And down we went then, me hoping Mike would have explained just enough that her peculiar outburst would be put into some sort of box, so that we could gloss over it now, ready to welcome Riley and everyone when they arrived, and get on with enjoying our Christmas Day.

And it appeared he had. ‘Well, look at you,’ said my mum when Darby returned and did a twirl for her. ‘You know what?’ she said, pointing upwards. ‘You look just as pretty as a princess!’

Our little princess. As advertised by devils. I could have wept.

Chapter 8

Had that been the end of it, I imagine we would have carried on over Christmas, doing what foster carers everywhere do – trying to minimise a child’s distress by keeping them distracted and as happy as possible under their invariably traumatic circumstances, while at the same time staying mindful of the root of their vulnerability without fixating on the evils of the world and the bleakness of such a damaged child’s probable fate.

As it was, though, there was more upset to come.

Once she’d got over her anger about the lies she thought she’d been told, Darby soon returned to doing what any six-year-old would on Christmas morning, playing with her – and Tyler’s – Christmas presents, eating too much chocolate, and generally running around in an over-excited fashion.

I was still on edge, even though now she knew she wasn’t going to have to ‘go to work’, Darby was becoming more relaxed and playful by the minute, her initial shyness around Kieron and Lauren having vanished.

‘Do you think it’s reasonable for me to ask Kieron not to film any of today?’ I asked Mike when I managed to engineer for us to snatch a couple of minutes to ourselves, ostensibly while taking bin bags of rubbish and wrappings out.

‘No, I don’t,’ he said. ‘I don’t see how. On what grounds? He’ll think you’ve gone mad.’

‘I was thinking, you know, on the grounds of Darby’s privacy, something like that. I don’t know … I just keep having this sense that she wants him to film her … Like she’s playing to the cameras, and, after what happened with Marley Mae the other day …’

‘Love, you know you can’t. And calm down. We’re all with her, aren’t we? What d’you think is going to happen when we’re all sitting around the living room?’

‘Yes, but no one but us knows what’s been done to her, do they? What she thinks is normal.’

‘Nor will they,’ Mike said grimly. ‘So before you suggest it, no quiet words with Kieron, either.’

‘That was the last thing I was about to suggest, believe me, love.’

‘Good. Look, try to keep calm. We’ve both got our eyes on her and I’m sure we can keep her occupied till Levi and Jackson get here – at which point I’m sure she’ll want to play with them instead. Besides, Dee Dee’ll be down for her nap soon, so Kieron will take a break from it anyway … Seriously, Casey,’ he said, finally plonking all the wrappings in the right bin. ‘It’s only –’

But I never got to hear what further pearl of wisdom he was about to impart, because the back door suddenly opened, revealing a rather frazzled-looking Mum.

‘Sorry to interrupt, love,’ she said. Did she think Mike and I had sneaked out for a tryst? ‘But there’s been a bit of a to-do.’

They say that sometimes it’s best to work on a need-to-know basis but, in the case of little Darby, the jury was definitely out. On the one hand, I was glad Levi and Jackson hadn’t been there to witness it but, on the other hand, had I taken the decision to be open about the horrors of Darby’s grim past, then perhaps it wouldn’t have happened in the first place.

Not that ‘it’ was anything that terrible, not by the standards we were used to, where kids came from backgrounds that made your hair stand on end and would so often scar them for life.

All ‘it’ was, as I described haltingly to John Fulshaw on the day after Boxing Day (at 9 a.m. precisely), was Darby having started pulling her dress up, more and more, and, with everyone’s attention on her, clearly warming to the attention, gyrating around and, just as she’d already instructed my elder granddaughter, stuffing her hands down her tights and thrusting her pelvis in a fashion that left no room for doubt as to what she was enacting. She’d apparently picked up a walnut – it really didn’t bear thinking about – and had even been about to demonstrate where she could put it, to a stunned Kieron, when we’d returned to the room.

‘I’ve put it all in the log, John,’ I finished up, lamely. ‘But the main thing is that I’m all at sea, and I’m not sure I can cope with something like this, I’m really not. And nor can Mike,’ I added. ‘Not when it potentially involves the grandchildren.’

John was silent for a moment, and I knew he was trying to digest the unlikely scene I’d just feebly sketched out. Funny, I mused, how we dealt with so many domestic horrors, but this particular scenario crossed an unspoken line.

Which was odd in itself, and I’d lain awake the previous two nights, trying to get to grips with it, because I’d thought – indeed I still largely thought – I was un-shockable. I knew all about the depths to which some depraved parents sunk. Sexual abuse, violence, neglect, outright abandonment. But mostly, if not always, I could tease out the factors that went some way to explain, if never condone it. Substance abuse and addiction, for example, were so often contributory factors. Violence meted out due to alcohol addiction, or neglect and exploitation due to a parent being a slave to heroin; a heroin addict, I’d learned long ago, would do almost anything (to themselves or their child) to get a fix.

This, though, was different, and I think that was what was troubling me. This sense that these people had so calmly and deliberately used their own daughter as a child star in the worst kind of pornography. I didn’t know how old Darby had been when they first started taking pictures of her, or precisely what acts she’d been trained to perform, and, though I usually craved – and invariably nagged John for – more information about the kids we had, I found myself in the uncharacteristic position of not wishing to know more than I already did.

It was quite the opposite in this case, and that was what kept me awake. I didn’t want to know. In fact, I wished I could un-know it. Because I knew about the importance of those early impressionable years. Was little Darby already damaged beyond help? Beyond our help? The guilt for thinking that pressed down on me.

‘It’s not that she’s not a sweetheart,’ I told John now. ‘It’s just that I don’t know what to do with her. Not without psychiatric support, and a comprehensive care plan.’

‘Which will all be put in place immediately after the New Year,’ he said quickly. ‘You know you can trust me on that score, Casey, always.’

‘I know, John –’

‘And that you’ll be supported on all fronts,’ he added. ‘You know that too. We wouldn’t expect you and Mike –’

‘John.’ The guilt pressed even more. I thought of little Darby, out with the doll and buggy as I spoke, with Mike and Tyler, the former knowing the call I’d be making in their absence. The latter knowing nothing.

‘John,’ I said again, speaking quietly, as if that would make the impact less. ‘We can’t keep her. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to come clean. Darby’s not going to be right for us, long term.’

The words out, I felt immediately that I should retract them. It just seemed so selfish. She was six, for God’s sake! And we’d coped with worse. We had coped with so much worse. But there was a world of difference between this and managing challenging, aggressive, violent, or even suicidal children. We knew how to do the latter; it was what we’d both trained for. But Darby was complicated, complicating psychological territory, and even if I’d felt equal to the task of trying to unravel it, I could only do so if I disclosed the extent of it to our family. And this was a burden I could not expect them to bear.

So I was effectively disowning her, on their behalf, without even consulting them. Riley’s words – it’s ‘too cruel’ – were clamouring in my head. I was all too aware that I had no simple excuse; not like with Connor, the lad we’d briefly had, and whom we’d considered keeping longer – till it turned out that he’d waged a war for supremacy with Tyler, assuring him that, soon, he’d be our favourite. That had been easy, in the end. Because Tyler came first. But this was a six-year-old, now utterly alone in the world.

‘I know,’ John said simply.

‘You do?’

‘Of course I do. Casey, I knew almost immediately. It’s never been never my expectation that you’d keep Darby long term. I was just hoping you could keep her for a few weeks, that’s all. I’m expecting a call today about it, as it happens. Darby’s being pushed through immediately for adoption.’

‘What, just like that?’ I’d never heard anything of this kind move that fast.

‘There have been developments,’ he explained.

‘What, over and above what we already know?’

‘Over and above. Way over and above, as it turns out. Darby’s one of hundreds. Hundreds. Sickening, isn’t it? And there’s no question of her being placed with other family members, either. I’ve already been told of other relatives who are in the frame. No, she’ll be escaping all of it. And good bloody job too. And in the meantime, can you just keep on doing what you’re doing? Just continue to remove her from situations where you think she will react badly and keep pointing out to her the right way to behave? You can’t do much else, can you? And you’re doing a fine job.’

‘I’m not sure I am,’ I said, feeling terrible that I was so keen for her to leave us as soon as possible.

‘Oh, you are,’ he said. ‘Never forget the alternative she’d be faced with. And I’m sorry …’

‘John, for God’s sake, don’t apologise!’ I said.

I heard him chuckle. ‘Well, that’s rich. You flipping started it!’

Chapter 9

True to his word, John was back with news just forty-eight hours later. Of a couple – the Burtons – we’d had dealings with four or five years previously, while they’d looked after one of our foster children on respite. I remembered them well, principally because they were ‘posh’, for want of a better word, and lived in the countryside on a farm. Somewhere far enough away, in every respect, to give Darby a chance of a future in a different world.

But they didn’t want another foster child. They were looking to adopt now. To focus all their energies on a single child, like Darby, about whom they’d already been briefed. Because, according to the psychologists, they would be perfect for her too.

They were an older couple, childless, and after several years of short-term placements had decided the time had come to give up fostering and create a ‘forever home’ for one lucky child. An image floated into my mind, and, for once, it was a decidedly pleasant one; of a teenage girl in jodhpurs, riding a horse. As if it were going to be that simple.

But apparently it might be. ‘There’s no question of Darby having any contact with her biological family going forwards,’ John confirmed on New Year’s Eve. ‘The mother is the only child of a long-absent single mother, and the father’s brothers have both been charged with the same crime. It’s one big unholy mess, but, in one sense, this is better. Because it will be altogether less messy just to place Darby out of harm’s way. She’s still young enough …’ He didn’t finish. We both knew what he meant. That there was still a fighting chance that she could be, as it were, rewired. Have that part of her life, and the resultant impulses, whittled away to a few fragments of memory. How much did any of us remember of our lives before we were six, after all?

‘And in answer to your next question,’ John said, ‘both Darby’s parents have agreed to the adoption unreservedly. Not that we needed it, given everything.’

‘I should hope so,’ I said, though actually I would have preferred the word ‘reluctantly’. But now I was living in la-la land. Though I couldn’t say it professionally, nor would, privately was a different matter and, as far as I was concerned, Darby’s parents were animals themselves.

I felt the weight of guilt lift as I ended the call. I could see Darby running around the garden, chasing Tyler and shrieking. Her cheeks were a lovely deep pink, and with the new red coat, tartan scarf and smart black boots we’d bought her in the sales, she looked the picture of happiness and health. Nobody would have guessed that underneath that rosy glow and joyful laughter there lay such a deeply skewed and abused soul.

Because I wasn’t naïve, any more than was John or Mike. There would be years of counselling ahead for Darby; because of what her parents had subjected her to, and the emotional distress she had suffered, she’d probably continue to suffer, one way or another, for years to come – both because of the abandonment and the inevitable consequence of getting older and understanding more.

As John had concluded when he’d called just that morning, she would doubtless get worse before she got better. Which made it doubly good that there were people like the Burtons to take care of her. Without anyone to consider but the child they were adopting, they could ensure they had the best chance of seeing her through, out of the darkness and on to a better life.

I glanced at the clock on my mobile. A process that would be starting now. All being well. This was to be Darby’s first introductory visit with the Burtons and for all that they’d intimated that they already felt committed, I was also aware how much a part instinct played. If things didn’t feel right, all the rationalising in the world wouldn’t help make a placement ‘stick’ – and that held true for both parties.

True, from Darby’s perspective this was all going to be fun. A visit to a farm, where there’d be sheep and cows and chickens. ‘And horses!’ she’d enthused when she returned from her briefing the previous day with Katy Morris. ‘And a sheepdog called Socks. But no dressing-up clothes. I don’t have to work, no more never,’ the words running together as she’d gabbled them out, and Katy’s and my eyes meeting. My sense of relief.

My relief once again, when we’d laid Darby’s clothes out, all ready for the trip out to the country the following day, and she’d grabbed me and kissed me and thanked me for having her. ‘I’ve had the best Christmas ever,’ she’d said. And then, very solemnly, ‘Will you let Santa know where I’m going to be next year? Because the country is a very big place.’

I felt Mike’s hand on my shoulder as I rapped on the conservatory window. ‘Come on you two,’ I called. ‘Time to get off!’

‘It’s the best thing,’ my husband said, reading my mind, the way he always did.

‘I know,’ I said, nodding, but feeling the same pang I always did. That, for all that it was best, that I had nevertheless failed. In the misguided business of trying to be all things for everyone.

But there were Tyler and Darby now, running across the garden towards the back door, and Tyler veering off to squish his nose against the conservatory glass. And I thought of my kids, and my grandkids, and of this cherished adolescent, and I thought there was possibly another way of putting it. That, for Darby, now, thankfully, there was someone.

I never needed to be all things for everyone in the first place.