Little Prisoners (10 page)

He sighed a world-weary sigh. ‘She’s talking about this morning, that’s all.’

‘This morning?’

He turned to his sister now. ‘Livs, why you splitting on me? I told you this
morning
! I overslept, okay? You can have your go tonight. Like I told you!’ He gave her a stern glare. I glanced across the table, hardly daring to enquire further, because looking around the table I didn’t like what I saw. Kieron’s expression, particularly, was now one of horror.

‘Yeah,’ Olivia went on, as if squabbling over a board game. ‘Yeah, you
say
you will, but I
know
you. You’ll jus’ make me do
you
again, like you always do.’

‘No, I won’t,’ Ashton protested, his expression as sulky as hers was. ‘Now stop moaning. Just shut up and eat your tea.’

A second glance around the table confirmed what I’d expected. That while the children continued bickering irritably between themselves, the colour had drained from my
whole family’s faces. Mike caught my eye, his expression one of mortification.

I put down my knife and fork. ‘Ashton,’ I said. ‘Is this true?’

‘What?’ he said, almost as if he’d moved on to a new topic, and wasn’t sure what I was on about. Then the penny dropped. ‘Oh, yeah. Yeah,’ he said, realising. ‘But I will do her, honest. I promise.’

I heard Lauren’s voice – a whisper. ‘Oh. My.
God
,’ she was mouthing. ‘Oh my GOD.’

Later, I probed further and found out some more. It wasn’t hard. These two seemed as happy to talk about touching each other sexually as they would be about discussing the rules of a parlour game. Which, it was becoming horribly apparent, was exactly how they did see it; as something they just did, to have fun.

I remained silent through the telling – the matter-of-fact recounting, by Ashton, that despite what I’d told them about touching one another, they still played with each other’s ‘pee pees’ when they got up most mornings. It was family, he said again. So it was
fine
. Only today he was in a hurry and didn’t want to miss breakfast, meaning Olivia, as she’d complained, missed her ‘go’. In fact, so mortified was I that when I put them both to bed, my need to get into the garden wasn’t just about having a cigarette – I physically needed a good lungful of fresh air. And it seemed Mike felt the same. He was already out there.

‘These kids have been badly abused, Case,’ he said. ‘It couldn’t be more obvious. This stuff is learned. They’ve
learned it from some
bastard
member of their so-called “family”.’ Mike rarely swore, but when he did, he really meant it. Once again I thought of the all-powerful seeming character of ‘Gwandad’. What sort of monster might he be?

I agreed with Mike. ‘They need some help. They badly need to get some counselling. This needs action. It’s been way too long without any, as it is.’

But it looked like it would be a bit longer. When I spoke to John the following morning, his first question, as expected, was whether I’d asked them any leading questions. In our role as foster carers it was an important central tenet that we did not take on the role of counsellors ourselves or, as would be the case if we initiated certain conversations, did anything that could be construed as ‘leading’ the children’s thinking; getting them to say things which might be untrue. Instead, we were trained to use ‘active listening’, and, rather than use leading questions when a child began to disclose something, use phrases such as ‘And then what?’, or ‘How did that make you feel?’ Neutrality was key; we must remain opinion-free.

I reassured him that I hadn’t ‘led’ any of what they’d told me. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll get straight on to Anna. See if we can get her up to you for a visit. God,’ he said, his sigh heavy. ‘It really doesn’t bear thinking about. Doesn’t matter how many years you do this job, does it? It still sickens me to the core when I hear something like this.’

As I put the phone down, I mentally put the statement on its head. It would be pretty damned sickening if it
didn’t
.

Anna phoned the following morning, and seemed particularly animated. It seemed she had some info of her own to impart.

‘I have found a file,’ she told me, once we’d exchanged our expressions of dismay at the latest developments, ‘which will shed a bit of light on all this. But let’s not discuss it now. I’ll come at around one, if that’s okay with you? I’ll bring it with me and we can go through it all then.’

Riley, who was over with Levi, had her sceptical face on. ‘Is there a pattern here, d’you think, Mum,’ she said, ‘with all these kids you foster? It seems they hand them over, promising they’ve told you everything they know, then you and Dad find something out and, suddenly, it’s like “Ah, but as it happens, we
do
know more!”’

I couldn’t have agreed more. That was exactly what it seemed like. I couldn’t wait for one o’clock to come around.

‘Eventful week, then?’ Anna asked, as we sat down at the dining-room table, leaving Riley and Levi outside enjoying the September sunshine.

‘You could say that,’ I answered wryly, ‘what with the ADHD, the wetting, the soiling, and now this endless sexual stuff they’re up to.’

Anna smiled encouragingly. ‘But you know, Casey, you and Mike are doing an absolutely
brilliant
job, you really are. And all this stuff you’re recording is really going to help our case. It’s clearly imperative these kids aren’t
returned to their family, and this constitutes some solid further evidence. In fact, because none of them have been in care before, what we have now is the best assessment possible. If they hadn’t found a place with you – been put in children’s homes instead – I doubt we’d have
any
of this stuff.’

So that was alright, then. ‘Well, that’s all well and good,’ I said. ‘But my priority is, How do we actually deal with it? I’m obviously thinking sexual abuse, as I don’t doubt you are, but as I’m not allowed to lead them to speak about it, I can’t help them, can I? So what do you suggest we do next?’

Anna nodded again. ‘I take your point, Casey. And I guess all we can hope for is that they continue to feel safe here. That, well, the more comfortable they get, the more inclined they’ll be to talk. We really just have to wait it out, I’m afraid.’

‘They can’t get counselling?’ My head was reeling. Just have to
wait it out
?

‘We
are
looking into that,’ she promised, still managing to make the likelihood sound distinctly
un
promising. ‘Particularly in light of my new information.’

Ah, I thought. Finally. ‘So what new information do you have?’

It turned out that a new file had been put with an old file. Some mix-up when some papers were being cross-referenced, which led to a possibly pivotal bit of info being stashed in some archive, unread. So what was new? The paper documented an incident a couple of years back, when
Olivia was four, when she’d complained of being ‘sore down below’. When questioned by the nursery teacher to whom she’d made the comment, she said it was because her Uncle Petie ‘raped’ her.

Given her age, she was asked what she took the word ‘rape’ to mean, and she described the act of oral sex, both performed
on
and
by
her. By this time, my dander was good and up. ‘God! So what happened?’

‘Well, obviously, we were called in, as were the police. She was taken to a special unit to give video evidence using dolls, but once there she was so frightened that she apparently refused to speak. So nothing further was done, bar the whole family being classified as “at risk”.’

I felt sick. Was this the way it worked, then? That if a child couldn’t bring themselves to speak about a crime, that crime was treated as having not been committed? ‘I’m sorry, Anna,’ I said. ‘But I just can’t get my head around this. Nothing was done? Nothing at all?’

‘Nothing anyone could do, not without Olivia talking about it. And that’s why it’s so important’ – she leaned towards me, her expression earnest – ‘that you record
everything
the children say verbatim. We can’t afford to miss another opportunity to get to the truth, can we?’

I couldn’t help feeling cynical. And wondering why the intervening period hadn’t seen a similar level of determination. ‘And the uncle?’ I asked. ‘Where is he now?’

‘Well, he was 15 at the time, and apparently living with the family. Along with – she checked the papers – ten cats, a couple of dogs, rabbits and God knows what kind of
vermin. Honestly, Casey, I’ve been in there – it’s disgusting. Dog muck everywhere, maggots crawling over all the surfaces, pee and human excrement all over the carpets …’ All of which, to my mind, was old news. This was altogether
so
much worse. ‘Anyway, he’s not there now, by all accounts,’ she went on. ‘He’s apparently now living in a flat with some other cousins. And causing havoc on the streets, apparently.’

And on the bodies and psyches of other defenceless little girls?

After Anna had gone, I stood at the kitchen window for some time, just watching my daughter and grandson playing in the garden. What a lottery life was. What decreed the circumstances a baby was born into? What roll of the celestial dice saw to it that those poor children, currently residing in our family, ended up in such a hell hole as the one just described?

I went out into the garden to join them, and swept a giggling Levi up into my arms. I didn’t know. Would never know, I thought, as I kissed him. I just silently thanked God for our own lives.

Chapter 8

It was a Saturday afternoon, towards the end of September, and Mike and Kieron had both gone to football. And as Riley was due over with Levi for a couple of hours, I’d set up the laptops for the children in the dining room, so the two of us could natter in peace.

We’d bought the laptops a while back with foster kids in mind. And these two, though woefully behind with their school work, were both really competent where computers were concerned, and really loved the treat of spending time on them. I rationed it, of course, and kept an eye on what they did; Ashton invariably plumping for fast-paced adventure games and Olivia opting for sites about musicals and pop music, both of which, even at her age, she was mad about.

‘Just look at them, Mum,’ Riley commented, when she arrived. ‘You’d hardly believe they’re the same kids!’

I looked across to the dining room, where they were quietly engrossed, and reflected that, in some ways, Riley
was right. But then, she wasn’t up to speed with all the ‘touchy-feely’ stuff, was she?

‘In some ways,’ I agreed, as she heaved Levi from his pram and passed him to me. ‘If you mean that they’re quieter, then, yes, I think they are. But in other departments …’

‘What?’ she said, following me into the kitchen.

‘In other departments, they are actually getting worse.’

Riley went to make us drinks while I pulled out some toys for Levi. He was 18 months old now, and one of his favourite things to play with was a plastic clock with colourful numbers and moveable hands. I sat him in his highchair, and moved him closer to the kitchen table.

‘They’re running me ragged, to be honest,’ I admitted as I made the clock ‘tick’ by turning the hands. ‘I really feel like I need eyes in the back of my head. And a spare pair for the sides, as well!’

I explained to Riley about all the sexual revelations. About how the children seemed unable to keep their hands off one another. ‘Honestly,’ I told her, ‘it’s chilling. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve caught Ashton patting Olivia’s bottom. It’s like he’s a dirty old man; and she responds that way, too. “Ooh, you cheeky bugger!” she’ll go. And she’s six!’

Riley winced as she passed me my coffee. ‘So where d’you start? How do you deal with something like that?’

I was about to answer – with the comment that I really wished I knew – when I glanced across at the kids in the dining room. The downstairs was open plan, which had
been a real boon since we’d started fostering. I could see into most of the living space from the kitchen, and what I could see now caught my attention.

Where previously Ashton had been on one side of the table, and Olivia the other, they’d now rearranged themselves so that they were sitting side by side, with the two laptops lined up together. I didn’t know where the feeling came from, but I felt it very strongly. Something about this scene just wasn’t right.

I put my mug down, and passed Riley the toy clock. ‘Hang on a mo,’ I said. ‘I just need to check on those two.’

I walked across to the dining room, where the children had their backs to me. They were both giggling and pointing at the screen in front of Ashton. ‘What’re you playing, Ash?’ I asked him, as I drew closer. I watched him stiffen. He immediately tried to close the lid on the closest laptop. But he was too late. I could now see perfectly well myself. They were watching a pornographic movie. I reached out to keep the lid up and stared at the scene before me. Two naked women and a man, writhing around on a bed, obviously engaged in sexual activity. ‘What the hell are you watching?’ I said. ‘Ashton, what
is
this?’

The question was instinctive. It was pretty bloody obvious. But did he truly understand what he was doing?

Olivia might not have, but she clearly knew one thing. That this was wrong. That she knew they were being what they were slowly learning to understand as ‘naughty’. A new concept for both of them where this sort of thing was
concerned. She curled into a ball on her dining chair. ‘Bad boy, Ash,’ she whispered. ‘I tol’ you!’

‘Ashton,’ I said, lowering myself so I could look him in the eye. ‘I’m speaking to you. What do you think you’re doing?’ He remained silent. ‘Ashton,’ I said softly. ‘This isn’t a film for children. And I think you know that already, don’t you?’

He hung his head and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Mummy doesn’t mind,’ he said, his expression now defensive. ‘
She
lets us watch it. It’s only natural.’

As kept happening with these two, I was struck by his choice of words.
It’s only natural
. Such an adult thing to say.