Sugar & Spice (21 page)

97

“But the children… The little boys?”
Large topped up with another mouthful of chips. “That goes to the very heart
of the child abuse debate, Claire. I mean, obviously someone who gets his kicks
out of physically hurting, or killing a child is seriously sick. No two ways
about it. But the underlying attraction, that’s a different matter. Moral
standpoints are easy to assume, but when it comes to hard and fast scientific
evidence the debate is not so cut and dried.”
“Why not?”
“Ironically the very safeguards society uses to protect children from
exploitation are the same ones that prevent serious research into what attracts
adults to children, which might actually resolve the problem. I mean, when does
affection become abusive? Is it alright for a mother to affectionately caress
her child but not the faer? If it’s alright for the father, why not another man?
Brother? Uncle? Stepfather? Are men more likely to abuse children?
Statistically, yes, but statistics can argue any case you want. What’s
acceptable behaviour between a woman and child is not always acceptable when
it’s a man doing the exact same thing. Classic example, a mother kissing the
backside of her baby. They all do it. But if a man did the same thing…”
Claire nodded thoughtfully. “I see your point.”
“And at the heart of the matter is the all-too taboo subject of childhood
sexuality. Are children sexual beings? Do they have sexual feelings? A sex
drive? The fact is, we simply don’t know. It’s not socially acceptable to gather
data on childhood attitudes to sex, so we can’t possibly know. When does
innocent child’s play, say doctors and nurses, become sexual abuse? There are
any number of cases where twelve year old girls have become impregnated by their
same-age boyfriends. If these kids were engaged in full sex at twelve, at what
age did they first start having sexual feelings? Eleven? Ten? Younger?”
Claire was thankful it was a rhetorical question.
Large scooped up a pile of peas on his fork. “Now paedophiles will argue
children are capable of a sexual response. Abusers always try to minimise their
actions, by claiming they were encouraged by the victim. Yes, they would say
that, of course, but does that make it untrue?”
He slurped back his second cup of tea. “That’s where I think Ceri has the edge
over Dunst. She’s trying to understand Uncle Tom from his viewpoint, not her
own.”
She thought, At last! She said, “Tell me about Ceri.”
Large stuffed the other half of the roll into his mouth. He seemed happiest
talking with his mouth full. “What’s there to say? Second year student,
fancies herself as the next big thing in forensic psychology.” He sighed.
“Don’t they all? A keen mind, but unwilling to use it. Very untidy worker.
Uneasy with a keyboard. Prefers to write by hand. Not a move designed to get her
good grades. And she’s from Wales,” he added, as if this covered a multitude
of sins.
“But you think she’s on to something, obviously.”
Large nodded. “I’ve been following the case in the papers, of course.
Professional interest.”
“And?”
“To be honest, Claire, when the Dunst profile was leaked it was a revelation.
I got the impression it was more for public consumption than a basis for a
serious scientific investigation.”
“Meaning..?”
“To put it bluntly, that it was deliberately leaked to give the impression the
cops know what they’re doing.”
“You don’t think they do?”
“Believe me, Claire, they haven’t a clue.”

98

It took Jeff three long, tormented days to pluck up the courage. Even then it
was down to his mother.
Four of them knew about the car. They talked about nothing else when they got
together, in hushed, whispered voices.
They were scared.
Very scared.
Friends and family suspected and speculated. They knew the lad was involved
somehow, but it was too painful even to consider. After a while they stopped
thinking about it and went about their business, pretending nothing had changed.
Jeff’s mother didn’t give up so easily. The way he watched the local news
programmes and hovered by the radio made it all too obvious his interest. His
involvement.
She wanted to ask him outright, but wasn’t sure she could cope with the answer.
She knew her sons were car thieves. Petty villains. Everybody knew it. With one
doing time and the other out to all hours of a night it could hardly be
otherwise.
But this was different.
This was so terribly different.
She found herself in his room, a steaming cup of Horlicks the excuse for her
intrusion.
He barely acknowledged her presence as she put the cup down on the bedside
cabinet. The radio was on low, tuned to the local station. It stayed on day and
night now. She sat on the end of the bed, unable to look him in the eye. The
words came slowly, the voice fraught with emotion.
“You’ll always be my son, Jeffrey, you know that, don’t you.”
He hated being called Jeffrey. He rolled over to face the wall and groaned.
“Go away.”
“You’ll always be special to me, no matter what. I just want you to know
that.”
He propped himself up as the words registered in his distant mind. Listening,
barely comprehending.
“Your brother being in prison doesn’t mean I love him less for it. He’s still
my son. You both are. Whatever he did, I still love him. Whatever you’ve done,
I’ll still love you.”
She knew. There were no secrets from Mum.
The words came hesitantly. “We only took it for a laugh. That’s all. It was
just a laugh.”
His mother took his hand, like she hadn’t in more than ten years. “You just
stole the car, didn’t you. Just the car.”
It was a statement, not a question.
She didn’t want a different answer.
She willed there not to be a different answer.
His words came in frightened whispers. “How was I to know there was a kid in
the boot?” There were tears in his eyes. He fought them back, but it was a
losing battle. “I didn’t know. Honestly I didn’t.”
“Who else was there?”
“William. Teggs. Des. But none of us knew about her. Not until the next day.
Until we heard it on the news.” Tears were running down his face. He was
crying on his mother’s shoulder, but felt no shame, only relief.
It was out.
At last.
She hugged him, sharing in his tears, and for a minute they sat quietly, sobbing
together. Then, “Jeffrey, I think you know what you have to do.”
He didn’t move. He just lay against his mother, trying to stem the tears.
“Mum,” he said at last.
“Yes, darling?”
“I love you.”

99

“Tell me, what would you say were the three events that have had the most
impact on childhood in Britain in the last hundred years?”
Claire shrugged. She was getting impatient with the social history, but she
hazarded a guess to be polite. “World War Two? Compulsory schooling? I don’t
know.”
Large stuffed his mouth full. “The Moors Murders, the Cleveland child abuse
scandal, and Dunblane.”
Claire’s look of surprise was all Large needed to rehearse his argument.
“Up till Hindley and Brady were caught there was never any talk of strangers
abducting kids. It happened – but not officially. It was like the indiscretions
of the royal family. They went unreported. It wasn’t acceptable to revel in the
sordid details. The Moors Murders changed that. The shock of a woman being
involved, I guess. Before Hindley and Brady if a man went up to a kid in the
street and offered them sweets people would think, how nice, what a pleasant
fellow. Overnight that changed. Suddenly every man was a menace to little
children. It wasn’t safe to let your kids out of the door without lecturing them
first on men bearing gifts. Stranger danger was born.”
He paused to finish his third cup of tea. “That was the first change. Then
came Cleveland, twenty years on. Remember Marietta Higgs? It was the final blow
to childhood as we knew it. Suddenly it wasn’t just strangers that were the
menace. Every man was a potential abuser. Father, brother, uncle, friend. It
didn’t matter who. The tragedy was, it came just when the feminist movement was
in a particularly militant phase and political correctness was rearing its ugly
head, stopping anyone coming out with unpleasant truths. Truths that might have
steadied the boat before the shock waves of Cleveland destroyed the innocence of
childhood forever, by making every man a potential abuser.”
He paused for breath, takingthe opportunity to force down another mouthful of
chips. Claire watched gravy dribble down his chin..
“Things will never be the same again. Children today will never enjoy the
freedoms we had as kids. That most precious freedom of all: to mix with other
adults without distrust. Without having your or their motives questioned.”
Claire nodded her understanding. She had had similar discussions with Matt.
“You read in the papers about how dreadful it is that kids stay indoors
playing computer games and watching TV all day. But most parents are too scared
to let them out beyond the garden fence. Children today don’t have the
experience of recreation we had. Of creating their own entertainment. Of
exploring their own environment. Because one way or another it’s too dangerous
for them. If it’s not lunatics like Uncle Tom then it’s road safety, or
discarded needles. Watch an old black and white film and the streets are full of
kids playing. Nowadays you don’t even see kids on the pavement. There are more
play parks than ever, but parents are too scared to let their kids go to them.
Outside of school they have nothing. Is it any wonder they turn to petty crime
when society denies them imaginative recreation.”
Claire found herself nodding agreement.
“Then came Dunblane, and childhood as we knew it ceased to exist. Ninety-six
changed society in a way we’re still barely coming to terms with. Thomas
Hamilton’s springtime massacre of little school children was undeniably
horrific, of course, but that was just the beginning. There’s never been a year
like it, and I pray there never will be again. Dunblane shocked the world, but
then came a spate of horrific child murders that it seemed would never end.
Literally overnight perceptions changed. Look at a newspaper or news broadcast
before Dunblane and you would never have seen or heard the word paedophile. It
was academic jargon, not something the man in the street would even know the
meaning of. Yet before the summer of ninety-six was even half way through, the
term paedophile was a household word, and smiling at a passing baby was enough
to have a lynch mob outside a man’s house. Of course, the politicians jumped on
the bandwagon with the paedophile register. Parents against paedophiles groups
sprung up all over the place. Suddenly it wasn’t safe for a man to walk down the
street on the same side as a child, for fear of being accused of something.”
Claire was listening intently.
“Add to that the several high profile child-murder trials that same summer,
followed by the investigations into abuse in children’s homes across the
country, and it started to feel like kids were an endangered species. When the
Dutroux scandal came to light in Belgium, those poor girls chained in the
cellar, any last vestige of rational debate was abandoned. Of course, child
protection became the sound-bite of the year for politicians, but no-one was
willing to stop and think it through. To look at the damage knee-jerk reactions
like the paedophile register might cause. Fast forward to Ian Huntley, the Soham
murders. The final nail in the coffin of childhood as we knew it.”

100

“But how does all this connect with Dunst and his profile?”
More chips. “Ah yes, our friend Colin Dunst. Where do I start? Calls himself a
professor, but it’s an American title. He probably bought it off the internet.
That said, he’s had his share of successes. But he’s not a patch on the likes
of Wilson or Canter. Ceri adores Canter. She’d love to have him teaching her
instead of me. Treacherous minx.”
He smiled. “But Dunst… The thing is, Dunst is a hard-line Freudian. There’s
no middle ground. Sigmund is a god to him. No, I’ll re-phrase that. Not a god.
The god. You know how we used to have Che Guevara posters on our walls when we
were at uni’? Dunst had a poster of Freud above his bed. Can you believe that?
Every problem, every conceile crime, boils down to sex with Dunst. Not just sex,
but specifically having being abused as a child. Committed a burglary? Abused as
a child. Stole a car? Abused as a child. The more sex-orientated the crime, the
more the criminal was abused when young.”
“I gather you disagree.” Claire pushed her half-empty plate to one side.
Large leaned across and stabbed at the partly eaten potato with his fork.
“Don’t mind me. Starved. My wife left me a while back. Haven’t quite got the
hang of cooking yet. So I get it while I can.”
He stuffed the potato into his mouth. “The trouble with Freud is that the
whole thing has been blown out of all proportion by crass American
psychotherapy. That’s not psychology. It’s about making money. You know what
they say about the psychiatric business? Neurotics build castles in the sky.
Psychotics live in them. Psychotherapists collect the rent. More tea?”
He ordered fresh drinks and scanned the dessert menu. “Death By Chocolate,
twice, please.”
Claire put her hands up. “I don’t want any, thanks.”
Large looked at her accusingly. “They’re for me. Heavy on the cream. The thing
is, Freud is ninety percent bullshit. Excuse my French. The thought of Dunst
trying to profile a child killer is just laughable. He’s out to prove Uncle Tom
was abused as a child and takes it out on other children through some kind of
soul cleansing process. What was it he said? Youngest brother to five sisters?
What utter crap. But you’ve got to admire his balls.”
“Do you think he’s insane?”
“Colin Dunst? I’d swear it!” He laughed at his joke but found an
unappreciative audience. “Sorry. Insane? You mean does Uncle Tom kill because
he’s driven by forces beyond his control? Maybe. Genuine psychopaths don’t have
any control over their actions. They go out, kill or whatever it is they have to
do, then go back to their normal lives, sometimes with no conscious memory of
it. But just because their actions seem crazy to us, doesn’t make them
insane.”
“It does in my book.”
“It’s not that simple, Claire. Take Jeffrey Dahmer. Classic case. Killed young
men. Seventeen, I think. Made love to their corpses. Cooked and ate their
bodies, bit by bit. Love this gateau. Are you sure you won’t try some? But
insane? No. The same with our own home-brewed version, Dennis Nilsen. They knew
exactly what they were doing. That’s why they got away with it for so long. They
weren’t psychopaths. They weren’t insane. Not even mentally ill. That’s not to
say they don’t have a problem with their brain, but that’s not how we define
insanity anymore. It could be anything from a simple calcium growth to a
congenital deformity. Organic defects, we call them. We won’t know for sure till
they’re dead. Even then there’s no way of proving that it was the cause of
their, how shall we say, unusual behaviour.”
“You’re saying he could have a brain defect but still not be insane?”
“How’s your biology?”
“I know what side my heart’s on.”
“Glad to hear it. You’re familiar with genes?”
“X and Y chromosomes?”
“The very same. You know that we have twenty-three pairs. Two X produces
females, an X and a Y produce a male. Remember in Jurassic Park, how all the
dinosaurs were female? Same with humans. All foetuses start off female. Some
become male later. It’s a risky business. If the transformation doesn’t quite
work out, all manner of defects may occur. Defects in the very structure of the
brain. Defects that affect not so much what sex we are, as what our sexuality
is. What turns us on. Or off.”
Large glanced at his watch. “Look at the time. I’ve got classes to attend
shortly, Claire. Sorry. Anyway, it’s time you met the amazing Miss Jones.
I’ll drop you at her place, but you’ll have to get a taxi back to the
station. I’m booked up right through 'til late evening. Oh, and Claire.”
Claire looked up. “Don’t get too carried away with her. I’m itrigued by
her little profile, of course, but as I said to Matt, bottom line is she’s
just a second rate student in one of my piss-poor classes.”