Damaged Page 11

  ‘He lay on me, same as Daddy. I didn’t want to. It hurt. Daddy held me when it was Uncle Mike’s turn. I was shouting and screaming, so Daddy put his thing in my mouth. Aunt Bell said, “That’ll shut her up.” And they all laughed.’ She was shaking with fear.

  I tried to hide my horror and concentrate on what I was hearing. I needed to make sure I remembered all the names and details, to get as much evidence as I could while she was talking. I didn’t know when or if she would open up again. I stroked her forehead, and whispered words of comfort.

  ‘Jodie, you’re safe now. The doors are locked and bolted. We have a very good alarm. No one can get in. What they did was the most dreadful thing any adult can do to a child. They are very wicked people, Jodie.’

  She nodded, but without conviction. ‘They gave me lots of sweets and toys.’ She glanced at the overflowing toy boxes.

  ‘Did they buy all these?’ I asked. She nodded again. So that’s what they were – not presents, not things designed to bring pleasure; they were bribes, to buy silence and compliance. No wonder they meant nothing to her. ‘Jodie, good adults don’t buy children presents because they’ve done bad things to them. Was it to stop you telling?’

  ‘It was our secret. They said if I told, horrible things would happen. I’d be taken to a dark cave and a monster would come and chew off my arms. Will he, Cathy?’ Her voice rose fearfully. ‘Will he come here and bite my arms off?’

  ‘No, absolutely not. The only monsters are those people, and they won’t come anywhere near you, ever again. I promise, Jodie.’

  She thought about this, and then a sad smile crossed her lips. ‘Aunt Bell was nice. She didn’t do things. She only watched.’

  I shuddered at this twisted logic. ‘That’s just as bad, Jodie. She watched you being hurt and didn’t help. She should have stopped them. That’s what I would have done. Where were they when they were watching?’

  ‘In my bedroom.’

  ‘And the car? You once said something about a car? Who was in the car, Jodie?’

  ‘Mummy and Daddy. Mummy took the pictures of Daddy and me. It’s a very big car. We was in the back. It was dark. I don’t like the dark. The camera made it light up. Will he be told off, Cathy?’

  ‘I sincerely hope so, sweet. All of them. I’ll tell your social worker, and she’ll tell the police. The police will want to talk to us, but don’t worry, I’ll be with you.’

  I was still holding her hand and stroking her forehead, reluctant to let go. It was well after seven, and I should have been waking the others for school. ‘Is there anything else you want to tell me now? You’ve been very brave and it’s important you tell me if there is.’

  She shook her head. I cuddled her for some time, then gently eased her into bed, and tried to focus my mind.

  ‘Cathy?’ she said suddenly.

  ‘Yes, sweet?’

  ‘Did your daddy do those things to you?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not,’ I said. ‘Never in a million years. He’s a good, kind man. Most adults are.’

  ‘And Paula and Lucy’s daddy?’

  ‘No. Paula’s daddy never hurt her. Lucy’s daddy hit her, which is why she’s here. But he didn’t hurt her like that.’

  ‘Was it my fault, Cathy? I didn’t want to. Mummy said I was lucky. She said it was because he liked me so much. She said I should belt up and enjoy it. She said I was Daddy’s girl.’

  ‘She was wrong, Jodie. Parents cuddle their children to show their love. They don’t hurt them. And it wasn’t your fault, Jodie. Don’t you ever believe that.’ I gave her another hug, then she asked for the television, and for the first time since arriving she seemed content to stay in bed while the others got up.

  I left her room and stood for a moment on the landing, trying to compose myself. I was ice cold and trembling with rage. I could see Jodie being held down by her father. I could see the others watching. I could hear their laughter. It was little wonder she was in the state she was. I knew now where her anger had come from, and I now shared it. I had not wanted to believe it could be any worse than Jodie’s father subjecting to her to the vile acts she had described, but now, to my horror, I realized that it was much, much worse than anyone had suspected. She had been the victim of the most awful kind of abuse I could imagine, where not just one of her parents subjected her to the most degrading treatment any child could suffer but where both of them were complicit, and so were other adults. I could feel the nausea churning in me as I realized that it was not only her parents, in their position of precious care and trust, but many others who had conspired to turn Jodie’s world into a nightmare of suffering and perversion; they had reversed everything that should be good in a child’s life, turning it into something so deeply wicked and evil that I couldn’t find the words to describe what I thought of it.

  No wonder the poor child had cut off the world around her. No wonder she had no sense of being able to relate to other people, when all she had experienced was cruelty and pain. No wonder she tried to beat herself, maim herself and smeared herself with filth – what else had she ever known?

  Somehow I made breakfast, and saw Adrian, Lucy and Paula off to school. As soon as they were gone, I phoned Jill and told her everything.

  ‘It’s worse than we thought,’ I said. ‘Much worse.’

  As I reported what Jodie had said, I could sense Jill taking in the scale of what had happened. She breathed in sharply as I told her that Jodie had been abused by a circle of complicit adults, photographed and watched and jeered at.

  ‘Oh my God, Cathy. I can’t believe what that child has been through. This should be enough to start a police prosecution,’ she said. ‘I know it must have been awful to hear all this from her, but you’ve done a great job.’

  I didn’t feel like I’d done a good job. I felt as if I’d been party to Jodie’s suffering. I felt ashamed to be an adult.

  ‘Do we know how long it’s been going on?’ she asked.

  ‘I think quite a while. She asked if my father did it to me, and was surprised he didn’t. The way she describes it, it sounds like it was the norm, part of everyday life, and it’s only now she’s realizing it’s wrong.’ I paused. ‘Jill, at what age can a child be raped?’

  ‘Any age. There are cases as young as six months.’

  I cringed.

  ‘Cathy, this has all the hallmarks of a paedophile ring. Was she ever shown the photographs?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware. She didn’t say.’

  ‘OK, write it all down when you have a chance. Eileen’s on annual leave…’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Yes, so I’ll speak to Dave Mumby. They’ll want a forensic medical and a police memorandum interview. I’ll get back to you. How are you coping, Cathy?’

  ‘A damn sight better than Jodie. Bastards!’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Integration

  There’s a joke among foster carers that goes like this: How many social workers does it take to change a light bulb? Thirteen. One to find the bulb, and the other twelve to hold a meeting to discuss how best to change it. It’s not much of a joke, admittedly, but it does encapsulate how we often feel about the inability of Social Services to take action when it’s most needed.

  Following Jodie’s latest disclosures, Dave Mumby wanted to set up a meeting, but not until Eileen could be present, which wouldn’t be until well into the following week, as she was indeed on annual leave. As Jodie’s social worker, Eileen had a statutory obligation to visit Jodie in placement every six weeks, and yet the two had still never met. Although Eileen phoned every now and then to get a report on Jodie’s progress, I got the impression that it was more to save herself the trouble of having to visit us than any real interest in the case. Perhaps she had a very busy workload – but then, so did all social workers – or maybe she was better than most at not getting too personally involved in a case. Whatever it was, it not only saddened me that Jodie didn’t have a social worker to take an interes
t in her and champion her cause, but it was also highly unprofessional. I wondered if Dave Mumby, her team manager, knew.

  Jill reported back to me that the nature of the meeting meant that I wouldn’t have to attend, and she would represent us both. In the meantime, she said, Dave had asked if I could focus my attention on finding Jodie a school, as her parents had made a formal complaint about her lack of education. Jodie had left her previous school when she was taken into care, and the speed of her various moves, then her behaviour, had precluded finding her a new one.

  I was flabbergasted. Jodie’s parents would now know what they were accused of. When a child makes an accusation, the parents are always informed of the nature of the allegation. Moreover, when all contact between Jodie and her parents was abruptly stopped, the reasons would have been given. I was doubly amazed that Dave was acting upon this as a priority, while delaying the meeting.

  Jill suggested that I try Harvestbank, which was a local primary school with a good record for taking children with learning and behavioural difficulties. Jodie already had a Statement of Educational Needs, which is a document outlining the child’s particular needs, completed after he or she has been assessed by an educational psychologist. Jodie’s needs were severe enough that her statement authorized funding to pay for a full-time assistant in whichever school accepted her. This meant, in theory at least, that a school might have an additional incentive to take her, if they were short on funds.

  I phoned Harvestbank, and spoke to the deputy head. She was a pleasant lady, who explained very nicely that they had more than their quota of special needs children, and were stretched to the limit. She suggested I try again in six months’ time. I thanked her, and hung up.

  Opening the Yellow Pages, I highlighted all the primary schools within reasonable travelling distance, and began making the calls. The next four schools gave me the same response: each of them was over their quota, and there was a waiting list. So much for the sweetener of extra funding. I set the phone down, and took a deep breath. I wondered if I should approach the school Adrian and Paula had gone to. It only had a small special needs department, but they knew me and my family, and I had had a good relationship with the staff. I took another deep breath, and dialled the number.

  The secretary remembered me, which was nice, and she put me through to the headmaster, Mr Rudman. We exchanged a few pleasantries on the passing of time, and he asked me how Adrian and Paula were doing. I said they were doing well, and buttered him up by telling him what fond memories they had of the school.

  ‘I’m still fostering,’ I said, and then explained about Jodie, adding that although she had behavioural problems I had found them manageable. I made light of the rapid succession of foster carers, and said his was the first school that had come to mind; a little white lie, but in aid of a good cause.

  ‘I’ll see the statement,’ he said, ‘although you appreciate I’m not offering a place. It will depend on the level of provision, and whether we can best meet her needs.’

  I thanked him effusively, then phoned Jill to arrange for the statement to be faxed over. Buoyed by this, and in dire need of some exercise after nearly an hour on the phone, I rescued Jodie from the congealed heap of paper, glue and paint which had kept her occupied.

  ‘It’s a dog!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘That’s lovely. Now we’re going for a walk to the post office.’

  I helped her wash her hands, then brushed her hair, and changed her top. By the time we left the house, she looked quite presentable, in a smart yellow T-shirt which I knew was one of her favourites.

  There was a pleasant breeze as we walked up the street, but Jodie was anxious, and grabbed my hand as a car drove past.

  ‘Cathy,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Jodie.’

  ‘Is my dad hurting my mum?’

  ‘I hope not, Jodie,’ I replied, uncertain quite what she was asking.

  ‘He is,’ she responded. ‘Poor Mummy.’

  We carried on walking, and I watched Jodie as she frowned, apparently still troubled by this idea. Eventually, she looked up at me.

  ‘I don’t want him hurting her,’ she said, then jutted out her chin, and clenched her fists. ‘I’ll kill him.’

  Again, I wasn’t sure what to say. Did she feel guilty about leaving her mother to deal with her father alone? Should I correct her anger, or encourage her to face these issues? It might not have been very professional, but my personal feeling was that she had every right to feel angry, and every reason to want to kill him. I decided to address the possible guilt. ‘If he hurts her, Jodie, I think she should leave him, and tell the police. But she’s an adult and she can make that decision for herself.’

  I hoped she understood what I was trying to say – but then, I wasn’t even sure what she was telling me. Was she hinting at domestic violence? Perhaps she had seen her father hitting her mother. Or perhaps she had witnessed them having sex and assumed it must hurt her mother as much as it hurt her.

  I changed the subject to something lighter as we reached the high street. We walked past the various shop fronts with their colourful signs and enticing displays, and I remembered how excited I’d felt as a little girl, being taken out shopping by my parents. I could still remember my initial thrill at the strange sights in the fishmonger’s window, and the mysterious smells at the shoe-mender’s. I looked sadly at Jodie, who was staring straight ahead, alert for danger, and oblivious to the sensory pleasures around her. The world was not a place she could enjoy like any normal child; it lacked excitement and stimulation for her. She had been deadened to everything because of what she had suffered. It was heartbreaking.

  I did what I had to do at the post office, and because she had queued patiently by my side I bought Jodie a packet of Smarties as a reward. As we walked back down the high street, I noticed she had gone quiet again.

  ‘What shall we do when we get home, Jodie?’ I asked.

  She was silent, and I could see her face had set.

  ‘Is something the matter, Jodie?’

  ‘What were they starin’ at?’ she muttered. ‘Don’t stare at me.’

  ‘Who, Jodie? In the post office?’ I asked. She didn’t contradict me, so I continued. ‘But no one was staring at you, sweet. They were probably just looking at you because you look so smart in your lovely T-shirt.’

  She didn’t respond, so I decided to leave it. You could never really persuade Jodie of anything, or have any kind of discussion with her. Caring for Jodie was rather about coping with her needs, and trying to distract her before she could get too upset. We walked a little further, as a middle-aged man in a suit came the other way.

  ‘What’s he fuckin’ starin’ at?’ Jodie muttered as he approached. As far I could see, the man didn’t seem to be looking at us at all.

  ‘Jodie, don’t be rude.’

  As the man got closer, she said it again, louder this time: ‘What’s he blimmin’ starin’ at?’

  He must have heard this time. I smiled at the man apologetically, and he looked away, embarrassed.

  ‘Jodie, that was rude. You’ve no reason to worry, no one was staring at you.’

  ‘I’ll show ’em,’ she muttered. ‘No one’ll stare at me. I’ll kill ’em all!’

  Jodie’s mood didn’t improve once we got home, but for some respite I let her watch Mary Poppins, which was her favourite video, while I did some chores. I put on a load of washing, and began emptying the dishwasher, all the while wondering about Jodie’s strange behaviour. I had noticed before that she seemed to have a particular anxiety about being stared at; this was one reason why mealtimes had become so unbearable, as she would constantly bark ‘What you starin’ at?’ to anyone looking even vaguely in her direction. I had suspected that this anxiety might have been linked to the abuse, but now, as the extent of it was revealed, her phobia became even more understandable: if there had been a number of people present, watching Jodie, it was no wonder if she had a horror of being looked at.


  After about half an hour I’d finished what I needed to do and joined Jodie in the living room, bringing with me a carton of Ribena. She was staring blankly at the screen, while Bert serenaded Mary as they strolled through the magical chalk landscape. After a while, she turned and looked at me, and then came and sat next to me on the sofa.

  ‘You know, you’ve got really little eyes,’ she said.

  ‘Have I?’ I said, surprised. If anything, I had always felt my eyes were one of my better features and I was rather proud of them.

  ‘Yeah, really piggy little eyes. Like a little pig. Oink! Oink!’ She grinned, as if expecting me to join in the hilarious joke.

  ‘That’s not a very nice thing to say, Jodie. Don’t be rude. We don’t make personal remarks in this house.’

  ‘But you have. Stupid little eyes. That’s why you can’t even see where you’re going. Stupid!’

  This was a strange thing to say, and it sounded like something Jodie must have heard before, an insult that had been thrown at her, and that she was now mimicking. Apart from being inaccurate, it had a level of detail and logic which Jodie wouldn’t have been able to come up with. Was this something Jodie had been told at home? Before I could pursue this, the phone rang. Oh no, I thought, it will be the school calling to tell me there isn’t a place after all. Only a rejection would have come so quickly. I smiled and tried to sound bright. ‘Hello,’ I answered.

  ‘Hello, is that Margaret Brown of Bowham Close?’

  I looked anxiously at Jodie. It was my address but Margaret Brown was the name of Jodie’s mother.

  ‘No, it’s not. Who’s this?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. My mistake. I’m calling from Ear, Nose and Throat at St John’s Hospital. About Jodie Brown?’

  ‘Yes. This is Cathy Glass, Jodie’s carer.’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve just found the note on file. The doctor’s letter is in the post, together with a prescription for some ear drops. Doctor wants a follow-up appointment for Jodie in a month.’