Damaged Page 4

  ‘Mine. Mine!’ she cried, snatching it to her chest. ‘I want it.’

  ‘It’s Paula’s,’ I said gently. ‘It’s special, she got it for her birthday.’

  ‘Mine,’ she growled. ‘I want it. Get me one or I’ll kick you.’

  I frowned and gently prised it from her arms. Was that how she’d accumulated all those toys: buy it or I’ll kick you? I repositioned the doll on the pillow, then took her hand and led her out. I opened the door to my room just enough for her to see in. ‘This is where I sleep, but of course it’s private. All our bedrooms are private, and we don’t go into each other’s unless we’re asked.’

  She grinned, with a strange grimace that gave her an unpleasant, malevolent air. She stared at the double bed. ‘Have you got a man?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, I’m divorced. I have a big bed all to myself.’

  She threw me a pitying look, and I decided she’d seen enough of my bedroom, and closed the door. On the landing I took the opportunity to reinforce our privacy rule. ‘Jodie, we all have our own bedrooms and they have our special things in them. No one will come into yours, and you mustn’t go into anyone else’s without being asked. Do you understand?’

  She nodded vigorously, but I suspected her acquiescence was more to speed lunch along rather than a genuine commitment. ‘I’m hungry! I want crisps and chocolate.’ She lumbered down the stairs, bumping into the banister. I caught up with her in the kitchen, as she flung open the drawers and cupboards.

  ‘OK, wait a minute, I’ll find you something.’ I took down a multipack of variety crisps and let her choose one. She wrenched open the packet of smoky bacon, and started cramming fistfuls into her mouth. ‘What would you like in your sandwich? Ham? Cheese? Peanut butter? Or Marmite?’

  ‘Marmite and chocolate spread.’

  I laughed. ‘Not in the same sandwich, surely?’

  But she just stared at me, uncomprehendingly. ‘I want a drink.’

  ‘Can I have a drink, please?’ I corrected, deciding it wouldn’t do any harm to introduce some manners. I made one Marmite sandwich and one chocolate spread, then took down a glass and added some orange squash.

  ‘Me do it,’ she said, grabbing the glass from my hand.

  ‘All right, but gently. Don’t grab, it’s not polite.’ I showed her how to turn on the tap, then waited while she filled the glass. ‘Do you like to help, Jodie? Did you used to help at home? At your other carers’?’

  She plonked the glass down on the work surface, then adopted the pose of an overburdened housewife, with her hands on her hips, her chin jutting out, and an expression of resolute grumpiness. ‘Cooking! Cleaning! And you bleeding kids at me feet all day. Don’t know why I ’ad you. You’re a pain in the arse!’

  I could see she was role-playing, probably repeating what she’d heard her mother say, but I suspected there was also some truth behind it. As the eldest of three, she was likely to have had some part in bringing up her brother and sister while her parents were too drunk or drugged to care. It reminded me why we were going through this experience, and the flash of insight Jodie had given me into her past helped me to gather my energy and face the volatile moods and constant demands that I knew were coming.

  * * *

  The afternoon passed, I’m not certain how. We didn’t unpack, as all my time was taken up with trying to keep Jodie’s attention for longer than two minutes. I showed her cupboards full of games, which we explored a number of times, trying to find something that would engage her. She liked jigsaws, but the only ones she had any hope of completing consisted of a handful of pieces, and were designed for two-year-olds. I had seen developmental delays before in children I’d fostered, and was used to dealing with learning difficulties. Nevertheless, I was beginning to suspect that Jodie was closer to the ‘moderate’ spectrum than the ‘mild’ that Gary had described.

  We sat together on the carpet, but she hardly seemed to be aware of my presence. Instead, she muttered meaningless asides to people called Paul, Mike and Sean: ‘See this bit. In there. It’s a horse. I told you! I know. Where?’

  They weren’t the names of anyone in the immediate family that I knew of, so I assumed Jodie was playing with her imaginary friends. This kind of behaviour isn’t unusual in children, even in eight-year-olds, but I’d never seen a child distracted to quite this extent.

  ‘Who are these people?’ I asked eventually.

  She looked at me blankly.

  ‘Paul, Mike and Sean? Are they your imaginary friends? Pretend ones, that only you can see?’

  I was met with another uncomprehending gaze, then she looked menacingly over my left shoulder. ‘Mike, if you don’t watch what you’re doing I’ll kick you to death.’

  * * *

  When Paula and Lucy arrived home at 3.30, I was trying to manoeuvre Barbie into her sports car beside Ken. I heard the door close, followed by Lucy’s reaction as she saw the bags I hadn’t had time to move. ‘Christ. How many have we got staying?’

  ‘Only one,’ I answered.

  To prove it, Jodie jumped up and dashed down the hall. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded, hands on hips, assuming the grumpy housewife pose again.

  The girls said nothing, but I knew what they were thinking. With her odd features and aggressive posture, she wasn’t exactly the little foster sister they’d been hoping for.

  ‘This is Jodie,’ I said positively. ‘She arrived at lunchtime. Jodie, this is Lucy and Paula.’

  She stuck out her chin, in a take-me-on-if-you-dare attitude.

  ‘Hello,’ said Lucy, with effort.

  ‘Hi,’ Paula added weakly.

  Jodie was blocking their path, so I gently placed a hand on her shoulder to ease her out of the way. She pulled against me. ‘Get out!’ she suddenly exploded at the girls. ‘This is my home. You go!’

  I was shocked. How could she believe this when I’d told her about the girls and shown her their rooms? They laughed, which was understandable, but not advisable. Before I could stop her, Jodie rushed at Paula, kicking her hard on the shin. She jumped back and yelped.

  ‘Jodie! Whatever are you doing?’ I shouted, as I turned her round to face me. ‘That’s naughty. You mustn’t kick. This is their home as much as it is yours. We all live together. Do you understand?’

  She grinned.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked Paula. She’d experienced aggression from foster siblings before – we all had – but never so immediate and pronounced.

  She nodded, and I eased Jodie back as the girls went up the stairs. They always spent time unwinding in their rooms when they got home from school, while I prepared dinner. I took Jodie through to the kitchen, and reinforced again how we all lived as one family. I asked her if she’d like to help, but she folded her arms and leant against the worktop, muttering comments, most of which were impossible to follow. ‘They’re not mine,’ she grumbled.

  ‘The potatoes?’ I responded. ‘No, I’m peeling them for dinner for us all.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who are these for? For all of us.’

  ‘In the car?’

  ‘No. You came here in the car. We’re in the kitchen now.’

  ‘Where?’ she asked, lifting the lid on the pan I’d just set to boil.

  ‘Be careful, Jodie,’ I said. ‘That’s very hot.’

  ‘I was walking,’ she said, and so it went on, with Jodie mumbling disjointed phrases, as though she had a basket of words and pulled them out at random.

  She helped lay the table, and I showed her which would be her place. We always sat in the same places, as the children preferred it, and it made life easier.

  ‘Paula! Lucy! Dinner,’ I called. Adrian was playing rugby that evening, so his dinner was waiting for him in the oven. The girls came down and we all took our places. Once she was seated Jodie suddenly became angry that she couldn’t sit in Lucy’s place.

  ‘Lucy always sits there, Jodie,’ I explained. ‘It’s her place. And that’s your place.’

/>   She glared at Lucy, then viciously elbowed her in the ribs.

  ‘Jodie, no! That hurts. Don’t do it. Good girl.’ I knew I should ask her to apologize, but it was our first meal together so I let it slide. She was still staring at Lucy, who shifted uncomfortably away. ‘Come on, Jodie, eat your meal,’ I encouraged. ‘You told me you like roast chicken.’

  The front door opened and Adrian came in, still muddy from playing rugby. He was over six feet tall, and stooped as he entered the kitchen. I hoped Jodie wouldn’t find him intimidating, but reassured myself that he had a gentle manner, and children usually warmed to him.

  ‘Adrian, this is Jodie,’ I said.

  ‘Hi Jodie,’ he smiled, taking his plate from the oven and sitting opposite her. She transferred her glare from Lucy to him, and then wriggled down in her chair, and started kicking him under the table.

  ‘Jodie. Stop that,’ I said firmly. ‘No kicking or elbowing. It’s not nice.’

  She scowled at me, then finally picked up her knife and fork and started eating. I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She could barely grip the knife and fork, and her movements were so uncoordinated that her mouth had to be inches from the plate to have any chance of getting the food in.

  ‘Would you like a spoon?’ I asked after a while. ‘If I cut it up first, it might be easier.’

  ‘My gloves,’ she said. ‘It’s hot.’ Then, for no apparent reason, she jumped up, ran round the table three times, then plonked herself down, and started eating with her fingers. I motioned to the rest of the family to say nothing, and the meal passed in an unnatural, tense silence.

  I was relieved when dinner was over, and I suggested to Jodie that she might like to help me load the dishwasher. As she came into the kitchen, she spotted Toscha sitting contentedly by the boiler.

  ‘Why’s it looking at me?’ she demanded, as though the cat had some malicious intent.

  ‘She’s not looking at you, sweet. Cats often sit and stare into space. She’s found the warmest spot.’

  Jodie lurched towards the cat with large, aggressive strides, and I sensed another kick was about to be delivered. I quickly intercepted her. ‘Come on, Toscha’s old, we’ll leave her there to sleep.’

  I decided the dishwasher could wait until Jodie was in bed, and took her into the lounge. I tried to amuse her with more games and puzzles, while Adrian, Lucy and Paula did their homework upstairs. By seven, I was exhausted. She needed one-to-one attention to keep her involved in anything, and the meaningless chatter that never stopped was starting to get on my nerves.

  ‘Let’s go up and finish your unpacking before bedtime,’ I suggested.

  She stood up. ‘I want the park.’

  ‘Not today, it’s too late. But we’ll go tomorrow if it’s nice.’

  She turned her back and started talking to David, another imaginary friend. I caught the odd words – ‘you see … in there! …’ – but nothing that related to the park or the games we’d played, and I consoled myself that her imaginary world would fade in time as she started to feel safe with us. It took a mixture of coercion and repetition to persuade her upstairs, where we unpacked another bag, then changed and washed her ready for a story at eight. She found a book she’d brought with her: The Three Little Pigs. I read it to her twice, then coaxed her into bed and said goodnight. As I left, I went to turn off the light.

  ‘No!’ she screamed in panic. ‘Not dark. I’m scared of the dark. You stop it!’

  ‘All right, sweet. Don’t worry.’ I turned it on again, then dimmed it to low, but she still wasn’t happy. She would only stay in bed if it was left on full.

  ‘Would you like your door open or closed?’ I asked, as I ask all the children on their first night. How they sleep is very important in helping them to feel secure and settled.

  ‘Closed,’ she said. ‘Shut tight.’

  I said goodnight again, blew her a kiss, then closed the door and came out. I paused on the landing and listened. The floorboards creaked as she got out of bed, and checked the door was firmly secured, before returning to bed.

  At nine Adrian, Paula and Lucy came down to make a snack, and we sat together in the lounge. I had the television on, but I wasn’t watching it. I was mulling over the day’s events.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ I asked, smiling at Lucy as she handed me a cup of tea.

  ‘She’s weird,’ said Lucy, sitting down next to me.

  ‘I don’t like her,’ said Paula, then looked at me sheepishly, expecting to be told off.

  ‘And what about you, Adrian? What’s your first impression?’

  ‘She reminds me of that doll Chucky in the horror film. You know, the one that’s possessed by the devil.’

  ‘Adrian!’ I admonished, but I felt a cold shudder of recognition. With her broad forehead, staring blue-grey eyes, lack of empathy, and her detachment from the real world, she could easily have been possessed. I caught myself; whatever was I thinking? She was just a child who had been through some miserable times and needed our help – there was nothing more sinister to it than that. I had taken this challenge on and now I owed it to Jodie to see it through for as long as she needed me. Part of her problems no doubt stemmed from people falling at the first hurdle when it came to dealing with her, and passing her on for someone else to deal with. I couldn’t do that to her again.

  I tried to look relaxed. ‘I’m sure she’ll improve with time.’

  Chapter Five

  Self-Harm

  Perhaps I was haunted by the lingering image of the possessed doll, for suddenly I was awake, with my eyes open and my senses alert. I turned and looked at the alarm clock: it was nearly 2.15 a.m. I listened. The house was silent. Yet something told me all was not well; a sixth sense from years of looking after children.

  I eased my feet from the duvet and felt for my slippers. The house was cold, as the central heating had switched off for the night. I fumbled to get my arms into my dressing gown, tied it loosely, and opened the bedroom door. Suddenly, I gasped in shock. Jodie was standing outside the door, her face covered in blood.

  ‘What is it? What have you done?’ I frantically searched her face and neck for the source of the blood. ‘Where are you hurt? Tell me! Come on, quickly!’ I couldn’t find anything, but the blood was fresh.

  In a trance-like state, she slowly raised her hands and showed me her palms. They were smeared with blood, but I still couldn’t find any sign of a cut. I pulled up her pyjama sleeves, and then I saw it. She had a cut on her left forearm, about an inch long, which was lightly seeping blood. I steered her into the bathroom, and took her to the sink. I turned on the tap and ran the cut under cold water. She didn’t even flinch and I wondered if she might be sleepwalking.

  ‘Jodie?’ I said loudly. ‘Jodie! Can you hear me?’

  She grinned at her reflection in the mirror, and I knew that she was awake.

  ‘What happened? How did you do this?’

  She met my gaze in the mirror, but said nothing.

  I washed the wound thoroughly and examined it. It wasn’t deep, and wouldn’t need stitches, so there shouldn’t have been nearly this much blood. It seemed that she had smeared the blood deliberately, for maximum effect. But how? And why? No one had mentioned anything about Jodie self-harming, but I doubted this was the first time she’d done it. I looked closer, and saw there were other fine, pink scar lines running up both arms. How recent they were was difficult to tell.

  ‘Stay here, Jodie,’ I said. ‘I’m going downstairs to fetch a bandage.’

  She grinned again. That strange, mirthless smile seemed to hold meanings I couldn’t fathom, and it gave me the shivers. I covered her arm with a clean towel, then went down into the kitchen, where I opened the first-aid box and took out a large plaster. My mind was reeling. She wasn’t even distressed, which made it all the more worrying. Just as before, with her soiling herself, there was that cool calmness and detachment that was so strange in such a young child. It was as though she didn�
�t feel the pain, or perhaps wasn’t even aware of what she’d done. She couldn’t have cried out when she’d cut herself, as I would have heard her – years of fostering had made me a light sleeper. I suddenly had an awful image of Jodie sitting silently in her room, squeezing the cut, then wiping the blood on her face.

  Upstairs again, I found her looking in the mirror, grimacing, but not from pain. She appeared to be trying to make herself as ugly as possible, screwing up her face, and baring her teeth in a lopsided grin. I peeled the backing from the plaster, sealed the cut, then wet the flannel and wiped her face and neck clean. I washed my hands in hot soapy water, remembering too late that I was supposed to wear gloves when dealing with wounds, to prevent cross-infection. In the panic of the emergency, I’d forgotten.

  When she was clean and dry again, I felt a sense of normality returning. ‘All right, Jodie,’ I said encouragingly. ‘Let’s get you back into bed.’ She still didn’t speak.

  I led her round the landing as Lucy appeared at her door. ‘You OK, Cathy?’ she asked, her eyes only half-open.

  ‘Yes, don’t worry. I’ll explain tomorrow.’

  She nodded and shuffled back to bed.

  In Jodie’s room I found her duvet in a heap on the floor. There was no blood on it, but on top was a small fruit knife I’d never seen before. I picked it up. ‘Where did you get this?’ I tried to keep the accusation out of my voice.

  She finally spoke. ‘Hilary and Dave’s.’ Her previous carers.

  ‘Do they know you’ve taken it?’

  She shook her head mischievously, as though being caught out in a game. I could hardly tell her off. I was more annoyed with the carers for giving her access to it, but I did understand. I had learned only from experience that leaving a child for fifteen seconds in the vicinity of the kitchen could produce untold dangers. I’d once fostered a teenager who had self-harmed, but I’d never known a child of Jodie’s age doing it. If a child has been physically abused at home, they can have very little respect for their bodies and are often careless about hurting themselves. Deliberate self-harm is relatively rare and is usually the preserve of teenagers. I’d never heard of an eight-year-old purposefully slashing herself with a knife. It was very worrying.