Crying for Help (23 page)

His answer was a mumbled ‘mmm’. He was drifting off now.

And it was late. I switched my bedside light off and did likewise, my last thoughts all positive and optimistic ones. I couldn’t know that between now and that ‘other side’ I’d mentioned lay the biggest – and scariest – trough yet.

‘Casey, it’s Alan Barker. I’m so sorry to have to do this, really I am, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to spoil your day again.’

Monday. The first week of the school summer term, and I’d been having such a nice day.

My positive mood of the previous weekend had stayed with me. I’d woken up with it, taken it through making breakfast and getting showered, had it sit on my shoulder as I’d seen Sophia and Kieron off to school and college, and had it accompany me on the best and most protracted bout of spring cleaning I’d found time to do in many, many weeks. My house gleamed from top to bottom and I was pleasantly tired.

But now this. I looked at my watch. It was 3 p.m. Almost home time from school. And Sophia’s head of year was on the phone.
Again
. I let a sigh escape. What now?

‘Go on then, Alan,’ I said. ‘Go on, but break it to me gently.’

‘Well, it’s a little awkward …’ he started.

‘Awkward? In what way awkward?’

‘Well, I can only report what I’ve been told.’ He paused. ‘And I have purposefully waited till the end of lessons.’ Which was kind of him. ‘But Sophia’s been an absolute nightmare today, basically.’

I felt the sigh deepen. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, all the kids were out on the field after lunch, as is usual. And Mrs Cronin, the PE teacher, was out supervising a game of rounders, when she happened to notice a circle of boys standing in a circle further up the field, on the grass. And she was alerted straight away that something untoward might be happening, because she could tell one of the boys there was keeping a lookout.’

I remained silent as he paused, dreading what might be to come.

‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘Mrs Cronin naturally went to investigate, and that was when she saw Sophia. She was the only girl, apparently, in the middle of a circle of six boys, and I’m afraid she was … well, not fully dressed, shall we say, and, well, doing some sort of … well … erotic dance.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ I couldn’t help but blurt out.

‘I know. And I’m sorry to be the bearer of such unedifying news, believe me. Anyway, Mrs Cronin stepped in, of course, and sent Sophia immediately to my office, and then she corralled the boys together. And from what I can gather, they all told the same story: that Sophia had invited them to see her do some, ahem, “gymnastics” for them … And, well, they’re teenage boys, Casey. Doubt they were slow in coming forward.’

‘I don’t know what to say to you, Alan, I really don’t. What on earth am I meant to do with her? I have no idea why she does these things.’ Which wasn’t quite true. I had all sorts of theories on that, backed up by some pretty unpalatable evidence.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m not suggesting you “do” anything, to be honest. We’re not suspending her for this. We’re not even going to discipline her. These are a bunch of 12-and 13-year-old children, after all. I just wanted you to know. And maybe, if you have an opportunity, you could speak to her about the vulnerable situation she could put herself in if she continues to encourage such silly games.’

I felt relieved. At least that was one less stress to worry about. ‘Of course I will,’ I reassured him. ‘And thanks for being so understanding.’

‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘We all realise you have your hands full with this one.’

Never a truer word had been spoken.

I was canny, though. Much as I intended to deal with it, I made the decision to wait until later in the evening, when she’d already had her final meds for the day. That way, I figured, if there were any repercussions, at least an Addison’s-related trauma wouldn’t be one of them. In the meantime, preparing dinner, eating dinner, clearing away dinner, I kept my counsel. Though I’d put it in my log and mentioned her ‘playing up’ a bit at school to Mike, I decided I’d only go into details with him if I had to. No sense in the both of us getting stressed. Instead, I spent the time racking my brains trying to fathom the unfathomable, getting nowhere bar the same realisation as always: Sophia had multiple issues in her psyche
and
with her condition, so to try and tease logic out of her actions was futile. She was on such a balancing act with her meds, her illness had warped her personality, she’d almost certainly been the victim of some very erratic parenting, she had attachment issues and – my instinct – she had almost certainly been abused. How the hell did you make sense out of that lot?

I broached the incident on the field when we were in the kitchen together, making coffee. She was already in her night clothes, and we were all in that winding-down stage, Mike and I to go and watch something mindless on the telly, Sophia to head off up to bed.

But the winding down changed instantly into the opposite – a winding
up
.

‘
Whaaat?
’ she squawked indignantly. ‘That is just
such a lie
!’

Mike had wandered back in from the living room at that point.

‘Sophia,’ I’d begun. ‘I know what you did. One of your teachers
saw
you. You …’

‘I did nothing!’ she railed. ‘Fucking nothing, okay?!’

‘Sophia,’ Mike snapped. ‘That’s enough!’

She swung around. ‘And you can shut the fuck up as well!’ she said, her face reddening and contorting. ‘
You!
’ she spat. ‘You are just shit on my shoe! You
pathetic
excuse for a man, you!’

It was such a shock, both the words and the way she’d suddenly unleashed them, that the pair of us were temporarily rendered speechless.

I wasn’t having this again. ‘Sophia!’ I barked, hoping to stun her into silence. ‘We are not going down this avenue, you hear me? We are not going to listen to that vicious tongue of yours tonight! Now get to your room and go to bed!’

I glanced at Mike then, whose expression was still one of incredulity. He’d been at the end of some barbs by her by this time, of course, but this one had completely caught him off-guard. I half-expected him to stand there and say, ‘But what have
I
done?’ He didn’t, though. He couldn’t. He’d been struck dumb.

But I hadn’t. ‘Move it!’ I yelled at her again. And move it, to my gratitude, she did. She still stomped up the stairs screeching every profanity she could think of, but at least I’d got through to her this time. At least she’d gone.

‘You okay, love?’ I asked Mike.

‘What the
fuck
was that about?’

I almost pulled him up on his language, but then I realised there was no one there to hear it, so who cared? I shrugged. ‘What’s it
ever
about, love?’

‘But why me? Why all the vitriol? What had I done? Why
me
?’

We didn’t hear another peep that night. Hurricane passed. Tornado over. But he kept shaking his head and saying it all evening.

My positive mood didn’t extend to Tuesday morning. Even though it had been less of an outburst than he’d had to deal with previously, Sophia’s vitriolic attack on him the night before had left Mike concerned for my welfare. Which in turn made me jittery. And he had a point.

‘Look, love,’ he said, as he brought me a coffee in bed. ‘D’you want me to get her up for you, before I leave for work? Kieron’s already gone’ – we’d not said a word to Kieron, by agreement – ‘and, well, you know, check out the lie of the land for you?’

I checked the time. It was still only seven. ‘No, don’t worry, love,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘You get off. I’ll give her an extra ten minutes, so that if she is in a bad mood I’ll only have twenty minutes of it to cope with till she leaves.’

It was incredible, I thought to myself as I kissed him goodbye, how we were beginning to normalise such outlandish and unpredictable behaviour. That was what happened, though; that was human nature. We’d taken to calling the sort of aggression and language that I would have pilloried my own two for – things like ‘bad moods’, ‘acting up’, ‘going off on one’. And when she went into those fugues – that trance-like state, and all that talking to herself she did – that was ‘funny’ or a ‘bit odd’ or just ‘spooky’.

But help was coming, I kept reminding myself. We’d have her hospital appointment through soon. And in the meantime – well, what else was there but to live with it?

I gave her the promised extra minutes, and went downstairs to the kitchen to get a second coffee. Bob, who’d shown no lasting effects of his own ordeal, thankfully, was already desperate to get out into the garden, so I unlocked the door for him, and by the time I’d done that it was time to call her down for her breakfast.

‘Sophia?’ I shouted up the stairs. ‘Time to get up!’

No answer. I called again. Again, silence. I trudged back up the stairs to the landing. ‘Sophia!’

Now I did get an answer. ‘
Fuck off!
’

Oh, God, I thought. Not all this again. I opened the door and put my head around it. ‘Come on. I’m in no mood for your games
or
your foul language. So get up now, please. Come on. I mean it!’

And that morning it seemed she meant it too.

In an instant the duvet was hurled from on top of her and she’d sprung up, in bed, onto her knees. She then began making snarling sounds – horrible, scary noises – then picked up a teddy bear and hurled it at my face. As weapons went, it probably wasn’t the most dangerous, but it took me by surprise and had been thrown with some force. And as such it couldn’t have been a more provocative thing to do. But something told me a different tack might work here. So instead of yelling at her some more, I threw my head back and laughed. Perhaps that would confuse her into changing her own tack.

‘Oh, dear,’ I said brightly, picking up the unfortunate bear. ‘Now poor teddy’s going to need the doctor! Anyway,’ I finished, ‘spit spot. Time to get ready. Five minutes! Don’t make me come back up here …’

I walked to the door then, very calmly, and went downstairs.

I was shaken, though. Very badly shaken. She’d looked like a cornered animal, poised to attack me. She’d been practically foaming at the mouth. Once again the word ‘normalise’ floated through my mind. There was nothing normal here. I felt we were on the edge now, a real precipice. Her behaviour was becoming more and more erratic. I went outside and had a cigarette, then came back in and poured some cereal into a bowl, then went back into the hall and called her downstairs again.

‘
Fuck you, bitch!
’ came the answer. Oh,
God
.

I raced back up the stairs again. I
had
to take control of this situation. ‘Get out of that bed!’ I yelled, even as I marched into the room. ‘Get up and get dressed or I will dress you myself!’

She laughed manically. ‘You stupid fucking little fucking
whore
! I thought I’d already taught you a lesson last time!’

She’s 13, I kept saying to myself. She’s only 13. She’s a
child
. I marched over to the bed and stood over her. But before I could speak, before I could even think what to say, she had punched me, hard, in the side of my head. I tried to grab her arm, but, still kneeling, she launched herself at me and began a full-on attack – punching me, pulling my hair, biting me and head-butting, and I soon realised that simply trying to defend myself was going to prove no defence at all. I couldn’t think coherently; all I knew was that I had to restrain her. But how?

We’d been taught all sorts of things about how to handle violent situations with children, but it was something my dad had told me when I was a child that sprung to mind now. He’d been a boxer when he was younger, and one of the things he’d taught his children was that in self-defence you needed to remember it was all in the eyes. ‘Watch your opponent’s eyes,’ he’d said, ‘and then you’ll know where the next punch is coming from.’ What bollocks, I thought now. I couldn’t even
see
her eyes. The slaps were coming thick and fast and she was just a blur of hair and limbs, but something else my dad said kicked in instead. Grab her arms and cross them. I must grab her arms and cross them. Being so much smaller it was vital that I use my whole body, if I had a hope in hell of overpowering her.

And I did it. I grabbed her wrists and quickly yanked them across each other, launching myself, at the same time, on top of her. We fell in a heap on the bed, her below and me on top, in as ungainly a position as it was perhaps possible to be in, being jerked up and down by her bucking, furious body.

‘Get off me, you fucking whore!’ she screamed.

And all I could do was scream right back at her. ‘Is that right? I’m not some silly little girl you can knock about, you hear me? What exactly do you think you can do to me, eh?’

‘Bastard, whore, motherfucker!’ she spat in my face, writhing.

‘I’ll let you up when you shut the hell up!’ I screamed back.

I was then startled by hearing a commotion downstairs, which had the effect of stunning us both into silence. ‘Mrs Watson?!’ The man was shouting so loud through the letter box that I could hear my name clearly. ‘It’s the police! Is everything okay?’

‘Oh, thank God!’ I thought. My neighbour must have heard the noise and called them! I sprung from Sophia. Now I’d be safe, even if she chased me. And she did manage to kick me, hard, as I bolted for the staircase, almost falling down them in my haste to open the front door.

‘Oh, thank God you came!’ I said, yanking it open to reveal two big policemen. ‘Thank God someone called you!’

The younger of the two, stepping inside, shook his head. ‘No one called us. We’re here to follow up an incident report. But it sounds like you’re having one right now!’

I nodded and explained, marvelling at this piece of good fortune, trying to flatten down my hair as I did so, feeling the sting of a cut as I smoothed my hand over my face. They were PCs Turner and Jamieson, PC Turner explained, upon which I promptly burst into tears.