Crying in the Dark (11 page)

She fell silent. The waitress left cutlery on our table, and then came back with my coffee and Sylvie's milkshake. Her eyes widened with pleasure at the sight of it.

‘And?' I prompted her.

‘And,' she took a long slurp of the shake, coming away from the glass with a thick brown moustache, ‘my dad showed up.'

‘Your dad?'

‘He'd disappeared. When Mam ended up in the nuthouse, they couldn't find him. But one day, when I was nine years old, he knocked on the door and asked to see me. I don't know how he tracked me down, but he did.'

‘They didn't just hand you over …'

The food arrived. Sylvie picked up the ketchup bottle and began to douse her chips.

‘No. They organized access visits. A worker came with me at first, to make sure he wasn't a psycho or nothin'. Then after a few months we were left mostly on our own, and in the end he would take me out for the whole day. He seemed real nice. He said that Mam had forced him to leave, that he had wanted to take me with him, but she wouldn't allow it. He told me he wanted us to be a family again, him and me.'

She began to cram the food into her mouth, eating as if her life depended on it.

‘Good?' I asked.

‘Mmm,' she nodded, giving me a ketchup-coated thumbs up.

‘So I take it you were finally sent home with him?'

‘Yeah, not long after my tenth birthday. They had a party for me at the Centre, cake and everythin'! And the next day he picked me up in a taxi and we went home. I was so happy. I'd been dreamin' about him comin' to get me since I was little, and here it was, happenin'. A dream come true. My fairy godmother had come through for me.'

I stubbed out my smoke in the small foil ashtray and lit another.

‘How'd it work out?'

She laughed drily and picked up the burger.

‘Shane, as soon as we got in the door of his flat, he handed me a mop and told me to get started, that I was his now and would have to work hard for my keep. You know, I didn't even mind. I wanted him to be happy, for me to be a good daughter. So I mopped, hoovered, dusted … I made his dinner that evening'; and he never batted an eyelid, never said thanks. After we'd eaten, he told me he was goin' out and for me to go to bed. He told me if he came home and found me up, there'd be trouble.'

‘So you went to bed?'

‘Of course. I was a good little girl back then. It didn't help me though. Some time in the night I woke up and he was in bed with me. I didn't know what he was doin' at first, then I knew. Some of the other kids in the Centre had told me about it. I just never thought it would happen to me.'

‘God, I'm sorry, sweetheart. Did it happen again after that?'

‘Ooh.' She wiped her mouth and sat back, belching loudly. ‘Most nights for the first year. If I was lucky, he rode me and then fell asleep. If I wasn't, he'd give me a hidin' afterwards. Not the face, nowhere bruises would be seen. Social workers visited the odd time, but, fuckin' eejit that I was, I thought he was testin' me, that he wanted to see how much I loved him, how much I could take, so I smiled and put tissue paper down me knickers to stop the blood comin' out me arse and told them everything was fantastic.'

‘They didn't notice anything?'

‘Don't be a moron. How could they? He'd fooled me, fooled everyone. Of course they didn't.'

‘Did you run away?'

‘Where the fuck to? He found me in the Centre after five years of bein' away – he'd find me again. I'm still with him. Sure, he's the one that sends me out.'

I nodded slowly and motioned for more coffee.

‘Would you like some dessert?'

‘No, ta,' she said, standing up. ‘It was nice catchin' up with you, but I've to get back. If me da finds out I was slackin', he'll fuckin' kill me.'

‘Sylvie, wait,' I said, catching her arm gently. ‘You can't leave like this. I want to help you.'

She smiled and firmly removed my hand.

‘I knew it. Is this how you get your kicks? Want to take me home as your little sex-slave? I don't work like that.'

‘No! I told you that isn't what I'm about. You shouldn't be living like this. There's a guy I work with – he can help me to organize somewhere for you to stay. Don't worry about your father. You'll be safe. There's a place I know, a residential setting; they have plenty of extra space and they're good people.'

She sat down again and took my hand. She was looking at me as if I was the child and she the adult.

‘Shane, I've been in res. It didn't make any fuckin' difference to my life. Look at me now. I'm a whore, Shane. My da is my pimp. This is what I am, and this is where I'm stayin'. There's no point in my goin' anywhere with you. He'll come and get me and no one will be able to stop him and it'll be worse than before. Thanks, really. You're sweet, but I have to go now.'

She smiled and stood up and then leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Her eyes were wet, but she wiped at them roughly and walked quickly to the door. I felt awful. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. She should have been reluctant at first, but then seen that I was right and gone with me gratefully. That was how it had played out in my head. I watched her go out the door, then I dropped some money on the table and took off after her.

She was ten yards up the street, and I called after her: ‘Sylvie, I'm sorry, but you're coming with me. You're a kid, and I'm an adult, and this is my job.'

‘Fuck off, Shane, will you? I'm runnin' out of patience.'

I took her arm, more firmly this time.

‘I mean it, Sylvie. I'm not leaving you here, and that's the end of it. I'd be a pretty lousy person if I did. Now come on.'

She shook her head, scowling, and began to shout.

‘Help! Help me! He's attackin' me! Rape!' Her cries were piercing. For a little girl, she had quite a vocal range.

‘Sylvie,' I said, looking about in embarrassment and starting to walk her briskly towards the car. ‘Stop it.'

‘Help me, somebody!' she screamed, trying to pull away from me.

Her exclamations had attracted attention: three men who had just come out of the truck-stop ran up to us.

‘Hey, fella, the little lady doesn't seem to want to go with you,' one said. He was taller than me by a head and weighed around fourteen kilos more, a pendulous belly hanging low over his belt, arms like pistons.

‘Help me, mister. I don't know this fella and he says he's takin' me to his car.'

‘I think you should let her go, bud,' another of the men said, laying his hand on my shoulder and squeezing. He was smaller than his cohort, but still bigger than me, muscles showing in bunches under his dirty white T-shirt. A needle of pain shot down my arm.

‘If you would just let me explain,' I gasped, involuntarily letting Sylvie go.

She took off like a shot, running down the street without looking back. I made to follow, but the three Good Samaritans pinned me to the wall.

‘You fucking idiots,' I grunted, struggling against them. ‘Let me go. You don't understand –'

A punch was delivered to my stomach that took all my breath away. I sagged to the ground.

‘Fuckin' pervert,' one of them muttered, and kicked me in the gut.

I heard footsteps moving away, but was in no condition to follow or respond. I had failed Sylvie again. I lay there until I was able to breathe properly, and then lay there some more. Getting up seemed a waste of effort.

It was as if I had stepped into a British situation comedy –
The Good Life,
or maybe
Keeping Up Appearances.
Molly Henry was pouring tea from a bone-china pot into a little cup that was sitting in an exquisite saucer. She was immaculately dressed in a silk, floral ensemble, which matched her shoes perfectly. The room was surgically clean and smelt of expensive furniture polish and carpet shampoo. It appeared that Molly (or maybe the help – I hadn't seen any, but I always assumed they were discreetly hidden away somewhere) had gone on an epic cleaning spree. I felt out of place: uncouth and somehow too big for the environment, like Gulliver just having landed in Lilliput.

‘Cream and sugar? Or would you prefer lemon?'

‘No, thank you. Black is fine.'

Molly handed me the cup and saucer and sat down on an armchair.

‘I'm so sorry that Mina won't see you. She won't talk to anyone, at present.'

‘Is she here? I thought she'd be at the workshop.'

‘No, we've decided that she won't be going to that awful place any more.'

That perplexed me.

‘Can I ask you why?'

‘Well, she's not safe there, is she?'

‘That can be easily rectified. Just let the staff know she needs to be watched. In fact, you probably don't have to tell them now. They've been made painfully aware of it.'

‘No, we have decided. She'll remain at home where we can care for her properly. We may employ a tutor.'

‘And her social needs? How will you cater for those? Will you employ some young people for her to be friends with?'

‘She has her club.'

‘And she'll be safer there than at work?'

‘Dirk or myself will accompany her.'

I put the cup and saucer down on a marble coaster on the coffee table. I was afraid that I would drop them.

‘Mina is a bright, vital, lovely young woman,' I said. ‘She needs to have some freedom, an outlet, something that is just hers and doesn't involve you or Dirk. She loves you and respects you, but I think that you may be smothering her. I'm not a big fan of the workshop system, but at least she was out of the house and mixing with her peers. Don't cut off one of the few lifelines she has.'

Molly Henry smiled sweetly at me. ‘It was so good of you to bring her home to us. We're very grateful.'

‘Molly, did you hear a single thing I just said?'

‘Of course, but our minds are quite made up. She will remain at home.'

I sighed.

‘Is it all right if I try to speak to Mina? Seeing as I'm here, I should probably give it a go.'

‘Certainly. Come with me, please.'

She led me into the hallway and up an ornate flight of stairs to a landing. She knocked at a mahogany door.

‘Mina, darling, Shane is here. He wonders if he might speak with you.'

There was no sound.

‘Mina, are you awake?'

‘Go away!' The two words were shouted with vehemence.

‘I'm sorry, Shane,' Molly said.

‘Can I stay here for a few minutes anyway?'

The woman looked puzzled. ‘Why?'

‘I'd like to sit here on the landing and talk to Mina. She doesn't need to answer me, but I know she'll hear, even if she doesn't listen.'

Molly shrugged. ‘If that's what you want.'

She turned and walked back down the stairs. I sat on the carpeted floor, leaning my back against the door.

‘Mina, I'm just going to hang out with you for a bit. There are a few things I'd like to speak about. You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. Okay?'

Silence.

‘I know you're feeling a lot of different things at the moment. Maybe so many emotions are running through you that they're hard to tell apart. I guess you're probably angry with me for interfering in your business; embarrassed at me finding you doing the things you were doing; afraid of what's going to happen next; sad at having hurt your parents' feelings. It's all confusing and frightening, one big problem. But know this:
it isn't a problem we can't solve.
Your folks care a lot about you, the people at the workshop are your friends, I want to help you as much as I can, and you are a person with a lot of skills and abilities. Now, the way I see it, taking all those facts into consideration, there are more positives in the equation than negatives. If we all put our heads together, we can find a solution. What do you say?'

No response.

‘The most important person in all this is you, Mina. Everyone wants what's best for you, though it may be hard for you to see that just now. Your mum and dad have decided that you aren't going to the workshop any more. Did they tell you?'

Nothing.

‘They want to pay somebody to come in and teach you. Your mother says that she's going to start going to the Abled-Disabled Club with you too. Won't that be fun? Going to see your friends with Mum waiting around to see what you're getting up to. I know I wouldn't like it. But you know what? I can understand why they're doing it. You see, they don't know what's going on in your head, so they're grasping at straws to try and figure it out. You're not giving them many options.'

Dead air.

‘Mina, I'm on your side. Fuck it, I'm on everyone's side, but my main job is to be here for you. I was never sent out here to control you, like you thought. I was sent to be your friend, to try and see things from your point of view and to help your parents see things that way too. Now, I can't do that unless you talk to me and tell me what your point of view is.'

Emptiness.

‘I can wait, Mina. I'm a patient guy, and I'm not going to stop working with you – working
for
you, just because you take to your room and throw a strop. When you're feeling up to it, we'll talk. Whatever's going on, we can work it out. I promise.'

Mina didn't respond. Molly didn't rush upstairs to tell me how inspiring my words had been. The key to the whole awful mess didn't drop out of the ether into my lap. I sat in the quiet house on one side of the door, the girl on the other, her mother somewhere below, each of us alone with our thoughts.

Ellen, the woman who ran Mina's section at the workshop, didn't much want to speak to me either. I met her that lunchtime in their canteen. Molly had neglected to explain to the management that her daughter would no longer be attending, and had given me permission to fill them in on what had happened. Ellen was friendly and polite, but I could tell that the whole thing was making her uncomfortable. I drank some truly foul coffee, tried to eat a tasteless chicken salad sandwich, and listened as she danced around the reasons why Mina may have gone to The Sailing Cot, speaking for a full five minutes without telling me anything.

‘People with special needs sometimes see things differently than the rest of us do, and are driven by impulses that aren't always obvious. You have to take that into consideration and not draw any rash conclusions.'

‘I haven't drawn any conclusions. I haven't a clue what's going on.'

‘Well, that's probably for the best.'

I admitted defeat with the sandwich and dropped it back onto the cardboard plate.

‘How, precisely, is it for the best? Mina is in pain, Ellen. She's involved in something that's out of her control, and we, as the carers, have a responsibility to help her deal with it. I don't know whether she was with that man of her own free will or not. Until I do know, I can't really move forward, do you understand?'

Ellen coughed and looked unhappy. ‘Well, I mean to say, she couldn't have been with him because she wanted to be.'

‘Stranger things have happened.'

‘No … but … you see, people like Mina … they don't
do
that kind of thing.'

‘What?'

‘Mina is still a child, Shane, in most senses of the word.'

‘I take it that you don't endorse relationships of a … er … physical nature between people with intellectual disabilities then?'

‘For the love of God, they don't know what they're getting into! It's difficult enough for people with all their faculties to make informed choices about sexual issues without inflicting that kind of thing on people with special needs. No, we don't encourage it at all.'

‘But these are
adults,
Ellen.'

‘No, Shane, they're not. Chronologically, perhaps, but intellectually and emotionally – in the ways that count – they are very much children. How do you explain about venereal diseases to someone who still likes to watch
The Tweenies?
Tell me where you'd begin a discussion about different types of contraception and the moral implications – most of our clients are from Catholic families. If relationships were permitted, you would have to accept that children might result. Could you, in all good conscience, allow someone who needs assistance to tie her shoelaces bring a child into the world? Or would you simply sterilize all the females? This is a huge, murky field, Shane, and I think it is wise to draw clear boundaries.'

‘Is it not better', I said, choosing my words carefully and trying not to get angry, ‘to take each case on its own merits and not write off a hugely important part of human experience for a whole section of the population? How would you feel if you were, without any recourse, sentenced to a life of celibacy?'

‘You're deflecting. I don't have a disability.'

‘Sex is not just about fucking, Ellen. It's about intimacy and human contact and fulfilment and self-affirmation. It's an expression of who we are. It's psychologically and sociologically important. Some would say that it's a basic human right.'

‘I think that's nonsense. You sound like you've been reading too many women's magazines.'

‘Who's deflecting now?'

‘Look, Shane, these are my last words on this topic: yes, it does happen to be my personal opinion that sexual contact should not be permitted between people with learning disabilities, but it is also the policy of the workshop. We believe that it would be detrimental to the community here if the trainees were distracted from their learning and their work by such trivialities.'

‘There's not much more to say then, is there?'

‘No. There isn't.'

I went out to my car in a lousy mood. I had spent an entire morning trying to make some sense of Mina's case, and was no closer than I had been when I started. It seemed that the more people I tried to talk to, the fewer people wanted to talk to
me
. Mina didn't want to discuss things, Molly and Dirk were tight-lipped, and now the workshop had closed ranks too. I lit a cigarette and turned on the ignition. I decided that I needed some music and took out my box of tapes. I settled on a collection by Neil Young and was putting it in the stereo when I noticed a young man standing just inside the door of the main building, watching me closely. He was short and broad, with a head of light-brown curls. He wore a brightly coloured knitted jumper and ill-fitting blue jeans. A trainee, I guessed. Neil had started singing:
When you were young and on your own; how did it feel to be alone?
I looked back at my observer. Did he want to speak to me? I was about to roll down the window and call him over, but he suddenly ducked back inside. Shrugging, I released the hand-brake and moved off.
But only love can break your heart; try to be sure right from the start.
As I turned out the gate, I spotted him again, from the corner of my eye, still watching me from one of the windows of the front hall. I wondered briefly who he was and what he wanted, but then I was down the street and my mind had turned to the Walshes and I didn't think about him again for several weeks.

Micky, Bobby and I were singing along with the TV.

‘What's the story in Balamory, wouldn't you like to know?'

I should have felt like an idiot, but when you're with kids and there aren't any other adults around, inhibitions tend to go out the window. I'm not a regular viewer of
Balamory,
but there are worse children's shows on television (I don't much like
Barney,
and I'm not ashamed to admit that the
Teletubbies freak me
out). When I arrived at the house that afternoon, Biddy met me at the door. She'd had visitors the day before, and the boys had not got to bed until late. They were a bit tired, she told me, and probably wouldn't be up for much. I went into the living room and found Bobby and Micky sprawled on the couch in front of the box. They said hi, but, despite my best efforts, could not work up any enthusiasm for play. I decided to let it go for one day and to just spend some time with them watching the television. It might, I surmised, even give us some topics for discussion. Children's programmes tend to be thematic, covering a particular subject or trying to articulate a specific lesson. We didn't have to watch passively. So I surreptitiously tried to turn the experience into a play activity, singing along, pointing out things on the screen (colours, numbers, letters), talking back to the characters and making it as interactive as possible. The boys responded positively, and we had a pretty good time.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?' Biddy stuck her head in the door, obviously picking up that the session was much less structured today.

‘No, thanks,' I said, and with a loud pop that caused us all to jump the television went dead.

The boys groaned.

‘Oh no, it's brokeded,' Micky said, scuttling over and switching it on and off.

Bobby remained on the couch, but was pointing the remote control and pressing all the buttons in the vain hope that this might help. Without the glow from the screen, the living room suddenly seemed very gloomy and oppressive. I shivered. It was cold. I hadn't noticed before. I reached up and flicked the light switch. Nothing.

‘It's not the TV,' I said. ‘It's the power.'