Crying in the Dark (4 page)

‘You can leave us, Mrs Walsh. Keep the door open, please. I'll give you a shout when I'm done.'

She left. I looked at the two boys.

‘Well, lads. I'm Shane. You‘ve met some other people, haven't you, who've come to chat with you since you've started having some problems at school and whatnot?'

The boys listened, wide-eyed. Micky gave a slight nod.

‘I'm not really here to talk. I'm going to be meeting you every day for the next few weeks, just to play. We'll have one hour every day at this time, and in that hour you can do whatever you like. It's your time. I've brought some toys and games with me, as you can see, but we can use your toys too, if you want. We can play in here or in the garden; it's completely up to you. This is your special time, and my job is just to be here and make sure you have the best time you can.'

The boys looked at me, still keeping whatever they were thinking or feeling to themselves, although I could see Micky eyeing the toys longingly.

‘So what do you want to do today? I thought you might like to play with the cars and trucks and things, or maybe we could do some colouring and drawing? It's up to you.'

I did not want to prompt them any more than that. I stopped talking and watched. There was a great deal of communication going on between them, but it was all non-verbal. Micky, with his eyes, was imploring his older brother to give it a go, but Bobby was staunchly refusing, remaining po-faced and impassive. Micky reached out a hand and tugged his brother's sleeve. The gesture was met by a very slight shake of the head. Micky sighed in exasperation and seemed to decide to take the situation into his own hands. On his butt, he scooted over to the toys and picked up a yellow truck. Casting occasional looks at his brother, who was observing him in disbelief and disapproval, he began to examine the vehicle. After a brief once-over, Micky started to push it on a winding path in and out of the other toys I had laid out on the floor, making a loud engine noise to accompany its progress. Bobby could not stand this mutinous behaviour any longer.

‘Micky, you shouldn'a done that! We said we wouldn' talk to these peoples no more! They wants to take us away from Mam.'

‘I din' talk to him, Bob. Looka the toys he's bringed. None o' the others bringed us toys. He said he doesn'
want
to talk, anyway. All we gots to do is play. Come on. You take the digger!'

Bobby was jiggling up and down on his haunches at this stage, obviously really wanting to get involved in his brother's game but feeling that he shouldn't. Micky seemed to be enjoying his brother's discomfort, and pushed the truck over so that
it
rolled right past Bobby's feet. This was too much for the older boy, and he too scooched over and picked up the digger. The game was afoot.

For this first session I simply sat back and made very little comment about what the boys were doing. ‘Play work' is about using children's play as a kind of psychoanalytical experience, so the play-worker will record what has occurred and will then try to analyse any patterns or particular symbols that emerge. I did not want the boys to see me writing down anything, so I made mental notes, but to be honest it would take more than one session for any recurring patterns to evolve.

The play on that first day was rudimentary. The boys cleared a space on the floor, lined up some of the cars and trucks and made an imaginary building site, taking turns with each of the vehicles. The digger was used to make pretend holes and fill them in, so I suppose I could have posited that the boys were trying to ‘bury' their feelings about the loss of their father, but that seemed too trite. They ignored me once the game began, and I was glad of that. It meant that I could sit back without interruption and observe. The dynamic between them was interesting. It had seemed at first that Bobby was in charge, but Micky had taken the lead and initiated the play. As the game continued, the boys took turns being leader, and it was simply impossible to discern who was the alpha male between them. They were both strong personalities, and they appeared to accept instinctively that each had character strengths that sometimes had to be brought to the fore. It was a surprisingly mature relationship for children of such young ages, but then, I mused, they had been neglected since their father's death, left largely to their own devices. They had grown up much more quickly than many children.

With ten minutes remaining before the session was to finish, I interrupted the game. There was something I wanted to try.

‘Boys, I'd like you to draw something for me. Is that okay?'

Micky clapped his hands and laughed. ‘Yeah, sure! I'm a good drawer, I am. I always keep the colours between the lines. Don't I, Bob?'

Bobby nodded and took the page I pushed across to him. I ripped open the package of felt-tip pens and handed them over.

‘Now. When I got here, you were both down the bottom of the garden, weren't you?'

They nodded.

‘What were you doing?'

‘We were down talking with our daddy.'

There it was. As simple and open as that.

‘Right. I want you both to draw your daddy for me. What does he look like? Try and remember for me what he was like just now, when you were with him.'

Fantasies like the one the boys were experiencing are often purely instinctive, an almost automatic response to a crisis. Making them put down on paper what they were seeing could be enough to cause the delusion to end. After all, they weren't
really
seeing anything.

The boys looked at me with wide eyes, but nodded and grabbed the markers. They put their heads together, bending low over the pages on the floor. Another thought occurred to me.

‘Hey, how's about we have a competition? Shall we see who can draw the better picture?'

I don't usually encourage competitiveness in play situations, but I had an ulterior motive in this instance.

‘Bobby, why don't you go over there, and Micky, you go over there.'

I put them at opposite ends of the room.

‘Now, when I say go, you both start drawing, and when I say stop, you have to stop, and bring the pictures over to me here, and we'll see which is the best.'

‘I'll win, I'll win!' Micky chanted, bouncing up and down.

‘Will not!' Bobby retorted. ‘My teacher always told me I was a great drawer! I'll win!'

‘Well, we'll have to see,' I said. ‘Ready, set … go!'

Both heads immediately went down and furious scribbling began. Five minutes later, Bobby looked over at me through slitted eyes.

‘What's the prize for this?'

I grinned. ‘You just wait and see. It's a good one.'

A shrug was my only response and the busy activity continued. After they had been drawing for ten minutes, I called time.

‘That's it! Bring 'em over here and let's have a look.'

Both boys bounded over, slapping the pictures down in my lap, eager looks on their faces. I laughed despite myself. No matter how tough the situation, no matter how disturbed the mind or emotions, children are still children.

I turned the pictures so that I could examine what they had drawn, and felt myself suddenly become very cold. I had not expected what I found. In fact, I was not sure what I had expected, but certainly not this.

Both pictures were almost identical, drawn in dark, shadowy colours. The margins were full of swirling, cloud-like shapes, which I knew from my studies of art-therapy were called
vortexes,
and which usually symbolized emotional turmoil. The centre of each page contained a large, terrifying face, simply drawn, yet very clear:

I was reminded of the heads on Easter Island, or of Edvard Munch's
The Scream.
The image in the drawings was not of something pleasant or loving, not of a father whom the boys loved and revered. It bore no resemblance to the countless pictures on the walls around us. What was so hard to understand and was impossible to explain was that, independently,
both boys had drawn exactly the same thing.
They stood before me grinning, both obviously very proud of their efforts.

‘So?' Micky said, pointing at the pictures. Who wins?'

I suddenly became aware that I had broken into a cold sweat and that the room had begun to feel close. I forced myself to smile.

‘Lads, they're both too good to choose between. I mean, look at them, they're so alike. You're
both
brilliant artists. Can I keep these pictures?'

Vigorous nodding.

‘Well, there's two bits to the prize. First, you get to keep the markers.'

‘Cool!'

‘Deadly!'

‘And …' I produced a couple of sugar-free, politically correct lollipops from my pocket. These were met with exclamations of approval. I smiled and told them they could go and play now, because I had finished for today. They ran from the room, lollipop sticks protruding from their mouths.

‘Careful you don't fall with those in your mouths; you'll choke yourselves,' I called after them, knowing I was wasting my time.

I looked again at the two drawings of the thing the boys believed to be their father. I folded the pictures and put them in the box with the toys. I had to admit, I was at a loss. I wandered out to the kitchen, where Mrs Walsh was sitting at the table, a cup of tea in front of her. I looked out the grimy window at the garden, where these two little boys communed with something, real or imagined, that looked like a creature from a primeval nightmare.

‘So,' Biddy's voice drifted up to me, ‘will we be seeing you again?'

‘Yes. I'll see you tomorrow.'

‘Can you do anything for my boys?'

I continued to gaze at the ditch at the end of the narrow garden.

‘I really don't know, Mrs Walsh, but I'm sure as hell going to try.'

Biddy released a deep sigh, as if from her very core.

‘Well, at least you're honest.'

‘Let's hope I've got a bit more than that going for me.'

‘Mister, it's a good start.'

Garibaldi Street smelt of money.

Georgian town houses, dripping affluence, lined each side of the wide road, the cars in the driveways costing double what most of the dwellings in Haroldstown were worth. If I had been an estate agent, I would have used words like ‘secluded', ‘exclusive' and ‘well established' about the street. But I wasn't an estate agent, and what I saw around me as I looked for the home of the Henry family left me cold. Garibaldi Street was about living as performance art. You don't often see topiary any more, but more than one of the houses looked as if they had employed Edward Scissorhands to maintain their hedges. The cars seemed to never have been driven; they adorned the driveways like ornaments, waxed to within an inch of their lives: BMWs, Audis, Mercs … and since this was a work-day, I had to assume that these were second cars. I was driving a 1981 Austin Allegro, and, as I pulled it over to the curb outside the address I'd been given for Molly and Dirk Henry, I didn't bother to reach for the wheel-lock. The only way my car would be stolen in this neighbourhood would be as a practical joke.

Molly Henry opened the door, a tall, heavily made-up woman in her early forties. She was dressed in a linen pant-suit and had a pashmina draped awkwardly over her shoulders, despite the heat of the day; I reckoned that the woman at the store had told her that it ‘completed the outfit'. I wondered if it were pinned somewhere to keep it from falling off.

‘Mr Dunphy, thank you so much for coming out to see us.'

I took her hand, which she left resting on my own limply for a second or two before pulling it back. It wasn't a handshake, more a gesture of contact.

‘Come in, please. Dirk is on the veranda.'

The inside of the house was as I would have expected it to be. Deep pile carpets, plaster busts, wallpaper just the right side of garish, art hanging here and there which didn't look like prints, but matched the colour scheme perfectly. I assumed that they redecorated seasonally.

I was shown through to a patio out the back, overlooking a spacious garden that contained more topiary and a complex system of ponds, streams and waterfalls. All the while I was looking for some evidence of the child whom I knew was around and about somewhere. What I was seeing was like a show-house designed by a Stepford Wife. If there was a child here, she had to be locked up in the basement.

Dirk was tanned and slim and looked as if he had more money than the Hiltons. He stood to meet me, and his handshake was firm and manly. He looked slightly younger than his wife, and I noticed him giving my decidedly unorthodox appearance a once-over. This was, however, followed by what seemed to be an internal shrug, as if to say – ‘these guys are all hippies anyway'; he would give me a chance, see what I could do. He had a jug of lemonade and three glasses filled with ice on the table before him, and he motioned me to sit. Without asking, he poured the drinks.

‘Mr Dunphy, I'm delighted that you've taken the trouble to come all the way out here to see us.' His voice was rich and resonant, like a newsreader's. I don't imagine you have much call to come to this part of town.'

‘Not a lot. And call me Shane. We'll be seeing a lot of each other, for a couple of weeks at least. It would be easier if we drop the formalities.'

He grinned, displaying perfect teeth.

‘Of course, Shane. I'm Dirk, and this is Molly.'

His wife simpered and nodded at me.

‘So,' I said, taking a sip of the lemonade – it was delicious, and in the thick summer heat very welcome – ‘why have you asked to see someone from the Dunleavy Trust?'

‘Well, I did give all the relevant information to Mr Tyrrell.'

‘I apologize, Dirk. This is my first day. I have only had a cursory glance at your file. I'd prefer to hear it from you anyway.'

‘Very well.' Dirk Henry adjusted himself on his seat. ‘Molly and I have a daughter, Mina. She is seventeen. For the past year, Mina has been running away, on an almost monthly basis. She disappears from her room, and often we may not see her until the following day. She returns, refuses to tell us where she has been, and simply goes up to her room again. It is most worrying.'

I nodded and rubbed my beard.

‘I don't want to make little of this – it's obviously quite distressing for you both – but has she got any friends she might be going to? Have you rung around?'

‘There is no one she would go to who would not inform us immediately of her arrival. You see, Shane, our daughter is special.'

I looked at the couple blankly.

‘All children are special, Dirk.'

You misunderstand me. She has Down's Syndrome.'

‘Oh.'

I felt like kicking myself for not taking longer over the file. A seventeen-year-old girl roaming the streets of the city at night was ripe for exploitation, but a teenager with Down's Syndrome was even more at risk. Her parents had every reason to be worried.

‘Well, let's look at it from a practical point of view,' I said, setting down my glass. ‘This may seem obvious, but have you tried asking her where she's going?'

‘Of course,' Dirk said, reaching into his shirt pocket and producing a box of cigars. ‘She simply goes silent. I know that the accepted wisdom about Down's is that sufferers are intellectually subnormal, but in many ways Mina is very bright. She can be quite articulate when the mood takes her, but she can also clam up and play stupid too. When the topic of her disappearances is brought up, she simply smiles sweetly and shuts down. She has not given us a single word of explanation.'

I nodded. Dirk offered me a cigar, but I refused. It was too hot for such a heavy smoke.

‘You must have some suspicion about where she's going. What does your gut tell you?'

‘We're at a complete loss, Shane. I simply can't begin to think of where she's going or what she's doing.'

I looked over at the demure Molly. ‘Women's intuition, Molly? What do you think she's up to?'

She smiled and wrung her hands. ‘I'm afraid I must concur with my husband. I have no idea what Mina is up to.'

I sighed and turned back to Dirk. I didn't believe Molly. Something in her tone, in her body-language, told me that she
did
know, or at least suspected, what Mina's exploits were about, but I let it slide. A major confrontation at this stage of our relationship would likely do more harm than good.

‘Have you checked to see if there's a pattern to her disappearances? Does it always happen at the same time? Is there anything in her life that triggers the action? Could it be a lunar thing? I know that may sound bizarre, but I've worked in places where extra staff are called in at every full moon. The moon can affect some people very strongly.'

‘No,' Dirk said. ‘There is no obvious pattern to her movements. I worked for a time in Human Resources, so I'm familiar with the theory you have mentioned. I don't believe that Mina is being upset by the lunar cycle.'

‘Is it possible she's being coerced into going out? Is there anyone outside the family who has an undue influence over her?'

‘Not that we're aware of. We are in close contact with the staff and management of the workshop she attends during the day. They tell us that Mina is very happy and content, and she certainly seems to have only good things to say about it to us. We know all the young people she associates with – we meet them at the youth club she attends every week. There is no one among them who would wish her harm or would put her at risk.'

I sat back and considered this. There was one final set of questions that needed to be asked, but I was loath to bring them up. I knew from experience that they often caused alarm. There was, however, nothing to be done but to get it over with. I took a deep breath.

‘What about the staff at either the workshop or the club? I hate to be negative, but some people are attracted to this type of work specifically to gain access to vulnerable people. Is there anyone – any
adult
– who has taken an unusual interest in Mina over the past year? What are the screening procedures at the club? For voluntary endeavours like youth clubs, they tend to be rather lax.'

As I expected, the Henrys became visibly paler. Dirk cleared his throat and tried to force a smile.

‘I suppose we have considered such a possibility, but we abandoned it. All the adults, volunteers and professionals alike, have only the best interests of the client group at heart. I do not believe for a moment that there's anything sinister afoot.'

‘Dirk,' I said as gently as I could, ‘you are being naive. There will always be people involved in the caring professions for less than honourable reasons. Now, with a bit of luck, that is not the case here, but that doesn't mean that it isn't worth investigating. I'll check out what the procedure is for the workshop. I'd imagine that it's the standard Garda clearance check – which is far from foolproof, by the way. As for this youth club, the fact of the matter is that there probably isn't any checking done at all. That means that anyone can walk in off the street and have access to all those young people.'

‘Oh God,' Molly gasped, her hand to her mouth.

‘Now I'm not trying to alarm you, but it has to be something we consider.'

‘I understand your drawing our attention to this, Shane,' Dirk said, a steely tone entering into his voice at the sight of his wife's distress, ‘but I stand over my previous assertion – I do not believe that this avenue of investigation will come to anything.'

‘I sincerely hope not,' I said.

This was getting me nowhere fast. These were intelligent people. It seemed that they had exhausted most reasonable options in trying to redress the situation. There was little left for me to do without meeting Mina.

‘Well, it seems to me that the most sensible thing to do is to focus on issues of safety. You have to ensure that she doesn't
get
out, at the very least until we can find out where she's going. I'm guessing you have a fairly complex security system in the house?'

‘Of course.'

‘Does Mina know how to get around it? Does she know how to disable the system, key-codes, that sort of thing?'

We don't think so, although she is quite observant … no, I'm sure she doesn't know how to shut down the system.'

‘Have you used it to try and contain her before?'

Well, not really. It seemed a bit draconian. We put bolts on the windows, a latch on the front door, that kind of thing.'

‘But it didn't work?'

‘No.'

‘Possibly it's time to try something different then.'

They looked embarrassed.

‘You both need to be committed to this. If it's going to work, if we are going to keep your daughter safe, then you must be firm. Tough love. If not, well I cannot guarantee that we'll make any progress.'

Dirk puffed on his cigar and tapped some ash onto the cobbles of the patio.

‘We understand that. If we can't stop this wanderlust she seems to have developed, we are aware that she will have to be institutionalized. I do not want that for my daughter. There is something going on with her that I don't understand, but I
want
to understand it. I want to help her. I
know
that we can sort this out. If she's unhappy, then let's try and make her happy again. If she needs something she's not getting at home, let's find out what it is and see if we can't get it for her. If she's lonely, let's help her make some new friends. I love my daughter, Mr Dunphy. Help me to help her.'

Without looking, he reached out his hand and Molly took it.

‘I'm not promising anything, Dirk, but I will do my best. Can I see her?'

Dirk checked his watch. ‘She'll be home shortly. She's at the workshop, but she should be on her way.'

‘No problem. I'll wait.'

Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang.

‘That'll be her escort now,' Dirk said. People with special needs, when travelling to and from school or work, are often accompanied on the bus by an escort, to ensure their safety while in transit. The escort will see them safely to their front door, ensure their parents are there to meet them, and then head on to the next stop. It may seem unnecessary, but there are many people with special needs who have epilepsy, or who suffer from behavioural problems, and the driver can't steer the bus and cope with a
grand mal
seizure at the same time.

Molly shot out of her chair and returned with a tall, dark-haired girl with the obvious facial characteristics of Down's Syndrome. Down's is a genetic condition, caused by an extra chromosome on the twenty-first pair. You often see it referred to as
Trisomy Twenty-One.
Individuals born with Down's Syndrome usually carry certain identifiable physical traits: almond-shaped eyes, a smaller mouth cavity, which causes the appearance of an outsized tongue, a stocky, short build, malformation of the fingers (technically called
polydactyly
) and smaller than normal ears. They usually face a range of challenges, not the least of which is the set of preconceived notions society has about them.

Down's Syndrome is the flagship ‘special need'. Look at the adverts for the Special Olympics when it comes around. You'll see that every ad depicts a person with Down's. This is because they are easily recognizable, tend to be seen as ‘cute' and because their facial features make it look as if they are always smiling. People with Down's Syndrome are believed to be fun-loving, physically affectionate, saintly in disposition, sweet and gentle. The truth is that individuals with Down's Syndrome are just the same as anyone else. They are people, and no set of beliefs or social norms can sum them up. They are all individuals.

Down's Syndrome, as Dirk had already mentioned, is also associated with intellectual disability, usually within the ‘mild' spectrum (meaning an IQ of between 60 and 75, or a mental age of between five and seven years). This is also a ridiculously simplistic view. Young people with Down's Syndrome now regularly pass the Leaving Certificate (the Irish equivalent of A levels) and adults with Down's or comparable ‘disorders' hold down a range of jobs and contribute to their communities in many positive ways.