Crying in the Dark (9 page)

I sat in the car and lit up a cigarette. Night had come down, and the street-lights shed a sickly yellow glow over the finely manicured street. I felt tired and old. But there was one final thing I had to do before I could go home. Now that Mina was safe, my thoughts turned to Sylvie. I swung the car around, and went back to the docks.

The corner where the four girls had been was empty. I parked up the street a bit and switched off the engine. The docks still thundered on with the sounds of people whose lives revolved around better, brighter things. I switched on the radio, fiddled with the dial and found a jazz programme. Charles Mingus hollered
Hog Call Blues
out of the speakers. Not exactly gentle, but good. I sat and smoked and waited. The glow from the street-lamps was just as yellow here as it had been on Garibaldi Street. People came and went, but the girls appeared to be long gone. I waited another hour and then went home, cursing myself all the way.

When I got back to my apartment, I opened all the windows to let in some air. The sounds of the street filtered up, and somehow that made me seem less alone. I felt soiled and grimy. I dug out Mingus's
Oh Yeah
and put it on loud, then went into the shower and stood under the spray for almost an hour. Wrapped in a towel, I made a long drink and sat on the couch in the dark as the music played and the night dragged on and somewhere out there a little girl who had once thought of me as her minder did tricks for freaks. Sometime after midnight I slept. If I dreamed, I don't remember.

Wayfaring Stranger

I am a wayfaring stranger

Travelling through this world of woe.

And neither toil, nor grief, nor danger

Are in this world to which I go.

I'm going there to see my father

And all my loved ones who've gone on

I'm just going over Jordan;

I'm just going over home.

Poor Wayfaring Stranger,
TRADITIONAL FOLK SONG

(
FROM THE SINGING OF JOHNNY CASH
)

Sunlight, in a concentrated beam full of swirling dust-motes, came into the office I shared with Loretta. The window looked out on the overgrown rear garden, the tumbling vines and swaying, sinuous shrubs a mirror of my inner chaos.

It was just before nine in the morning, and I didn't know if Loretta would be in. I had called to Dunleavy House only a couple of times since taking up the job, and so had no idea of my colleagues' routines. A pile of just-opened post sat at my elbow, all of it reports and documentation on my three Cases: articles of information which were missing from the files Ben had given me. I sorted them into chronological order and put them in their relevant folders. It took me ten minutes, and then I sat there, wondering what the hell else I could do. Administration has never been my strong suit, but I felt that I should be doing something. I had come in early to write up a report on the previous day's experiences with Mina and the Walshes, which proved to be a short job. I finally accepted that there wasn't really anything else for me to do, and went to get a coffee.

Benjamin was seated in the kitchen when I went in, reading
The Irish Times,
drinking a cup of green tea and eating a muffin.

‘There you are,' he said as I went to the coffee machine. ‘How has it been going?'

I sat opposite him and ran a hand through my hair, sighing deeply.

‘Slower than I'd like, if I'm honest.'

‘They're three difficult cases. You have them because you have the necessary skills. You'll get there.'

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.'

‘What do you make of the Byrnes?'

‘Have you met them?'

‘I meet all the children who get referred to us.'

‘Then you'll know that they are a complete mess.'

‘I knew you'd like them,' he smiled, sipping his tea and popping a piece of muffin into his mouth.

‘I'll admit that I'm fascinated.' I paused, my mind suddenly full of questions I wanted to ask Ben. ‘Do you think it's accurate to say that they're feral children? I mean, the term “feral” in this context really means
unsocialized.'

Socialization, as I mentioned earlier, is the process of learning how to behave in a society through
living within
that society. It involves all the things we learn from our parents: language, how to eat using a knife and fork, toilet training; as well as the patterns of behaviour we pick up from the wider community: moral codes, religion and fashion trends, to mention but a few.

‘They
have
language of a kind,' I continued. ‘I think that it's fairer to say that what they really lack are social skills.'

‘What about the fact that they run about on all fours?'

‘Not all the time. They walk upright far more often. Part of me has been wondering if they affect the animalistic behaviour to scare people. The snarls, the clawing, that whole pattern seems to me to be more a defence mechanism. Who's going to want to fuck with two wolf-children?'

‘I'd go for that if it didn't seem so ingrained,' Benjamin said. ‘You can't just decide to play at being a were-wolf or a monkey or whatever it is they're meant to be, and within a couple of months be able to catch wild birds with your bare hands. It's an interesting theory, and I think it may have
become
a defensive behaviour, but my bet is that there's something much deeper at work.'

‘Any suggestions as to how to isolate it, so that we can begin to form relationships with them, because, as of a couple of days ago, things have not improved one iota?'

‘What have you been trying?'

‘Well, based on the knowledge that they've been confined in a shed for long periods of time and seem to get very edgy and claustrophobic when cooped up indoors, I've been working with them outside. They're certainly happier outdoors – the problem is that Rivendell has fairly big grounds, and once they get outside they're off like wildfire, usually ending up perched in a tree. Their two key-workers have been attending the sessions, seeing as how they're the ones who are constants in the children's lives, and they've both worked really hard, but they're getting frustrated. I spent the last session halfway up a goddam conifer, talking to the twins.'

‘Only halfway up?'

‘The branches wouldn't hold my weight any higher, Ben. Larry and Francey are undersized for their age. They can sit on twigs and not break them.'

‘How has the violence been since you got involved?'

‘I don't think there's been anything major since that first night.'

‘And wouldn't you call that progress?'

‘I'd love to, but I think that what's happening is that they're running off all their energy out in the garden, tormenting us.'

‘Don't sell yourself short. Keep doing what you're doing. Sounds to me like they may be taking in more than they're letting on.'

‘You reckon?'

‘I'd be very surprised if there isn't some kind of breakthrough within the next week or so. You've been staying with it, even when they've made it difficult for you. They punched you in the face, and instead of running away, you came back for more. They climb up a tree, you climb up after them. You have made more of an effort to be their friend than anyone else has, and, in doing so, you've brought along those key-workers, who by extension have shown the desire to work with the twins regardless of how badly they behave. The twins will have noticed, and are probably quite puzzled. They're waiting for the bubble to burst, expecting someone to resort to violence. It'll take time for them to realize that no one in Rivendell will do that to them.'

‘Well, I hope that it happens soon, because Olwyn and Karena are starting to lose all faith in me. They seemed to think that I would come on board, wave a magic wand and make everything all right. They've been sorely disappointed.'

‘Perhaps you need to give them more credit than that. They know that there are no certainties. Have you asked them how they've experienced the sessions so far?'

‘Olwyn has more often than not been in tears by going-home time. Karena is always very quiet.'

‘You should probably be doing some debriefing with them. Treat them like your team. Don't neglect them because you're worried about what they're thinking of you.'

‘You're right. I'll have a coffee with them after today's session.'

‘Why not do it first? Take some time, let them vent at you. Give
them
a session if you feel they need it. You've been working closely alongside these people now for a week or so. I'd say it's time to talk with them, wouldn't you?'

I nodded and drained the last of my coffee. He was right, as usual. I'd been full of angst about what these childcare workers – my peers, effectively – were making of my painstakingly slow progress, and as a result I had neglected to communicate with them, despite the fact that they were finding the work so difficult. My focus was
supposed
to be on the children, but not to the detriment of their staff.

‘I'll do that. Thanks, Ben.'

‘No problem. Look, you have my number. Let's meet for a pint some night. D'you still play music?'

‘Yeah, when I can find the time.'

‘There's a great little session on Crabbe Street, in The Minstrel Boy. Why don't you come along next week, and I'll introduce you. We could do with another musician. There's no money, but they'll stand us a few pints if they're in a good mood.'

I grinned. ‘That would be really great.'

My mobile phone rang, a number I didn't know flashing on the display. I apologized to Benjamin and answered it.

‘Yeah?'

‘Shane, it's Olwyn.'

I could tell straight away that she had been crying, but then that wasn't unusual for her, so I didn't put much pass on it.

‘Hey, Olwyn. I'm due to come out and see you later. Is there anything up?'

She was sobbing.

‘I've fucked up, Shane. I've fucked up badly. I don't know what to do.'

‘Okay. Where are you now?'

‘I'm not on shift until midday. I'm at home.'

‘Where do you want to meet me?'

‘Not here. I live with my mam.'

‘No problem. What about The People's Park? We can walk and you can tell me what's happened. See you in half an hour by the fountain?'

‘Thanks. I'll be there.'

She looked subdued and pale. She hadn't bothered with the Gothic make-up, and was dressed in a simple blue T-shirt and jeans. I had brought along two cardboard cups of take-out coffee and some doughtnuts. She took the coffee, thanking me, but shook her head at the pastries.

‘So what's up?'

‘Oh God, it's hard. I've done something terrible.'

‘Hold on now. In childcare, because the stakes are so high, when we go wrong it always seems like it's the worst kind of mistake that anyone could possibly make. And you know what? It rarely is. So start from the beginning, and tell me what's happened since I saw you last.'

She started to sob again and I put my arms around her. We stood there in the middle of the pathway and I didn't say anything. There was no one else in the park except for a couple of dog-walkers, and they gave us a wide berth, embarrassed by the girl's noisy unhappiness. To hell with them, I thought. They'd forget about us as soon as they'd gone past. After five or six minutes, she stepped back from me, wiping her nose and rubbing her eyes like a child. I took her arm and led her to a park-bench. She was fruitlessly searching for a tissue, so I pulled a small plastic packet from my pocket and handed it to her.

I sat back and waited, sipping my coffee. A robin perched on a shrub near us and watched me with intense curiosity. Robins look cute and cuddly, but are in fact fiercely territorial birds, living a life packed with violence and aggression. Just like our society really. Beautiful on the surface, but scratch just a little beneath …

‘After you visited, two days ago,' Olwyn said at last, ‘we took all the kids out for a drive to the beach. It was nice, actually. Larry and Francey behaved very well. The other children still keep them at arm's length, but there were no outbursts.'

‘Sounds like fun.'

‘Yeah, it was. We stayed a little bit away from the crowd, just for safety's sake, but a young couple came up the beach, walking. They had a toddler with them. Each of them was holding one of his hands – they had to bend down to do it. He had a little sun-suit on, with a floppy hat to keep the sun off his eyes, and he was gorgeous, a really happy little fella. His parents obviously doted on him. None of our kids paid them a blind bit of notice, except Larry. He sat there, his eyes glued to them. He watched them for ages. He never said anything, but you could tell that something was bothering him.'

‘Hard thing for him to see, I suppose. He was never loved like that.'

‘Larry was quiet on the way back to Rivendell. Said nothing all through dinner. Then, just before bed, he called me in to his room. I was surprised. I always go in, to say goodnight, but he usually just ignores me. He'd never called me in before. In fact, short of calling me names, he'd never really spoken to me. “Olly,” he says, “can I have a picture of you?” I was dumbstruck. I didn't know what to say.'

‘What did you do?'

‘We'd taken some snaps on a trip out the previous week, and I got him one with the two of us in it. He said thanks, and took it – and then he gave me a hug.'

All Larry's previous physical contact with staff had been hostile. An expression of affection like this was momentous; it was a breakthrough.

‘Congratulations! That's brilliant.'

‘You haven't heard it all yet,' Olwyn said, tears beginning to run down her cheeks again.

‘Okay, take your time.'

‘The next morning – the day before yesterday – he came out of his room clutching the photo. He followed me around all morning. Every time I turned, he was there. I was due to go off shift at lunchtime, but he kept me hanging around for at least an hour more, behaving in a way none of us had ever seen before. He was all hugs and cuddles and seemed at times to be almost showing off. He wanted me to look at him running and doing somersaults on the lawn. Francey was not at all happy. She wanted nothing to do with it. When I finally managed to extricate myself, he ran over, threw his arms around me and said: “Bye, Mammy.” I nearly had a heart attack.'

‘What did you do?'

She choked back a sob.

‘I hugged him and went home.'

My heart sank.

‘Go on.'

‘I was working again the next day. Bríd told me when I came in that he'd been sleeping with my photo under his pillow. His behaviour was even more extreme. He never called me “Mammy” when any of the other children were around, but I could see it in his eyes. I'd been thinking about it all night, wondering what to do. When it was time to put him to bed, he asked me to read him a story – this was a first, too. When I finished, he looked at me, his eyes so wide, and said, in a tiny little voice: “Olly, wasn't I borned from you?” '

I looked at her, hoping she'd managed better this time.

‘And?'

‘I knew that saying the wrong thing might devastate him,' she said, her voice breaking, ‘and he seemed so small and he needed me so much. I thought: “Is it so bad to pretend? He's such a lovely little boy really. Maybe he … maybe he
should
have been born from me. I mean, I'm like his mammy, aren't I? What did that bitch ever do for him other than treat him worse than an animal? At least I love him and mind him and am kind to him. Would it be wrong to say that he's mine?” I thought about that and I said: “Let's pretend for now that you
are
my baby,” and I kissed him and turned out the light.'

I sighed and took out my cigarettes. Several things were running through my head, and none of them was very positive. I flipped open the top of the Zippo and struck the flint.