Cut (18 page)

‘Last time?’ John said, horrified.

‘It’s a regular haunt of hers, isn’t it, Dawn?’ Dawn nodded and hiccupped.

I shook my head in dismay. ‘So is that where you’ve been going on Friday and Saturday evenings?’

‘Sometimes,’ she slurred.

‘Well, don’t!’ John said, then addressing the officers, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than bring home drunken teenagers.’

The officer who was doing the talking nodded stoically. ‘Will Dawn be going back to live with Barbara?’ From his familiar use of Barbara’s first name I assumed the police knew Dawn’s mother quite well, presumably from having regularly returned Dawn to her.

‘We don’t know yet,’ I said.

The other officer’s phone crackled loudly and a message came through. ‘Unit five to Dusmore Close. We’ve received a report of a disturbance in the street.’

‘That’s us,’ he said. Both officers stood, and so did John and I. ‘We’ve told Dawn that if we pick her up again she’ll be cautioned,’ the office said. ‘And she doesn’t need any more of those. Do you, Dawn?’

Dawn smiled and hiccupped, and then shook her head playfully. John raised his eyebrows in warning. We followed the officers out of the lounge, leaving Dawn on the sofa trying to control her hiccups and giggling in between.

‘Make sure you use the bucket if you’re sick,’ I said as I left the room.

John paused before he opened the front door. ‘How many formal cautions has Dawn had?’

‘Too many,’ the officer said, clearly unwilling or not at liberty to give details. ‘And there won’t be many more before they start charging her.’

With what? I wondered. What exactly had Dawn been cautioned for? But the officers were out of the door and on their way to answer the next call. John and I returned to the lounge, where Dawn was still hiccupping and giggling. She hadn’t been sick but we took the bucket with us anyway as we manoeuvred her upstairs and into her bedroom. John placed the bucket beside her bed then left the room. I cajoled and helped Dawn out of her clothes and into her nightdress. It was like trying to undress a very large baby, although I usually had more cooperation from Adrian; she giggled and hiccupped the whole time. As I pulled off her jeans, I saw scars on her – not one as I had anticipated but four bright pink parallel lines, about two inches long and equally spaced. The last looked very recent.

‘Dawn! You’ve been cutting yourself again,’ I said, horrified. ‘You told me you had stopped.’

‘Sorry,’ she slurred in much the same tone as she had been apologising for everything that night. ‘I couldn’t kick the habit.’

‘Habit! But when did you do it? You haven’t said anything to me, and there’s been no blood on your clothes.’ I continued to stare in horror at her leg.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed with her legs dangling down. Leaning forward, she began pointing to the scars one at a time, telling me when she had made each cut as though they were achievement badges she had collected. ‘That one was when Mum was horrible to me,’ she said pointing to the top scar, which was halfway down her left thigh. ‘That one was when Mike called me an interfering bitch,’ she said moving her finger to the one beneath. ‘That one you know about already. It was when Natasha wouldn’t be my friend and I got blood on the pillow. And this one,’ she said arriving at the fourth, ‘was the other week when you and John grounded me and I wasn’t allowed out.’

I started with shock, and could have wept. ‘Because you were angry with us? But Dawn, couldn’t you have just accepted the punishment? It was reasonable. Other teenagers are grounded for not doing as they’re told.’ Yet while I felt we had been justified in punishing Dawn’s truanting, it didn’t help the guilt that was now welling inside me.

Dawn had been accepting and almost nonchalant about her cutting when we had first talked about it. Now drunk, she was flippant and dismissive. ‘It’s no problem,’ she said with a smile. ‘Don’t worry. It’s my leg and I like to cut it. It helps.’

‘But it’s dreadful, Dawn, upsetting. I just don’t understand.’

‘It’s not your fault. Don’t worry,’ she said again; then, drawing up her feet, lay down, and curled up into bed. Within seconds her eyes had closed and she was asleep. I looked at her for a moment, then switched off the light and came out.

Downstairs I told John what I had discovered and he was as shocked and horrified as I was. ‘What are we supposed to do?’ he said, equally frustrated. ‘Never tell her off? Or stop her from doing what she wants because she might harm herself? It’s emotional blackmail.’ Except of course it wasn’t, because Dawn hadn’t used her cutting as a weapon against us – she hadn’t said, ‘If you ground me I’m going to cut’ – any more than presumably she had used it against her mother, Mike or Natasha. She had appeared to accept the sanction and then gone away and slashed her leg. How we should deal with it I’d no idea, and once again I clung to the belief that when she started seeing the psychiatrist in August he would be able to help. I dearly hoped so, for I didn’t know what else I could do.

Chapter Twenty

Added Violation

D
awn managed to get to school three days the following week and two days the week after that. The school secretary phoned each time Dawn failed to arrive, and when Dawn came home at 3.45 p.m. I told her off and lectured her. But my telling off and lecturing were starting to sound as hollow as Dawn’s apologies and promises not to do it again, for we had both said it all so many times before.

‘I do try, Cathy,’ she said, ‘but something just takes over when I leave the house.’

‘I know, love,’ I said exasperated. ‘But how can we stop it?’

‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged.

Neither did I!

It was now nearly the end of June, and John and I had booked a holiday – a week in south Cornwall – for the beginning of July before the schools broke up. We had made the booking in December, when we hadn’t had Dawn staying with us. But it was a self-catering cottage which could sleep five, so with only John, Adrian (who would be in the cot) and me there would be plenty of room for Dawn. I thought a holiday was exactly what Dawn could do with – a relaxing week away from the area where all her problems seemed to stem from. John thought so too. But it would mean Dawn missing school for a week, and on top of all the days she’d already missed I wondered if her social worker would agree to Dawn going. Without mentioning the prospect of a holiday to Dawn, I phoned Ruth and asked if Dawn could come with us.

Ruth readily agreed. ‘Yes, if she wants to. It might do her good.’

There was no doubt in my mind that Dawn would jump at the chance, if for no other reason than it meant a week off school. But when John and I asked her that evening, both of us excited and looking forward to a family holiday, Dawn shook her head.

‘It’s nice of you, but I don’t want to miss any more school.’

John and I looked at each other, flabbergasted; then we looked at Dawn. ‘But you hardly ever go to school,’ John said. ‘You spend more time playing truant than you are there.’

‘I know. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do. And we’ve got end-of-year exams in two weeks, so I need to revise.’

‘You can take your books with us,’ I said. ‘There will be time to revise in the evenings or even on the beach.’

‘I wouldn’t be able to concentrate. You go and I’ll stay here.’

‘Absolutely not,’ John said.

‘You’re too young,’ I added. ‘Ruth would never agree.’ And neither would we, I thought, but didn’t say.

John and I spent the entire evening trying to persuade Dawn to change her mind, pointing out all the attractions that the south coast of Cornwall had to offer, but Dawn remained adamant that her studying had to come first and she couldn’t afford to miss more time from school. Call me a Doubting Thomas, but I had the sneaking suspicion that Dawn’s sudden conscientious enthusiasm towards her school work had more to do with not wanting to be out of the area and away from her mates – going out on Friday and Saturday evenings was the highlight of her week.

Clearly Dawn refusing to go was not only disappointing for John and me but also going to cause a problem: where was Dawn going to stay while we were away? Certainly not alone in the house, as she had suggested. I phoned Ruth the following day and told her that Dawn didn’t want to come with us and we couldn’t persuade her otherwise.

Ruth sighed. ‘I’ll have to try to find her other carers to stay with, which won’t be easy. Or perhaps she could stay with her mother for the week.’

I didn’t think the second option was a good idea, given the lack of concern or parental control Barbara seemed to have for or be able to exert over her daughter, not to mention the rejection Dawn would feel if her mother didn’t stay in. ‘Do you think Barbara will want Dawn to stay?’ I asked. ‘And I’m not sure Dawn will want to go, even if her mother agrees.’

‘Ask her,’ Ruth said. ‘And if Dawn says yes, I’ll approach Barbara.’

So I did. And Dawn’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes, I can stay at Mum’s! What a good idea.’

I didn’t think that Dawn’s excitement was because she had suddenly repaired her relationship with her mother; it was more that freedom loomed.

‘But your mum is hardly ever at home and she works until late each day,’ I said. ‘And what happens when Mike comes in the evening?’

‘I’ll go out with my mates,’ she said, barely able to contain her excitement.

With little or no parental supervision or control, an empty house, and Dawn coming and going as she pleased and hanging out with her mates, it was, I thought, a recipe for disaster. This was pretty much the situation that had led to her coming into care in the first place and, as far as I could see, nothing had changed. I asked Dawn again if she would like to come on holiday with us, pointing out that a week wasn’t very long and she could phone her friends.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘I promise I won’t drink, and I’ll try to get back in at nine thirty like I do here.’ Clearly all thoughts of studying had now gone.

I phoned Ruth the following day and told her that Dawn wanted to stay at her mother’s, although I had concerns about what Dawn might get up to. ‘No more than she does when she’s with you,’ Ruth put in tartly; then she said she would now phone Barbara and run it past her. ‘It’s easier than trying to find another foster carer,’ she added, which I could have guessed.

Two days later Ruth phoned and asked to speak to Dawn. When Dawn came off the phone, she was delighted that her mother had agreed to her going to stay. And while, at one level, I was pleased that Barbara hadn’t rejected her daughter outright by refusing to have her, I could see only too clearly the problems looming.

The following week I helped Dawn pack her case and school bag, and John helped me pack for our holiday. I had told the school of the arrangements, and that if Dawn didn’t arrive they were to phone Barbara, as clearly we couldn’t deal with any problems, being 250 miles away. On Friday evening I gave Dawn her pocket money for the week and, kissing her goodbye, saw her into the car. John was taking Dawn to Barbara’s flat while I finished the packing. When John returned he said that her mother hadn’t been there, and Dawn had used the spare front door key hidden under the mat to get in. He said he felt concerned about leaving her alone in the empty flat, but Dawn had said she would be fine and that she was going out soon, which no lessened our concern. But we had to remind ourselves that Dawn wasn’t our responsibility now, and we couldn’t spend the entire week worrying about what she was getting up to. We had to put some trust in her and Barbara and hope for the best.

Nevertheless, although there was an element of relief in not having to worry about Dawn, and particularly her sleepwalking, which might have been an even bigger problem in a strange house, we were sad that we were leaving her behind. Despite everything that had happened, and the continual worry of Dawn’s behaviour and what she would do next, she was still part of our family and, if we were honest, we had grown very fond of her. ‘Hopefully she’ll come on our next holiday,’ I said, as I switched off the bedside lamp.

John agreed. ‘She’ll be in therapy by then and feeling much better.’

The cottage overlooked the small sandy bay of Gorran Haven, and because the schools hadn’t broken up there were only a few families on the beach with pre-school children. Adrian was in his element exploring the fine golden sand, which he prodded, rubbed between the palms of his hands, rubbed into his hair and then tried to eat. He had perfected crawling to an art form and was very fast scampering over the sand, and we had to keep a watchful eye on him the whole time. He was mesmerised by the sea, and John and I stood on the shoreline with him and, taking an arm each, jumped him over the small waves much to his delight and shouts of glee. It wasn’t only the moving sea which fascinated Adrian but everything it brought in, including the seaweed and shells which he tried to eat, and the little bubbles that the receding waves left behind which he poked and popped with his finger.

The weather was excellent, and in the late afternoon and early evening we explored the coastal paths and the walks through the National Trust land which flanked the bay, as well as taking in some local sights. By the end of the week we were suntanned, relaxed, and somewhat reluctant to pack for the journey home. For while we had spoken of Dawn, and wondered how she had been getting on, the responsibility, with its continual anxiety, had been kept well away by the distance, and the knowledge that there was nothing we could do about any problems that might have arisen.

On Saturday morning we were on the road by 9.30 a.m. The traffic was heavier than it had been on the way down and the journey slower. Adrian, confined to his car seat, quickly grew restless. John pulled into a lay-by and I moved to the back seat so that I could amuse and comfort Adrian until eventually he dropped off to sleep. While it was lovely to have been on holiday, I knew I would be pleased to be home again with the familiar comfort of my own bed – or I would have been, had we not been broken into.

We didn’t notice immediately. The bottle of milk I’d ordered was on the doorstep, the front door was locked, and there was no sign of a forced entry or broken window. It was only when we went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and found the cupboard doors open that I started to feel something was wrong.

‘I’m sure I shut those,’ I said to John. I looked in the cupboards and saw that the biscuits and crisps were missing, together with an unopened carton of fresh juice. But even then I didn’t immediately think they had been stolen. Then I noticed that the dish on the side, which usually contained loose change for emergencies, was empty, and at the same time the cat flap blew open.

‘What the hell?’ John said. The cat flap had been fitted by the previous owners and was always kept shut by us, as we didn’t have a cat. It was now open and flapping in the wind.

My heart began to race as John went to the back door and, turning the handle, found it unlocked. He went out and looked down the sideway. ‘The side gate’s open too,’ he said, returning stony-faced.

Picking up Adrian, I followed John through to the lounge. The television was still there, and when we went into the front room we found that the hi-fi system hadn’t been taken either. The burglar had been through our cassettes, though, for instead of being on the shelves they were in a heap on the floor; whether any were missing wasn’t immediately obvious. We flew upstairs and found all the bedroom doors open – we had definitely shut them before leaving as a fire precaution. Our bedroom was the only one that contained anything of value – two rings I had inherited from my grandmother, and thankfully they were still in my jewellery box. However, Adrian’s money-box, which I kept on the cabinet beside my jewellery box, had been broken into and was now empty. I guessed there must have been over
£
30 in it, for John and I had started dropping one pound coins into it, with the intention of opening a savings account for Adrian.

Going round to Dawn’s room, we found her wardrobe doors open. I didn’t know if anything had been taken, for Dawn had packed her own casual clothes while I had seen to her uniform.

‘Did she take her Walkman with her?’ John asked.

‘Yes. Definitely.’ Fortunately Dawn was inseparable from her Walkman, so it was with her and not stolen.

The third bedroom, which was to be Adrian’s room, was untouched; likewise the bathroom and toilet appeared not to have been entered. But while it could have been a lot worse in terms of things taken or damage done, there was an awful feeling of violation from knowing that a stranger had been in our house and gone through our possessions. I felt it was an added violation that Adrian’s moneybox had been forced open and cleared: it was as though it was a personal attack on a toddler. It was the last thing we needed on our return after a six-hour journey, and it immediately blighted the relaxed feeling we’d had after our week away.

John phoned the police, and while we waited for them to arrive we checked for anything else that might have been taken. We thought it was odd that the food and juice had been taken but the ‘valuable’ items had been left. When we double-checked the kitchen cupboards we found that John’s bottle of Scotch was also missing; apart from a bottle of red wine, which had been left, the Scotch was the only alcohol we had in the house. Then we found that three of the six cut-glass tumblers, which we kept for best,

were also missing. It was almost as if the thieves had been on their way to a party, and had stopped by for nibbles and drink.

We made a list of everything that was missing and handed it to the police officer when he arrived. I couldn’t remember ever having the police come to my house before, even as a child, and now it had happened three times in the last six months. It was a different officer to the ones who had visited us before in connection with Dawn, and I thought that before long the entire local constabulary would have come through our front door.

‘It’s kids,’ the officer said, looking at the inventory, as we showed him around the house. ‘You’re lucky they didn’t graffiti the walls or pee in the bed. Usually they make more mess.’

We didn’t feel very lucky – far from it – but we did appreciate that the intruders (the officer said it would have been more than one) could have done more damage.

‘Get rid of that cat flap,’ he said as we entered the kitchen. ‘That’s where they got in.’

John and I looked at the cat flap and then at the officer. ‘But it’s not big enough for someone to get through,’ I said, aware than not even Adrian could have squeezed through the nine-inch square gap.

‘They didn’t come through it,’ the officer said. ‘They reached in. Here, I’ll show you.’

We watched as he unlocked the back door, and then, stepping outside, knelt down and closed the door. To my amazement and eerie disconcertion his disembodied hand appeared through the cat flap followed by his arm, gradually extending to its full length. His hand reached across until his fingers alighted on the bolt at the bottom of the door, and then moved up to the key in the lock. Both the bolt and the key were within easy reach and he turned the key, locking it and unlocking it, to prove the point.