Damaged (16 page)

I seethed with anger. How did these perverts think the photographs were obtained? For every image downloaded, a child had been abused, and a life and personality destroyed. The end result was children like Jodie, fractured and hurt almost beyond repair. As far as I was concerned, the person buying this filth was just as responsible as the abuser, and I had no sympathy for his fall from grace, or for the claim that he was researching a book.

Our appointment with the psychologist was set for Monday afternoon. Although this was our first meeting with Dr Burrows together, Jodie had seen her once before, while she was with her second carers. For some reason, she seemed reluctant to see her again.

‘But Dr Burrows will be able to help you,’ I explained. ‘Everyone wants to help you, Jodie, but first we have to tell Dr Burrows what we know. You need to say what happened so that people can make it all better.’

‘None of her damn business,’ she snarled. ‘Nosy cow.’

‘What isn’t her business?’ I asked. But she wouldn’t be drawn. I suspected her parents had warned her against this kind of thing, and against cooperating, fearing that a psychologist would be a particular threat to their shameful secret.

They needn’t have worried. From the moment we arrived, Jodie was hostile and uncommunicative. She wouldn’t answer any questions, not even on innocuous subjects like her favourite toys, or what she liked to eat. The only answers she did give were monosyllabic or gibberish.

Dr Burrows was professional and business-like, and clearly knew how to connect with children, but she was making no progress with Jodie. After a while, she gave up trying to ask straightforward questions and tried a different approach. She brought out a pad of paper and some coloured pencils.

‘Jodie, would you be able to do some drawings for me? I’d like to see some pictures – how about drawing me a picture of your mum and dad at home?’

This did seem to soften Jodie a little, and she took up a pencil and began to draw in her clumsy, malcoordinated way. We watched as she scrawled out a picture. I’m not a psychologist but I was at a loss to see how her pictures could be of any use. They were childish pin-men drawings, with oversized heads, and no detail. Jodie, however, clearly felt that she had done more than enough, as all further questions from the doctor were met with, ‘Don’t know. Piss off.’

At last the hour’s session drew to a close. It felt as if it had been a bit futile, and I took the opportunity to ask the doctor if she could suggest anything to help me cope with Jodie’s needs.

‘Her main need is primary care,’ she replied. ‘I can see you’re performing that admirably. She’ll respond to continuity and firm boundaries. I’m very pleased she’s placed with you. You’re doing an excellent job.’

Compliments are all well and good, but what I had actually asked for was advice. I felt exasperated and very isolated. I wasn’t trained for this – I was just muddling through in the dark, beset by fatigue, confusion and the sense of being hopelessly out of my depth. The tools and training I had just weren’t sufficient for Jodie’s needs, I realized now. The doctor was clearly excellent but she didn’t seem able to grasp that I couldn’t divorce Jodie’s primary care from her mental welfare. I dealt every day not just with feeding her, amusing her and keeping her clean, but also with tantrums, violence, nightmares, waking visions, hallucinations and abject terror. Those things couldn’t be fitted nicely into a one-hour slot. I lived with them day and night.

As we left, I felt more alone than I had in my life.

Before I knew it, Christmas was only ten days away, but my excitement of a few weeks ago was now hard to muster. It was going to be a low-key affair this year. I’d already bought and wrapped most of the presents, and decorated the house, but my heart wasn’t in it. I tried to put on a brave face for the sake of the children, but I’d scaled down the usual arrangements. I was simply too exhausted to cope with a full-scale celebration. My parents were coming for Christmas Day, along with my brother and his family. I usually had a small party for friends and neighbours on Christmas Eve, but it wasn’t going to be feasible this year. I explained to them that I had rather a lot going on at the moment, and I’d have them round when things were calmer. I hoped no one was offended.

In quieter moments, when I had time to reflect, I could see that I was becoming too involved in Jodie and her suffering. I was getting sucked into the abyss of her emotional turmoil, and although I was aware of it I couldn’t seem to shake it off. She occupied my thoughts continuously. When I tried to read a book, I would find myself turning the page without having followed any of the plot. It was the same with the radio or television. I was constantly preoccupied by Jodie, and my own state of mind was suffering. Her distorted perception was colouring mine. It felt as though the evil that had corrupted Jodie’s world was creeping out and corrupting my home as well. There seemed to be a poison in the air, and Jodie was its innocent transmitter. I decided I needed a break to put things back in perspective. I called Jill.

I explained to her that I was becoming physically and mentally exhausted. ‘Jill, I’m not kidding, I need a break. Just some time to regroup and get my strength back, and think of something else for a bit. My own children could do with a bit of my time and attention as well. Could you look into arranging respite, please? Any weekend in January will be fine.’

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘You deserve a holiday. More than that, you need one, if you’re going to be able to stay the course. I’ll look into it this afternoon. The only problem is, Cathy, I’ll have to find carers who are up to it. They’ll need to be very experienced, with no younger or similar-aged children. I can think of one couple in Surrey. I’ll see if they’re free.’

‘Thank you. I’d be grateful.’ I put the phone down, my spirits lifting just a little.

Chapter Eighteen

Fire

T
he next day, Jill phoned to arrange her last visit before Christmas. We chatted for a while. Jill asked me if Jodie ever mentioned her brother and sister. ‘Occasionally,’ I replied, ‘in the context of something she’s telling me about home.’

‘She doesn’t ask to see them?’

‘No, she doesn’t.’ And it suddenly occurred to me how unusual this was. The bond between siblings in care is often strengthened by separation, so even if the children aren’t seeing their parents, Social Services usually make sure that contact is arranged between the brothers and sisters. ‘Are there any plans for them to keep in touch?’ I asked.

‘Not at present. There were concerns about Jodie’s treatment of them. I think they had reason to believe that she could be a bit heavy handed with them, which is why they all went to separate carers.’

I could imagine that. Jodie often lashed out when she was frustrated. ‘What about Christmas cards and presents?’ I asked.

‘We can certainly pass them on, if she wants to send them.’

That afternoon, I asked Jodie if she wanted to go Christmas shopping to buy presents for her brother and sister.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t want to.’

‘How about sending a card? I’ll help you write it if you like.’

‘No. Hate them.’

‘Why do you hate them, Jodie?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Mum liked them more than me. She took them away when Dad came into my bedroom.’

‘OK, pet, I think I understand.’ I wasn’t sure exactly what she was telling me but it was quite possible that the younger ones had been protected in some way from what Jodie went through. No wonder she would resent them. Perhaps she’d even hit out at them because she was jealous of their escape and wanted to punish them. It was conjecture, of course, but I hoped for the other children’s sakes that they had been left alone.

Not only was Jodie cut off from her parents, she was also isolated from her siblings. With no grandparents in the picture, and abusers for aunts and uncles, this meant we were the only family she had. I thought of my own children, and the extended family who wouldn’t hesitate to step in and look after them if anything happened to me. This wasn’t such an issue now, but it had been a real concern in the past. My husband had left when Adrian was Jodie’s age, and in darker moments I had welcomed the safety net of knowing that were I to fall under a bus they would be loved and cared for just the same. Jodie, on the other hand, had no one in the world but us.

Instead of shopping, Jodie wanted to do some painting, so I covered the table with paper, and set out the paints, brushes and a pot of water. I tied Jodie’s apron around her, and left her for a few minutes to work on her masterpiece. When I came back to check on her, I was impressed. Jodie had produced a number of pictures which actually looked like something.

‘Do you like them, Cathy?’ Jodie asked proudly.

‘I really do. These are excellent, Jodie. Can you describe them for me? Tell me what they are?’

‘All right. This one is a house.’

‘That’s very nice. And those are the windows, aren’t they?’

‘Yes, windows. This one’s a car. And this one’s my dog, stupid old dog.’

I jolted to attention. At the pre-placement meeting, I had been told that Jodie had set fire to her dog, and had nearly burned her house down in the process. It was this incident that had finally led to her and her siblings being taken into care. ‘I see,’ I replied. ‘Can you tell me more about the picture?’

‘Yes I can. This is our dog, Sam. He’s a big brown dog, always woofing.’

‘And why did you say he was stupid, Jodie?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied impatiently.

‘There must be a reason why he’s stupid. You can tell me.’

‘He’s all ugly and burnt. He’s horrible.’

‘Oh dear. How did he get burnt?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice light and relaxed. We were still standing side by side, looking at the pictures, and I was anxious not to put pressure on her. Jodie shook her brush in the water, then tested it on the paper. Finding it was still not clean, she dipped and shook it again.

‘Jodie, can you tell me how Sam got burnt? I promise I won’t be angry.’

‘Jodie did it,’ she muttered. ‘I put all the bog roll on him, then used Mum’s lighter. He was jumping and jumping, and woofing, and started running around, and everything was burning.’

‘Where were your mum and dad when you did this?’

‘They were at Uncle Mike’s.’

‘Were you on your own?’

‘No, Ben and Chessie was there.’ Jodie’s sister’s name was Chelsea, but she had trouble pronouncing it. ‘I was looking after them.’

‘So what happened next?’

‘I picked up Chessie, and took her and Ben in the garden, and the stupid dog came and started rolling in the dirt. It looked all ugly, with its hair hanging off, and it stinks. And it made a lot of noise. I went in the hall and dialled 999, and the firemen came and put it out.’

‘That was sensible, calling the firemen. You saved Chelsea and Ben.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, grabbing a fresh sheet of paper.

‘Jodie, can you tell me why you wanted to hurt your dog?’

‘Wasn’t my dog,’ she snapped. ‘Daddy’s dog. I told you.’

‘Oh, right. Can you tell me why you wanted to hurt your daddy’s dog?’

Her brow furrowed in concentration. Gradually, her face hardened, and her fist clenched around the brush. ‘I hate him. I hate them, and I wanted to burn the house down and get out. It’s a horrible house.’ She thumped the table. ‘And I want my daddy arrested. He’s horrible, he sat on my face. They should arrest him, kill him!’

‘But why set fire to the dog, Jodie? Why not burn the curtains or the sofa if you wanted to burn the house down and get out?’

‘You are silly. I get smacked if I mess up the settee. Can I have a biscuit now, Cathy?’

While I got her a biscuit, I wondered if Jodie had set the dog alight as a way of punishing her father by hurting something he loved. Or perhaps, despite all her learning difficulties and developmental delays, Jodie had worked out a way to get herself out of that house. The frightening thought was that if she hadn’t done what she did, she might still be there, undergoing that vile degradation day after day.

In the days that followed, Jodie became increasingly distant. I renewed my efforts to draw her into the heart of our family, but she remained fiercely resistant, acting as if she needed no one and could manage alone. I’d seen this kind of behaviour before – self-sufficiency is not unusual in abused or neglected children, as they’ve often had to be resilient in order to survive – but Jodie took it to a new level. Any expression of care or concern from us was met with outright rejection, or sneered ridicule. She wanted no part of the daily support or interaction that made up family life, and erected barriers to emphasize her separateness. One afternoon, Paula and Lucy joined us for a shopping trip, but Jodie refused to walk with us, instead she walked six paces in front or behind, and barely spoke a word. The next day, I took Jodie to the cinema to see
Lilo
and stitch
, and she pointedly sat two seats apart from me. She only rejoined me when the lights went down, as she was scared of the dark. She’d never been to the cinema before and she didn’t show much excitement either before or afterwards. It was another sign of how dulled and desensitized she was. She basked in her loneliness, and I was completely at a loss to know how to break through.

My only hope was that Christmas would strengthen our relationship. After all, there’s nothing more family oriented than Christmas.

Chapter Nineteen

Special Little Girl

N
icola came to give Jodie her last lesson before Christmas, and the following day the girls’ school and Adrian’s college both broke up. Suddenly, the five of us were together all day. However, I use the term ‘together’ loosely, for although we were under the same roof, togetherness was avoided, and not only by Jodie. Adrian, Paula and Lucy spent most of their time in their rooms, and when they did come down they were met with a kick, a punch or a volley of ‘What you doing? Get out. It’s my house now’ and so on. Her attitude to the others had not softened much in her time with us. Illogically, the more attention I gave her, the more jealous she was of the others.

I explained to Jodie over and over again that we all lived together, as a family, but she wasn’t open to reason. Even so, although she didn’t want the family, it seemed that she did want me. Her possessiveness had been consolidated by the weeks when there had been just the two of us during the day, and I was starting to resent it. She demanded my constant attention, and I saw that she was doing what no other child had done before: undermining the fabric of our family. Normally, I would have dealt with this by trying to put some distance between us, but this was virtually impossible with Jodie, because of the high level of her needs.

Jodie’s hostility and aggression had a powerful effect on everyone in the house and created an unpleasant atmosphere. Even when she was up in her room, we could feel it in the house, like a malevolent presence. At dinner, on the occasions when we did all eat together, I would have to carry the conversation, as the children had become inhibited by Jodie’s endless snapping and kept quiet. We were even looking at each other less, because if any of us looked in Jodie’s direction this was liable to set her off. One glance could quickly lead to a tantrum, and no one wanted to be responsible, however indirectly, for ruining yet another meal.

We were also communicating with each other less, as the nature of Jodie’s abuse meant that we were limited to a very narrow range of conversation. We couldn’t, for instance, discuss Lucy’s new boyfriend, even though he was pretty much the only thing on her mind. In fact, men of all ages had become effectively taboo in our house; we were even wary of discussing pop stars on TV.

With the girls at home, I became acutely aware of the physical distance that Jodie had created between herself and the rest of the family. In the first few months after her arrival, Jodie had needed lots of hugs and comfort, but recently she had cut out almost all physical contact, even when she woke screaming in the night. I was always hugging and kissing the girls, and to a lesser degree Adrian, and this made it immediately apparent how isolated Jodie had become. I tried to remedy this, of course, but when I tried to hug her before she went up to bed, or asked her to sit next to me on the sofa, she would make a joke of being disgusted, and either shake her head or simply run away.

I was always upset when she did this, because it was clear that she was terribly sad and lonely, and I wanted nothing more than to show her the affection and love that my children took for granted. I’m no psychologist, but my guess was that the legacy of abuse had tarnished physical contact in her mind, and made it uncomfortable and frightening. It was an awful catch-22: Jodie needed affection more than anyone I’d ever known, but the means by which affection is communicated would only contribute to her anxiety.

Sally, the guardian ad litum, came to visit and asked to spend some time alone with Jodie. I left the two of them in the lounge, and took the opportunity to spend some time with Lucy and Paula, while Adrian was out with his friends. Jodie had been disruptive and aggressive all morning, and I found Paula sitting despondently on her bed. ‘I wish I was back at school,’ she admitted. ‘I’m dreading Christmas. She’ll ruin it.’

‘No she won’t. We won’t let her. And we may find it’s just what she needs to open her heart. I know it’s difficult, but she can’t keep this up for ever.’

‘Can’t she? She’s done a good job so far. I daren’t even bring my friends home because of how she is.’

I was taken aback. My usually sociable daughter was now too embarrassed to bring friends home. I went over and hugged her. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. How about you arrange a sleepover when she’s away on respite? Videos, midnight feast, the lot?’

She brightened a little. ‘OK, Mum. I’m sorry.’

‘No need to apologize. I understand.’

I went into Lucy’s room, but the second I mentioned Jodie’s name she turned on me.

‘It’s all we ever talk about. Jodie, bloody Jodie. I’m sick to death of her. I wish she’d never come. You won’t change her, Cathy, whatever you do. Surely you can see that by now? She’s evil. She’s needs a bloody priest, not a carer.’

I wondered if Sally had noticed the tension in the house, for as she was about to leave she paused in the hall and placed her hand on my arm. ‘Cathy, you’re doing a really good job, but make sure you and your family don’t suffer. These children can play havoc with your emotions. Remember, her damage isn’t your responsibility. You can only do so much.’

I found Sally’s words comforting. It was nice to hear someone say something positive and to recognize what was going on. I respected Sally – she managed to combine professionalism with an ability to empathize that made me feel she understood.

Later that afternoon, Eileen phoned. ‘Hello, Cathy,’ she said, in her flat, plodding way. ‘We’ve got a bit of a problem.’

‘Oh yes?’ I replied, unperturbed. I was used to social workers telling me ‘we’ had problems. It usually meant that something unpleasant was coming my way.

‘When we sent a copy of the doctor’s letter to Jodie’s parents, someone forgot to blank out your details, so I’m afraid they sent them your name and address.’ As usual, she didn’t sound very sorry at all. I was furious. I’d been worrying about the Ear, Nose and Throat department being indiscreet, but meanwhile the Social Services had been handing out my details. I thought back to the silent phone call I’d received when Nicola had been with us; could that have been Jodie’s parents?

‘I see,’ I said. ‘That’s really going to make Jodie feel safe! I can’t say I’m surprised, though. When did it happen?’

‘I’m not sure exactly. We only found out when Jodie’s mother phoned today, demanding contact. She threatened to come to your house if we didn’t arrange it. Obviously, we told her that was unacceptable, but I thought you should know.’

‘Thanks,’ I said tersely. ‘And what did she say? Is she still planning on coming round?’

‘I don’t think so. She only mentioned it once. But don’t worry, if she does come round we’ll apply for an injunction straight away.’

Yes, I thought, but an injunction’s only a piece of paper. I’d had angry parents turning up on my doorstep before, and I knew waving a scrap of paper at them wouldn’t have had much of an effect. If a child is on a Voluntary Care Order, or we’re working towards rehabilitating the child so that he or she can go back home and the parents are cooperating, then there’s no problem in them knowing where the child and I live. Indeed, sometimes contact takes place in my house. But that clearly wasn’t the case here, far from it. It was blindingly obvious that the highest level of care should have been taken to protect my details and that hadn’t happened.

Eileen was impervious to my frustration, and there wasn’t much I could do about the situation now. An injunction was as useful as locking the stable door after the horse had bolted.

‘Right,’ I said stiffly. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’ And ended the call.

I was angry, of course, but, as I’d said to Eileen, I wasn’t terribly surprised. While the care proceedings are in progress, there are a huge number of documents flying around, between the parents, solicitors, social workers, the guardian ad litum and others. The present system relies on someone in the office at Social Services remembering to blank out the confidential details from every document, so it’s inevitable that there will be mistakes. In my experience, about 50 per cent of parents are given my address at some point, which in my view is unacceptable.

As a result, when there is a breach of confidentiality, we as a family have to take special precautions. My children always look through the spyhole before answering the door, and if it’s someone they don’t recognize, they don’t open it; instead, they fetch me. Foster children don’t answer the door at all. On top of this, we have an expensive alarm system, a Chubb lock, and I always look up and down the road before leaving the house. After a while it becomes second nature, and we have all learned that we simply have to accept the risks. Thank goodness that, apart from some nasty verbal confrontations, none of us has been placed in real danger.

My patience with Eileen, however, was stretched to the limit a few days later. For reasons known only to themselves, Social Services decided to call a meeting to discuss Jodie’s mother’s threat to come round, and they wanted Jill and me to attend. We marvelled that they had the time, so close to Christmas. And what were we going to discuss in any case? No one could take back the information now that it had been released; taking out an injunction forbidding Jodie’s parents to come near my property would have been pointless; the only other option was to move Jodie to new carers, which was clearly in no one’s interests – especially not Jodie’s. And who would take her anyway, with her complex needs, and at such short notice?

The meeting went as I had expected. We discussed all the possible options, before deciding on the sensible course: namely, to do nothing. I was relieved to get out of there and was just shaking my head at the monumental waste of time we had all been through when Eileen caught up with me in the corridor.

‘Cathy, just before you go, can I give you this? It’s a Christmas present for Jodie. Her father asked me to pass it on to her.’

I stared at her, astonished, as she held out a well-used Tesco carrier bag.

‘I’m not sure it’s really appropriate, Eileen,’ I said, with forced diplomacy and reminding myself of my professionalism. ‘Contact has been suspended, and present-giving is usually classified as contact, particularly in a case like this. Jodie feels very hostile towards her parents at the moment, understandably.’

‘Oh, right,’ she replied, mulling this over. ‘Do you want me to give it back then?’ As she said this, she pulled the unwrapped present out of the bag, presumably to show me how harmless it was, and that I was being over-cautious. It was a bright pink, long-sleeved T-shirt, with ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’ printed on the front in big sparkly letters. Eileen looked at it, then held it up. ‘So you don’t think Jodie would like it?’ she said.

I was almost lost for words as I looked at her holding up a T-shirt that was just about the most bitterly ironic thing I’d ever seen.

‘Eileen,’ I said, slowly and deliberately, ‘Jodie has been sexually abused by her father, probably for most of her life. I don’t think a T-shirt calling her daddy’s little girl is very appropriate, do you? If I gave her this, Jodie would be terrified by the sight of it.’

The penny dropped. ‘Oh, yes. Right, I take your point. We’ll give it back then. Have a lovely Christmas!’

By the time I reached my car, I was still shaking my head in astonishment.