Damaged (5 page)

The front door opened and Adrian came in, still muddy from playing rugby. He was over six feet tall, and stooped as he entered the kitchen. I hoped Jodie wouldn’t find him intimidating, but reassured myself that he had a gentle manner, and children usually warmed to him.

‘Adrian, this is Jodie,’ I said.

‘Hi Jodie,’ he smiled, taking his plate from the oven and sitting opposite her. She transferred her glare from Lucy to him, and then wriggled down in her chair, and started kicking him under the table.

‘Jodie. Stop that,’ I said firmly. ‘No kicking or elbowing. It’s not nice.’

She scowled at me, then finally picked up her knife and fork and started eating. I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She could barely grip the knife and fork, and her movements were so uncoordinated that her mouth had to be inches from the plate to have any chance of getting the food in.

‘Would you like a spoon?’ I asked after a while. ‘If I cut it up first, it might be easier.’

‘My gloves,’ she said. ‘It’s hot.’ Then, for no apparent reason, she jumped up, ran round the table three times, then plonked herself down, and started eating with her fingers. I motioned to the rest of the family to say nothing, and the meal passed in an unnatural, tense silence.

I was relieved when dinner was over, and I suggested to Jodie that she might like to help me load the dishwasher. As she came into the kitchen, she spotted Toscha sitting contentedly by the boiler.

‘Why’s it looking at me?’ she demanded, as though the cat had some malicious intent.

‘She’s not looking at you, sweet. Cats often sit and stare into space. She’s found the warmest spot.’

Jodie lurched towards the cat with large, aggressive strides, and I sensed another kick was about to be delivered. I quickly intercepted her. ‘Come on, Toscha’s old, we’ll leave her there to sleep.’

I decided the dishwasher could wait until Jodie was in bed, and took her into the lounge. I tried to amuse her with more games and puzzles, while Adrian, Lucy and Paula did their homework upstairs. By seven, I was exhausted. She needed one-to-one attention to keep her involved in anything, and the meaningless chatter that never stopped was starting to get on my nerves.

‘Let’s go up and finish your unpacking before bedtime,’ I suggested.

She stood up. ‘I want the park.’

‘Not today, it’s too late. But we’ll go tomorrow if it’s nice.’

She turned her back and started talking to David, another imaginary friend. I caught the odd words – ‘you see … in there! …’ – but nothing that related to the park or the games we’d played, and I consoled myself that her imaginary world would fade in time as she started to feel safe with us. It took a mixture of coercion and repetition to persuade her upstairs, where we unpacked another bag, then changed and washed her ready for a story at eight. She found a book she’d brought with her:
The Three Little
Pigs
. I read it to her twice, then coaxed her into bed and said goodnight. As I left, I went to turn off the light.

‘No!’ she screamed in panic. ‘Not dark. I’m scared of the dark. You stop it!’

‘All right, sweet. Don’t worry.’ I turned it on again, then dimmed it to low, but she still wasn’t happy. She would only stay in bed if it was left on full.

‘Would you like your door open or closed?’ I asked, as I ask all the children on their first night. How they sleep is very important in helping them to feel secure and settled.

‘Closed,’ she said. ‘Shut tight.’

I said goodnight again, blew her a kiss, then closed the door and came out. I paused on the landing and listened. The floorboards creaked as she got out of bed, and checked the door was firmly secured, before returning to bed.

At nine Adrian, Paula and Lucy came down to make a snack, and we sat together in the lounge. I had the television on, but I wasn’t watching it. I was mulling over the day’s events.

‘Well, what do you think?’ I asked, smiling at Lucy as she handed me a cup of tea.

‘She’s weird,’ said Lucy, sitting down next to me.

‘I don’t like her,’ said Paula, then looked at me sheepishly, expecting to be told off.

‘And what about you, Adrian? What’s your first impression?’

‘She reminds me of that doll Chucky in the horror film. You know, the one that’s possessed by the devil.’

‘Adrian!’ I admonished, but I felt a cold shudder of recognition. With her broad forehead, staring blue-grey eyes, lack of empathy, and her detachment from the real world, she could easily have been possessed. I caught myself; whatever was I thinking? She was just a child who had been through some miserable times and needed our help – there was nothing more sinister to it than that. I had taken this challenge on and now I owed it to Jodie to see it through for as long as she needed me. Part of her problems no doubt stemmed from people falling at the first hurdle when it came to dealing with her, and passing her on for someone else to deal with. I couldn’t do that to her again.

I tried to look relaxed. ‘I’m sure she’ll improve with time.’

Chapter Five

Self-Harm

P
erhaps I was haunted by the lingering image of the possessed doll, for suddenly I was awake, with my eyes open and my senses alert. I turned and looked at the alarm clock: it was nearly 2.15 a.m. I listened. The house was silent. Yet something told me all was not well; a sixth sense from years of looking after children.

I eased my feet from the duvet and felt for my slippers. The house was cold, as the central heating had switched off for the night. I fumbled to get my arms into my dressing gown, tied it loosely, and opened the bedroom door. Suddenly, I gasped in shock. Jodie was standing outside the door, her face covered in blood.

‘What is it? What have you done?’ I frantically searched her face and neck for the source of the blood. ‘Where are you hurt? Tell me! Come on, quickly!’ I couldn’t find anything, but the blood was fresh.

In a trance-like state, she slowly raised her hands and showed me her palms. They were smeared with blood, but I still couldn’t find any sign of a cut. I pulled up her pyjama sleeves, and then I saw it. She had a cut on her left forearm, about an inch long, which was lightly seeping blood. I steered her into the bathroom, and took her to the sink. I turned on the tap and ran the cut under cold water. She didn’t even flinch and I wondered if she might be sleepwalking.

‘Jodie?’ I said loudly. ‘Jodie! Can you hear me?’

She grinned at her reflection in the mirror, and I knew that she was awake.

‘What happened? How did you do this?’

She met my gaze in the mirror, but said nothing.

I washed the wound thoroughly and examined it. It wasn’t deep, and wouldn’t need stitches, so there shouldn’t have been nearly this much blood. It seemed that she had smeared the blood deliberately, for maximum effect. But how? And why? No one had mentioned anything about Jodie self-harming, but I doubted this was the first time she’d done it. I looked closer, and saw there were other fine, pink scar lines running up both arms. How recent they were was difficult to tell.

‘Stay here, Jodie,’ I said. ‘I’m going downstairs to fetch a bandage.’

She grinned again. That strange, mirthless smile seemed to hold meanings I couldn’t fathom, and it gave me the shivers. I covered her arm with a clean towel, then went down into the kitchen, where I opened the first-aid box and took out a large plaster. My mind was reeling. She wasn’t even distressed, which made it all the more worrying. Just as before, with her soiling herself, there was that cool calmness and detachment that was so strange in such a young child. It was as though she didn’t feel the pain, or perhaps wasn’t even aware of what she’d done. She couldn’t have cried out when she’d cut herself, as I would have heard her – years of fostering had made me a light sleeper. I suddenly had an awful image of Jodie sitting silently in her room, squeezing the cut, then wiping the blood on her face.

Upstairs again, I found her looking in the mirror, grimacing, but not from pain. She appeared to be trying to make herself as ugly as possible, screwing up her face, and baring her teeth in a lopsided grin. I peeled the backing from the plaster, sealed the cut, then wet the flannel and wiped her face and neck clean. I washed my hands in hot soapy water, remembering too late that I was supposed to wear gloves when dealing with wounds, to prevent cross-infection. In the panic of the emergency, I’d forgotten.

When she was clean and dry again, I felt a sense of normality returning. ‘All right, Jodie,’ I said encouragingly. ‘Let’s get you back into bed.’ She still didn’t speak.

I led her round the landing as Lucy appeared at her door. ‘You OK, Cathy?’ she asked, her eyes only half-open.

‘Yes, don’t worry. I’ll explain tomorrow.’

She nodded and shuffled back to bed.

In Jodie’s room I found her duvet in a heap on the floor. There was no blood on it, but on top was a small fruit knife I’d never seen before. I picked it up. ‘Where did you get this?’ I tried to keep the accusation out of my voice.

She finally spoke. ‘Hilary and Dave’s.’ Her previous carers.

‘Do they know you’ve taken it?’

She shook her head mischievously, as though being caught out in a game. I could hardly tell her off. I was more annoyed with the carers for giving her access to it, but I did understand. I had learned only from experience that leaving a child for fifteen seconds in the vicinity of the kitchen could produce untold dangers. I’d once fostered a teenager who had self-harmed, but I’d never known a child of Jodie’s age doing it. If a child has been physically abused at home, they can have very little respect for their bodies and are often careless about hurting themselves. Deliberate self-harm is relatively rare and is usually the preserve of teenagers. I’d never heard of an eight-year-old purposefully slashing herself with a knife. It was very worrying.

‘Have you taken anything else?’ I asked gently.

She shook her head, but I checked the room anyway, then remade the bed.

‘Come on, in you get. We’ll talk about this in the morning.’

She shook her head angrily. ‘Park,’ she demanded. ‘I want to go to the park. You said.’

‘It’s the middle of the night, Jodie. We’ll go tomorrow. No one goes to the park when it’s dark. All the gates are locked.’

‘Open them!’

‘I can’t. I haven’t got the keys.’ I realized the absurdity of this conversation. ‘Jodie, get into bed and go to sleep before you wake the whole house.’

‘No. Don’t want to.’ She made towards the door.

I caught her lightly round the waist and gently drew her to me. ‘Come on, good girl, into bed and I’ll tell you a story. We’ll go to the park in the morning. When it’s light.’

She struggled for a moment, then flopped against me. I eased her into bed, and drew the duvet up to her chin. I looked at her little head on the pillow, blonde hair falling over her face. I perched on the bed and stroked her forehead until her features relaxed. ‘Jodie, you must be hurting very badly inside to cut yourself. Is there anything you want to tell me?’

But her eyes were already heavy with sleep. ‘Story,’ she mumbled. ‘Free ’ickle pigs.’

‘All right.’ I continued to stroke her forehead, and began the story which I knew by heart. Her eyes closed and her breathing deepened. I kissed her cheek, then quietly came out and closed the door.

At five o’clock I was woken by a loud crash. I threw on my slippers and dressing gown, and staggered to her door, disoriented from lack of sleep. I gave a quick knock and entered. ‘Jodie! Whatever are you doing?’

She was up and dressed, with a football in her hand, and the contents of the shelves strewn across the floor.

‘Put that away,’ I said crossly. ‘You don’t play ball in here.’

‘I do.’ She clutched it protectively to her chest.

I went to take the ball from her, but she gripped it tighter. I was annoyed with myself, as I should have known it would only make her more defensive. I changed tack. ‘OK, Jodie. You put it down and get back into bed. If you can’t go to sleep, sit quietly and look at a book. I’ll tell you when it’s time to get up.’

I didn’t wait for a reply, but came out and closed the door. Without a full-scale confrontation, I hoped she might do as I’d asked. I waited and listened. The room fell silent, so I returned to bed, and propped myself on the pillows. Five minutes passed, then I heard her door open, and then another. I ran along the landing in my nightdress and saw Adrian’s door open. I rushed in and found her trying to climb into bed with him.

‘Jodie! Come away,’ I cried. ‘Not in there.’

I eased her off. She was a big girl, and a dead weight without cooperation. Adrian groaned and turned over. I put my hands under her arms, and manhandled her out on to the landing. She plonked herself down on the floor, folded her arms, and set her face into a scowl. I took a deep breath, and knelt down beside her.

‘Jodie, you can’t stay here, pet. Come into your bedroom and we’ll put the television on. Everyone else is asleep.’

She thought about this for a moment, then threw herself on to all fours and started crawling towards her room, her hands and feet thumping on the floorboards. I followed her in, relieved that I’d had even this much cooperation. She sat on her bedroom floor, cross-legged, staring expectantly at the blank screen. I switched the TV on, and flicked through the channels. It was too early even for children’s programmes, but the football seemed to capture her interest.

‘Keep the volume down,’ I whispered, ‘then you won’t wake the others.’

I wrapped the duvet around her shoulders, then returned to my room for my dressing gown and slippers. I went downstairs and turned the central heating on. It wasn’t worth going back to bed. I wouldn’t be able to sleep now – my thoughts were going nineteen to the dozen and my head was buzzing with everything that had happened.

I made a cup of coffee, and took it into the lounge. Jodie’s room was directly above, and all was quiet. I sat on the sofa, resting my head back, and took a sip. Suddenly, the calm was shattered by a man’s voice, booming loud with distortion. I gasped – the racket was bound to wake the whole house. I rushed upstairs to her room, and instinctively turned off the TV.

‘It’s mine,’ she shrieked, and lunged at me with her hands raised into claws. ‘I want it. Get out! Get out of my fucking bedroom!’

I took her by the shoulders, and held her at arm’s length. ‘Jodie, calm down and listen to me. I told you to keep the volume low. Everyone is asleep and you’ll wake them up with this noise. When you’re calmer, we’ll put it on again. Do you understand?’

She made eye contact. ‘I want the TV.’

‘I know, but shouting and swearing won’t get it.’

I was too tired to give her a lengthy lecture. ‘Now sit down and I’ll switch it on, but keep the volume low.’

She resumed her cross-legged position on the floor, and I turned the TV on. I tucked the remote into my pocket, and returned to the lounge. I sat and yawned, as the sun rose on a crisp spring morning. Our first night together was over.