Little Prisoners (25 page)

John and I, like-minded, exchanged a surreptitious glance. Boy, we knew more than
anyone
how that felt.

‘Oh, dear,’ John said, ‘that sounds a bit ominous. Do we need to sit and brace ourselves, ready?’

Anna smiled, though without humour, and pulled out a thick manila envelope. ‘Twenty years worth of info is what I have here,’ she told us. ‘After the court case and the allegations from both the aunt and from Ashton, there’s been something not dissimilar to an archaeological dig. And our searches,’ she went on, ‘have led us down all sorts of avenues, deep within the family, the extended family, and even family friends. And it seems social services have had long dealings with a great number of them, going back, as I say, twenty years.’

‘To when the kid’s mum – Karen, isn’t it? – was tiny, then,’ said John.

Anna nodded. ‘And Karen is key here. There were all sorts of accusations, allegations and investigations, the last of which was when Karen – and this was before she first fell pregnant – confided to a friend when she was 14 that she’d been having sex with her father for a number of years. Her younger sisters too, allegedly.’

‘Doesn’t surprise me in the least,’ I said. ‘But, God, it brings you up short to hear this, doesn’t it? That this has been going on, right under social services’ nose, for generations.’

‘Allegedly,’ Anna corrected.

‘Not in my mind!’ I answered.

‘But that’s the truth of it, and what’s on record makes it clear why. It was Karen herself. As you know, she has quite severe learning difficulties, and was always thought of as slow by the local community. And she was also well known for making stuff up, to get attention, and would apparently often come up with fantastical tales. But for some reason, this particular girl’s mother believed her. And her father was arrested. But released without charge.’

‘What?’ John and I both squawked, in unison. ‘How did that happen?’ John went on. ‘Did she withdraw her statement?’

‘Anna nodded. ‘She returned to the station with her mother – Granddad’s then wife – who it seems, made a pretty convincing show of explaining that her little girl really wasn’t right in the head, and had said what she’d said only to cover up the fact that she’d actually been having sex with her boyfriend; having let slip that she was having sex,
she panicked, apparently, and said it was her dad to protect the boy.’

‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘How the other half live, eh? But that’s crap! How could anyone fall for such garbage? It’s an allegation of incest, for God’s sake!’

‘They didn’t believe that, surely?’ John added.

‘Seems they did,’ Anna answered. ‘Wouldn’t today, I don’t doubt. But back then … you have to remember how taboo all this stuff was.’

‘And domestic,’ agreed John. ‘Which made one hell of a difference. Much more likely to be swept under the carpet than these days. You know – allegation withdrawn, least said, soonest mended, what goes on behind closed doors, in the family, and all that.’

‘So it’s all pretty pointless information, is what you’re saying?’ I couldn’t help but feel despondent. These people lived among us. Had always lived among us. Completely untroubled, or so it seemed, by any outside ‘interference’. As untroubled as they were about morality.

‘No, not pointless,’ Anna said. ‘Because this is the 21st century. And all my digging and delving has actually borne fruit.’

I smiled to myself at her choice of metaphors. Fruit of the kind you had to scramble underground for. It seemed apt.

‘In what way?’ John asked.

‘In that it’s brought to light the vast extent of it. A bit of joined-up thinking, this stuff being pulled together … well, in conjunction with the court ruling and, of course, Casey
and Mike’s evidence, what we have is a clear picture of the whole extended family – and beyond it – systematically abusing over decades. The whole thing, every bit of it, is now with the powers that be in social services – the head honchos – the plan being that, once it’s all been properly collated, it will all be handed over to the police.’ She turned to me, her expression one of grim determination. ‘Don’t you worry, Casey. However long it takes – and it might be a while yet – “Gwandad” will have his day in court.’

‘Makes my skin crawl,’ Mike said, over a late mug of coffee that evening. ‘To think how long this has been happening, how many children have been molested. And not a thing has been done about it. It’s unbelievable.’

‘And it all fits. All those strange adult things Olivia comes out with. God’s wrath, walls have ears and that … God, you can almost hear the bastard saying it.’

‘Not surprised. He’s had enough time to perfect his technique!’

‘Those poor children,’ I said. ‘Prisoners, that’s what they’ve been. Prisoners in the one place little children should be safe. But at least it’s over now, and it shed a new light on Karen for me. To think that when she was little – Olivia’s age, probably – she was already being regularly raped by her own father. No wonder the poor girl couldn’t cut it as a parent! What does something like that
do
to a person’s head, do you think?’

We were never going to know that, of course. Could only speculate, grimly. But at least for the kids there was
help on the horizon as, a few days later, the promised visit from the psychiatrist took place. And he was well informed. He was the same doctor who’d prepared the court evaluations, both of the children and the parents; in the latter case, competency testing in order that the court would be able to make a judgment about the couple’s ability to parent their children.

It was a long, drawn-out process; Ashton was with him for an hour, Olivia for even longer. By the time she skipped out of the lounge, telling me ‘Casey, it’s your turn! The doctor wants you!’, Mike and I had already eaten our tea. ‘He’s very funny,’ she confided. ‘He plays games wif you an’ evryfink!’

I agreed it would be fun, and took my ‘turn’.

His chat to me was as short as the assessments had been long because he couldn’t, he explained, tell me anything concrete till he’d studied the results in greater depth. He did corroborate what we knew about the extent of Olivia’s learning difficulties, though, on a positive note, remarked that she was fundamentally quite bright.

‘So with the right support, the right environment,’ he said, ‘there’s potential for great improvement. It’s Ashton’s results, however that most intrigue me. As you know, I have analysed his mother at some length, and Ashton’s profile, in terms of the nature of his various problems, is almost identical in every way.’

‘Well, she is his mother,’ I commented.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘This sort of result is almost always only found in siblings. If I’d seen this blind,’ he said,
speaking even more accurately than he realised, ‘I’d think the two of them
were
brother and sister!’

I thought then of that poor, damaged little boy, and his heritage. And what
that
did to a person’s head, God only knew.

Chapter 21

It wasn’t that I wanted to label the children – God knew, I’d seen how being flagged up as having problems could chip away at a vulnerable child’s self-esteem. But I felt a weight had lifted from me after the psychiatrist had seen Ashton and Olivia. It not only represented the first step to getting them psychological support; it also meant I’d get more insight into their poor troubled minds. It didn’t even matter that they might leave us in a matter of weeks. It was just comforting to know that they would get the right help, at last, from the right people.

Our ‘normal’ wasn’t like most kinds of ‘normal’ these days, but as much as it could be called that, that’s exactly what it felt like in the weeks following the psychiatrist’s visit. There were still the day-to-day challenges surrounding toileting and sexual impropriety, but they went off to school each day in mostly sunny spirits, and returned having not – well, as far as I knew, anyway – caused any problems while there.

Indeed, the tone of life settled into such a relaxed and calm pattern that I would catch myself sometimes having to recall the reality that these two were deeply traumatised, badly abused kids, ripped from the only home and loved ones they’d ever known and whose future was not yet at all certain.

But there were two other children in my life who, in the middle of so much upset, I had not had nearly enough time for.

‘You’ll regret saying that,’ observed Riley, on the Saturday before Easter, when I commented how much I’d been missing them. It was gloriously springlike, we’d had no frost in days, and with the sun beckoning, it was almost as if the daffodils beneath my blossom tree were nodding their cheerful heads in agreement. I’d brewed coffee and followed her outside into the garden.

‘Not in a million years,’ I replied, scooping my newest grandson up for a much needed cuddle. Well, much needed for me. His grizzling soon made it apparent that what
he
most needed was not to be fussed over by nanna, but left alone, in his pram, for a nap.

Riley parked the pram and took her coffee, then shook her head. ‘Yes, you will, Mum. I’m finally learning first hand, believe me, why the terrible twos are called exactly that. He runs me ragged most days, little scamp. And I’m soooo tired.’

‘Then it’s my turn,’ I said. ‘Or, by the look of it, Bob’s!’ Our poor mutt. He’d been out on the lawn, having a post-breakfast doze on the patio, but was now the one who was
being run ragged, by a distinctly over-excited Levi, who was chasing the poor thing all round the garden.

‘Hey, little man, just calm down!’ Riley called, to no effect. ‘I’m trying to get your little brother off to sleep!’

‘Why don’t you wheel him inside, love?’ I suggested, popping him back in his pram again. ‘Wheel him into the dining room. It’s nice and quiet in there. He’ll soon drop off.’

Poor Riley, I thought, remembering when Kieron was tiny and how she seemed to have the energy of half a dozen kids. So different from when you have your first child, I thought, when you could just grab a chunk of sleep when the baby did. Not so with a two-year-old, for sure!

‘So where’s Ashton?’ Riley asked once she’d come back out into the garden – or rather the conservatory, as she still wanted to be able to keep an ear out.

‘Gone to football with Dad,’ I said. ‘To watch Kieron play. Learning young, you see, that the secret of a happy
male
Saturday is to get out of the house before any babies arrive! So we’re all girls together, today –’ I put my head round the kitchen door now. ‘Eh, Olivia? Looking after the little ones.’

Olivia, who was sitting at the table, colouring, looked up and nodded. Then went back to her endeavours, which she’d been absorbed in for ages. It was one of those books with lots of really intricate abstract patterns inside, which required many felt pens and a lot of concentration. And for all her problems, Olivia
was
bright, and also turning out to
be quite the perfectionist. If she went over the lines even once she could get in a complete state, and the picture would be ‘ruined’ and often the afternoon with it.

So engrossed had she been, in fact, that it never occurred to me that she’d leave the table. It wasn’t until Jackson cried out, half an hour or so later, that I realised she was no longer there. Riley and I had been engrossed too, of course, sitting chatting about babies and routines and the exasperating ways of men generally, and we’d both presumed Jackson was asleep.

Even now I didn’t connect the two things. Riley looked at her watch and groaned, then got up to go and see to him. ‘Obviously not
that
sleepy,’ she commented ruefully.

I got up and followed her. Somewhat deprived of my little grandson lately, I was more than happy to take over the rocking and pacing duties that were such a big, tiring part of having a young baby in your life.

It was only the fact that, when we got there, the door to the dining room was shut that made me wonder where Olivia might be. Riley had left it ajar. I remembered her saying so. So that she could hear from the conservatory if he stirred.

Even without my quite knowing why, my heart lurched. And then my brain caught up, flashing up an image that still upset me, of Olivia and how she had to give her dollies their ‘internals’. And even as the horrible thought entered my conscious mind, the door was opened by Riley, and there she was before us, crouched in front of Jackson’s pram, both of her hands inside his nappy.

She jumped up, red-faced and clearly startled. ‘I ain’t done nuffing!’ she shouted. ‘I swear it, Casey, honest! I was just havin’ a check to see if he was wet!’

Riley let out a sound that was almost a howl, then leapt forward and grabbed Jackson from his pram. ‘Not again!’ she barked. ‘Christ!’ She pulled the baby to her chest, while Olivia just stood there, hands on hips, looking strangely defiant. ‘I ain’t done nuffing!’ she insisted, glaring at Riley.

I felt my heart lurch. I knew all too well what Riley meant. A year back, when accidently scrammed at by an 18-month-old Levi, our last foster child, Sophia, had slapped him, very hard, across the leg. It had been horrible to witness and had upset me for weeks. I kept thinking that I should have seen it coming. Been more observant, because we knew by then just what a sick child she was. Mentally unstable and prone to dramatic bouts of temper, she had lashed out at him before our very eyes.

And now this. And once again I felt mortified. Mortified that my own grandson wasn’t safe in my own home. ‘Go to your room please, Olivia,’ I said evenly and slowly. ‘And stay there till I come up to you, okay?’

This seemed to galvanise her. Edging warily past Riley, as if she might get a cuff around the ear, she did as I’d told her, hurrying up the stairs as quick as her little legs would take her, leaving Riley and I alone with Jackson.

Thankfully, he seemed happy enough, gurgling merrily to himself when Riley laid him down on the sofa, so it
seemed there was no apparent damage. But for all that I didn’t doubt Olivia had no intention of hurting him, we were still shocked, neither of us knowing what to say or do.