Cheap White Meat

by Alex Flynn

  I didn’t push her hard. But the rocks were now wet and she slipped. If I’d have shouted for help I think that Mum could have saved Lottie.

  But I didn’t.

  I had a chance to make sure that Mum never saw Lottie again. She already had a daughter; why would she want a replacement?

  Lottie tried to struggle to stay afloat but the river was too fast. We were only 8 so neither of us could swim. As I stood and watched Lottie’s head get sucked under the water, I started to panic when the water started to get into my shoes.

  That’s when I screamed. And Mum came straight away.

  Within seconds she’d dragged me to the riverbank. Her motherly instinct defying the danger to save the love of her life. As an afterthought, she remembered Lottie. Dumbstruck, I pointed to the river but by now Lottie was out of sight.

  Mum attempted to try to find her but soon had to give up when the river was getting up to her thighs. What happened next is all a bit of a blare. I know that the emergency services turned up. All four of them. Even a passing AA breakdown van stopped to have a gawk and film events on his mobile.

  Apparently, I suffered from shock so I don’t remember much about the next week or so. But by the time I was returning back to normal I had to move away for my own safety, first with Mum and then alone when she lost her trial.

  Mum only asked me once if I hurt Lottie on purpose. When I said that she slipped, I knew that she believed me. Even though I was under the age of criminal responsibility, Mum still didn’t want me to drag me into things any further than the ineptitude of the police and the callousness of the media had already allowed.

  Whilst the immediate after mouth of the events is a blur at best after the first people arrived on the scene, I certainly remember the chaos that exploded when Mum was first arrested and charged with murder. That afternoon I was introduced to the “social worker” and taken on my “adventure”. I also remember a couple of days later having to be sneaked out of school with a towel over my head because a crowd had gathered at the school gates. Grown adults who’d never heard of me the week previously, who didn’t know me or anyone else involved, threating revenge or baying for justice. Absolute fucking twats, the lot of them.

  I’ve since researched Lottie’s death on the internet. It was front page news on a regular basis for around nine months until Mum was convicted of manslaughter due to the neglect of a child in her care. What got me most about the media reaction was the change in perspective.

  Firstly, it was treated as a tragic accident. Then Lottie’s Dad gave an interview blaming Mum. Without that interview she’d never have had to go through what she did, but judging by the newspaper reports she was found guilty before she’d even had a chance to put her side of the story to the police.

  Initially, I only had to give one interview to the police. Until the court date got closer and I had to give my side of the story to numerous people. I’d turned 9 by then but I still didn’t understand fully what was going on. But I’d learnt to hate anyone who claimed that they were doing “what was best for me”.

  I can’t really remember much about the time when Mum was waiting for her trial to come up. But I do remember that she didn’t treat me any differently. Didn’t make me feel like it was my fault. Even though we were living around 50 miles from home for our own safety and was she was severely restricted with the amount of contact she could have with her friends.

  I still don’t know what was gained by having Mum sentenced to seven years in prison, virtually labelled a child murderer. But I know that she took the blame to try to protect me. I used to beat myself up by allowing myself to think about what my life would have been like if Mum had been acquitted. But I had to stop because I was fast getting lost in the care system.

  The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do was visit Mum in prison and pretend that I couldn’t tell that she was wearing a load of make-up because she’d been beaten up. There wasn’t one of us who decided to break off communication. It just naturally came to a stop. I suppose the longer she had to stay incarcerated the more she started to resent me. After all, prison is supposed to be a punishment.

  However, I don’t know if Mum does resent me. I don’t think she could cope with hearing stories of how I’d been sent to another foster home. Had to leave another school. Been put under observation by another psychiatrist.

  Maybe things would have been different if it had been made public that I was the one responsible for Lottie’s death. After all, I was the one who pushed her. I made no attempt to get her out of the water. I didn’t even call for help until I got scared that I might be in danger myself.

  People have tried asking me about what happened with Lottie. But they’ve always stuck by the official version of events that are on police record. They’ve never tried to get me to explore the possibility that foul play took place.

  I think my life definitely would have been different if it had have been made public that I was responsible for Lottie’s death. Because it was first presented as a tragic accident, my name and picture had already been published in the media. I know I wouldn’t have been charged with a crime because of my age, but maybe Mum would have been given a much lesser sentence and we could have both been given a new identity and started a new life somewhere.

  That’s what they’ve done for other child murderers who committed much worse crimes than I have. That’s the version of events that I used to beat myself up about. That I could have been known in the media as Jennifer Mary Costello – child murderer, but been allowed to choose my new name and start a new life.

  Instead, I’m just Jennifer Mary Costello – incarcerated nutcase, former child prostitute and a total blight on society.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  I haven’t told Sandra anything about what happened with Lottie. She’s patiently waiting for me to regain my composure and tells me to take my time, but I automatically do the opposite and this sets me back about ten minutes.

  I’m never normally like this. I actually feel like I’m going to crack and everything is going to fall apart. I’ll be sectioned for my own safety. Not allowed out on my own. Not allowed to see Jack. Not allowed to find out if Mum’s been given parole and is allowed to start rebuilding what’s left of her life.

  ‘A lot of people underestimate you, don’t they?’

  I don’t understand what Sandra’s saying but she continues:

  ‘They assume that you don’t know much because you haven’t been to school a lot. But you’re actually very clever. You’re very good at reading people and manipulating them to your own advantage.’

  I take offence to the word “manipulate” but Sandra stands by it.

  ‘What you’ve done is wrong. You’ve caused a lot of stress for people and probably made some of them very ill. But then rather than think about punishing you; people should look at why you’ve had to behave like that.’

  “You’ve had to,” Sandra said. As if it’s the only option I’ve had. Not some sadistic choice a lot of people like to assume it is. She’s still looking at me with that steady gaze of hers. Not giving anything away. Not letting me know whether she’s actually on my side or if she’s getting some kind of kick out of this and wants to extract a confession out of me that will ruin the rest of my life.

  So I stick to the plan that got me in the position I’m in today. I say nothing. That way Sandra can only assume that what’s she’s saying is right and that she’s got the magic answer to sort my life out.

  ‘I used to be a foster carer myself. I started with all the right intentions but kept getting it wrong. I let myself think that some of the children I looked after didn’t want my help. But the truth is that I didn’t know how to help them properly. I was looking after them how I’d been told to. Been trained to. How the books said. But books don’t take into account that every child you look after is an individual. Every child has been through something different.’

>   I look up at Sandra and notice that she’s not actually looking at me but staring blankly at the wall. It’s like I’m a psychiatrist and she’s my patient, only able to talk to me without making any eye contact.

  ‘Some are only going to be in care for a couple of days. Some are going to be in care for the rest of their childhood. But of course, when a child is first presented to you then you’ve got no idea how long they’re going to be staying. It’s a hard job. You can go in there with the best of intentions but unless you get that first impression 100% right then you’re going to make it almost impossible for yourself.’

  I remember those first impressions. Normally it would be the eager middle-aged woman looking so pleased to see me while her husband kept a low profile in the background. Everything was for show. Nothing real. With the foster parents caring more about how they were coming across to Social Services rather than me.

  I was glad when I grew taller than most women so that they didn’t crouch down, like that Jo Frost Supernanny woman does, to try and talk to me on “my level”. That might work on a four year-old but it certainly doesn’t work on ten year-old with no soul. Of course when Social Services had finished their cup of tea and left me alone with my new “family” then their real personality would come out.

  Some were the older couples whose children had left home and they felt like they didn’t have that purpose in life which can only be gained from taking their kids to school every day. Others were perennial losers who were looking for an easy way to make some money and resented having to spend a single penny on me.

  I’m not really sure which type Sandra is. At first I’d have definitely said that she had more things empty than just her nest. But if that was all she was looking for then she’d just have to sit tight and the right child would eventually come along.

  I feel like I’m constantly fighting a battle with myself when it comes to how I feel towards Sandra. Part of me is desperate to throw my arms around her and beg her to make everything okay in my life, but I still don’t know if I can trust her. I’ve only known her a couple of days and I don’t know her real reason for wanting to work with me. If I’m just the child that she’s been allocated then she’s going to get nowhere with me. I’m more complex than that. I need someone who actually wants to help me. Me, the person who they’ve let me become over the years.

  Someone like Jack. Someone who knew what Adam and his “friends” were getting up to but also knew that there was no point going on some “far-right” protest and getting a reputation as a “little racist thug”. Because Jack made such an effort to seek me out and get to know me then he got the results he wanted.

  That’s the way Sandra’s got to play it. She’s got to tell me about what’s so special about me that she wants to devote her time into turning my life around. When she can’t answer my question I ask her:

  ‘Is this just a job to you?’

  ‘Of course not. Believe me, if it was just a job then I’d have given up many moons ago and found something far easier.’

  I like that answer but I can’t help but tell her to go easy on the clichés. Sandra seems scared that she’s about to undue all her good work from today if she says the wrong thing. But it’s been a long day. For both of us. And judging from today’s events there’s going to be plenty more to come. I give Sandra a potential escape route and say that I need some sleep. Reluctantly, she stands up from my bed and says that it’s probably best that I do get some rest.

  Sandra looks like she doesn’t know what to do as she fiddles around with her I.D. pass. She says that she’ll see me tomorrow and that she’s enjoyed working with me so far. I think I surprise her when I stand up, hug her and say:

  ‘Thanks.’

  Chapter Thirty Three

  I finally get the chance to read Jack’s text from before. I’ve no idea how long Sandra was in my room for but Jack hasn’t got impatient and texted me again. Text me when it’s good to talk. x

  For some reason Jack uses the correct punctuation in his texts. I think it’s because he’s showing off because he knows the correct way to use an apostrophe, but I haven’t got a clue. I’ve had better things to teach myself down the years. I think about texting him back but I’m also pretty tired so I don’t really want to get stuck in some all-night texting session. Plus, I’m probably going to need some more credit soon.

  Now that Sandra knows that I’ve got a mobile again I can use it as an excuse to go out to the shop. I’m pretty sure though that they’ll want to search through my it so I delete all the evidence. I still wouldn’t put it past Dan’s subordinate to try and put some child grooming charge on Jack. She really is that vindictive. I looked it up the other day and found out that vindictive means someone who is malicious and seeking revenge. See, if I say that I’m going to do something then I do it.

  That reminds me, I still owe Jack two merks. He might have forgotten about the way he belittled me when he first met me, but I haven’t. I think I’ll get him back in front of Lucy. Makes some suggestion over the size of his cock and that he doesn’t know what to do with it. He won’t like that: being laughed at by two girls. Plus, it will also make him feel like he’s got something to prove to me.

  I want to go to sleep but I’m feeling hungry at the same time. However, the thought of eating some pasta from a paper bowl with a plastic spoon makes the hunger pangs seem like the better option. I definitely need to move out of here sometime soon. Get some normality back in my life. There’s no way I’m spending the rest of my life using paper plates and plastic cutlery because the people who I have to live with are a potential danger to themselves and the staff who attempt to look after them.

  But everything like that seems a long way off. It seems that I have other priorities to deal with first. Dan wants something now so he’s not going to let me have any peace until he’s extracted every single scrap of evidence from me. And if he’s successful and gets nine custodial sentences for Adam and his “friends” then no doubt he’ll get a promotion. That’s how the police operate.

  Sandra’s performance with Dan and his subordinate keeps playing on a loop inside my head. If I’d have met someone like Sandra years ago then I’d never have ended up in the situation I’m in now. I’m not saying that there wouldn’t be any child grooming case to be investigated because that’s an entirely separate matter. No doubt it’s been going on for years and will continue to do so until the police and Social Services finally stop baying down to political correctness and do something about it.

  If I’d have been fostered by someone like Sandra then I wouldn’t have felt the need to sit in a sleazy takeaway all day. I wouldn’t have been a sitting target for Adam and his “friends”. Or even if I had have been a target then at least I’d have had someone to confide in with Sandra. Someone who would believe what I was telling then and would want to do something about it. But no, I’ve been left with the type of people who always put themselves first and think how something is going to affect them; rather than the effect that it’s having on me.

  It’s quite normal for me to spend the time before I fall asleep going through all the things that I’m resentful for in my life. I also make plans that I can try to make things better for me in the future. But then sometimes the things that are most useful to me just appear out of nowhere.

  I had no idea that Jack would one day just appear out of nowhere. And I’ve been presented with enough useless Key Workers to form my own rugby union team. So that probably goes some way to explaining as to why I tend to dismiss people in the blink of an eye without really giving them a chance. Although ninety nine times out of a hundred my first impression is normally right.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Sandra wakes me up by letting herself into my room. Initially I don’t know what time it is; whether I’ve only been asleep for a couple of minutes or if it’s now morning. But when I’m able to focus properly on Sandra I can tell that s
he’s wearing different clothes so, unless one of The Others has chucked their tea all over her, it must indeed be Friday morning.

  I get asked what I want for breakfast and make Sandra laugh when I say, ‘A proper plate and proper cutlery.’ She doesn’t attempt to make some lame joke about how that wouldn’t be very healthy and tells me that she’ll see what she can do.

  By the time I’ve come out of the shower there’s a bowl of cornflakes waiting for me in a cheap looking ceramic bowl and a metal spoon with a hideous green handle. It seems that the carers aren’t exactly blessed when it comes to be catered for either.

  ‘Most of the staff bring their own stuff from home. It was either this or one of Tracey’s plates and I didn’t think you’d appreciate that.’

  “Tracey” is Sargent-Do-As-I-Say, by the way. And I’d rather starve than eat food that could be in any way contaminated by her.

  ‘I need some credit for my mobile,’ I say, in between mouthfuls.

  ‘Do you want me to pick you some up?’

  I shake my head but Sandra says that Dan and his subordinate will be here soon. This really is ridiculous. I feel like I’m under house arrest. I’m not even allowed to go to the local shop for half an hour. It feels like I’ve not thrown a petulant little strop for ages so I decide to make the most of it. Eventually Sandra relents and says that she’ll phone Dan to let him know that it’s better if I get some more rest this morning. I don’t say “thank you” but I nod my head at Sandra to let her know that she’s made the right decision.

  It’s raining outside. I wasn’t expecting that. But I’ve still got to go outside otherwise they’ll use the weather as an excuse to try and control me in the future. I keep looking over my shoulder, like I’m expecting to be followed, but everything is quiet. Too quiet.

  By the time I’ve made it to the supermarket I’ve found out where everyone is; the queue for the kiosk is almost a mile long. Something about there being a special lottery draw on tonight. I consider buying a ticket myself but then I remember my situation. And, probably more significantly, the fact that I’m still 15.