by Suzy K Quinn
Finally, it seems to be sinking in for my mother. Something serious is happening with her grandson.
‘They’re as confused as I am.’
‘Well, I would suggest a nice cup of tea. But you don’t have any teabags.’
My mind skips around the kitchen, dancing over dirty cups, into the empty cupboards. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I came by an hour ago. The house was empty. I was going to make myself a cup, but you didn’t have a single teabag in the place. Let alone fresh milk.’
‘You were here earlier?’ I ask.
‘The kitchen was filthy.’
‘You were inside my house?’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, Elizabeth. There’s no need to raise your voice. Why shouldn’t I be inside your house? I’m your mother. You gave me a key.’
‘I’ve never given you a key.’ My words are low. Almost animalistic.
‘The letting agent gave me a set for safekeeping. Don’t you remember? It’s not unusual for a mother to have a key to her daughter’s house.’
I have a hazy memory of Mum accompanying me to the letting agents when I signed a load of forms.
This is how Mum twists things.
She never mentioned getting her own set of keys cut. I certainly didn’t give her any.
My whole childhood, Mum planted the seeds of stories, which grew like weeds, choking what was real.
‘I don’t like you coming into my house without asking.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why on earth not? I’m your mother.’
‘I need to go now, Mum. I need to go back to the hospital.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No.’ My voice is firmer than I mean it to be. ‘It’s just sitting and waiting. It’s better you go home and rest. Maybe I’ll see you at the weekend.’
‘But—’
‘I have to get back to Tom. It’s way past his bedtime.’
‘Well, how about I have a tidy up around here?’ Mum suggests. ‘Do the kitchen at least. What if social services come around to check?’
I see the sense in this. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Yes, fine.’
‘Isn’t there something else you want to say?’ she asks.
‘Thank you, Mum.’ I kiss her powdered cheek.
On the way out I think: I’ll have to change the locks.
Kate
8.15 p.m.
I arrive at the children’s ward sweaty and stressed from roadwork traffic.
Some parents are pulling out folding beds, readying themselves for a night’s sleep. Others are helping their children eat, or sitting on beds with them, watching television.
I introduce myself to the duty nurse, telling her I’m from Child Services.
She doesn’t bother checking my ID. ‘Who are you here to see?’
‘Tom Kinnock. He asked to see me.’
‘Tom’s in bed eleven.’
‘Is his mother here?’
‘She just popped home. She’ll be back soon. Do you want to wait for her?’
‘The sooner I talk to Tom the better.’
‘He’s been drifting in and out of sleep.’ The nurse leads me to a blue curtain. It’s the only closed curtain on the ward.
A little girl with bright blonde hair lies in the next bed. ‘Hello,’ the girl says, all smiles and gaps in her milk teeth. ‘I’m not very well.’
‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘That’s not fun, is it? But it looks like your teeth are doing brilliantly. Has the tooth fairy visited you in hospital?’
The little girl beams. ‘Yes! Daddy said she’d find me and she did. She left one whole pound under my pillow and a chocolate. But the chocolate melted—’
‘You should be trying to sleep, Charlotte,’ the nurse says. Then she pulls back Tom’s curtain and whispers, ‘Tom. Tom. Your social worker is here.’
‘He’ll be tired,’ the little girl muses, wiggling her remaining front tooth with her finger. ‘He’s been sleeping since he got here.’
But Tom is awake, propped up on three pillows.
My goodness. He looks so pale. Like he hasn’t seen daylight in months. This last seizure has really taken it out of him.
The nurse pulls the curtain around us, then leaves.
‘Hi Tom.’ I give something like a wave. ‘Do you remember me? I’m Kate Noble, your social worker. The doctor thought you might like a chat.’
Tom blinks, eyes darting around. ‘I wanted it to be you. You’re Pauly’s social worker too, aren’t you? You got him fish and chips.’
I smile. ‘I don’t make a habit of that. Just a one-off. How are you feeling?’
‘Not very well.’
‘Do you remember having a seizure?’
Tom shakes his head.
‘Where’s your mum?’
‘She went home to get clothes and stuff.’
‘Listen, the doctor says these seizures are a little unusual. They can’t quite get to the bottom of them. And then there are the injuries.’ I sit on the chair.
Tom fiddles with his blanket.
‘You can tell me anything, you know. Even things you can’t tell your mum. I’m here to keep you safe.’
Tom nods his head tightly.
‘Tell you what.’ I pull a notepad from my bag. ‘If you don’t want to say it out loud, is there anything you’d like to write down? Would that be easier? Who is hurting you, Tom?’
Tom takes the pad. For a moment, I think he’s just going to hold it. But then he scribbles something, rips the paper free and folds it immediately, then hands it to me.
‘Can I—’
‘Don’t read it now,’ Tom whispers.
‘Okay.’ I shift awkwardly in the chair. ‘Well, can I read it later? In my car?’
Tom nods.
The little girl, Charlotte, calls through the curtain: ‘Can’t you sleep, Tom? I can’t sleep.’
‘Just try and think of something happy,’ I call back. ‘Like riding a pony on the beach. Or walking in the woods.’
‘I’ll think of My Little Pony,’ the girl decides loudly. ‘I like Majesty best. Oh! Tom. I think I can hear your mummy. Lucky. Your mummy is so nice.’
Charlotte’s right – there are female voices. Lizzie, I think, talking to a nurse.
‘Mum’s coming,’ Tom whispers. ‘You can’t tell her.’
Closing my hand around the paper, I say, ‘I’ll read it later. Okay? Somewhere private.’
We hear footsteps and then the curtain slides back.
I see Lizzie, her short, platinum hair glowing white under the neon light. She is smiling and has books and toys under one arm.
‘Hey, Tommo. Oh, Kate.’ Lizzie notices me and jolts in shock.
‘I was just saying a quick hello,’ I explain. ‘Seeing how Tom was feeling.’
‘He’s tired,’ Lizzie says, stroking Tom’s hair. ‘But he’s awake – that’s the main thing. Kate, I’m glad you came. I wanted to thank you. For being so fair at the meeting. They were trying to paint a picture. I know that. And I know you were trying to be even-handed. To see both sides.’
‘It was hard on you.’
Lizzie gives a humourless laugh. ‘I was terrified. I still am. I know how things look. No one believes me … the school … no one believes me.’
I feel the paper in my hand.
Lizzie’s bottom lip wobbles. ‘It’s the not knowing, that’s the hardest thing. These seizures. Why are they happening? Those marks on his arm …’
‘Hopefully the doctors will find out more this time.’
Lizzie puts the toys and books on the bedside table.
‘Bedtime, okay, Tommo? Time to sleep.’
‘My teeth hurt,’ says Tom.
‘That’s because you were clenching them. They’ll feel better tomorrow.’
‘Well, I should be going,’ I say. ‘Bye now.’
‘Bye Kate.’ Lizzie gives me a warm smile. ‘It’s good to see you. Come on, Tom – let’s get you tucked in.’
The moment I’m throu
gh the beige double doors and out of the ward, I phone Tessa.
‘Hi,’ I say, without giving my usual introduction. ‘I won’t have time to do those reports tonight. Tom Kinnock just wrote something down.’
‘What did he write?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t read it yet. I’m about to, once I leave the hospital. But I think he might have disclosed who’s hurting him.’
Lizzie
I’m at the vending machine, hands shaking, trying to make the buttons work.
Water. I just want a bottle of plain water. A8? Is that the right code?
I know Kate is kind, but I still hate that she visited unannounced. It’s like she’s trying to catch us out. That awful, shouty, red-faced manager of hers probably made her come to check on us.
Another seizure. Too many coincidences.
That’s what her manager is thinking. She said as much in the meeting.
Behind me, I hear the squeak of shoes on the rubber floor. ‘Hello, love. How are you bearing up?’ It’s Clara, one of the younger nurses.
‘Not very well.’ I start to cry – a pitiful noise that comes from my stomach. ‘Another seizure, Clara. Social services think it’s my fault. I’m scared they’ll take Tom away from me.’
I find my face pressed against the comforting cotton of Clara’s uniformed shoulder, her arms around me.
‘You’re doing great,’ Clara says. ‘Really.’
‘His social worker came just now,’ I say, the words hot with tears.
‘They just have to do their checks. That’s all.’
‘It’s more than that,’ I say. ‘They need answers. And I don’t have any for them.’
‘Oh, I’m sure everything will get worked out. You’re clearly a loving mother. All the nurses know that. We’ve seen you with Tom.’
I break down into noisy sobs then.
‘Everything will be fine,’ says Clara. ‘They have to tick their boxes. Tom’s obviously from a good family.’
A bottle of water clangs into the vending machine dispensing tray, and with it comes a clarity of sorts.
This is Tom’s third hospital visit. It’ll go down as another unexplained injury. Which means social services will be making moves to take Tom away. Even Kate Noble with her overriding sense of fairness. She has to tick her boxes. Maybe that’s why she was here – to set things in motion.
Too many coincidences.
They will put Tom in a children’s home and give Olly visitation.
And suddenly, despite the creeping darkness outside, I’m clear as daylight.
I have to take Tom away.
We need to run.
Yet as obvious as this is, it isn’t really a solution. I have no money. My mother won’t protect me and my father is dead. I’ve lost touch with all my old friends. I have nowhere to go.
Think, Lizzie. Think. There must be somebody …
And into my head walks Stuart.
Big, tall, strong Stuart.
We still email sometimes. He’s finally moved to the Shetlands. He’s living mortgage-free, trading over the Internet and enjoying a simpler life.
I know his address – he sent it when he moved.
The Shetland Islands are isolated. No social services or police in some parts. It’s almost deserted where Stuart lives, apparently. And Stuart knows a boat yard owner. We could go even further afield if we needed to.
I didn’t email back. Stuart is caught up in the romance of our affair. With the daily grind and a little boy to take care of, I couldn’t see things working.
But maybe …
‘I need to go home again,’ I tell Clara. ‘Is that okay? I forgot some things. I’ll be back in a few hours.’
I need to pack a bag and buy Shetland Island ferry tickets.
‘Visiting hours are over, aren’t they?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice from shaking. ‘You won’t be letting anyone else in tonight?’
‘No. It’s bedtime. But you can just ring the buzzer.’
‘Thank you.’
I hurry to the exit.
Kate
8.30 p.m.
I don’t read Tom’s note straight away – not until I’m well clear of the hospital. But it burns a hole in my bag as I stride down the hospital corridors, across the grassy grounds and towards the car park.
Sitting in my red Fiat, I take out the paper and carefully unfold it.
This note took Tom seconds, his little hand looping up, down and around. The ramifications will last a lifetime.
Who is hurting you, Tom?
There it is, written in childish handwriting.
One terrible, awful word.
Mum
My head throbs. Flashes of training videos and textbook paragraphs loop and knit together.
Parents can hurt their children in so many ways. One of those ways is making them sick on purpose.
I think of Tom, ill and vulnerable in his hospital bed. The strength it must have taken him to write this note. The risk he took to trust me.
The note drops into my lap and I see my hands pressed together in prayer.
Dear God … I never doubted her … I never doubted …
Lizzie.
How could she have fooled us?
We studied abusive parent profiles in training. Learned about the classic signs: drug addiction, neglect, secrecy and chaos.
I pictured abusers as stoned, angry Leanne Neilsons. But Lizzie … she seemed completely normal. Nice. Doing her very best. Yet the whole time …
Tessa was right. It’s Lizzie. It’s all Lizzie. She’s the one hurting him.
I put my hands on the steering wheel, but I don’t trust myself to drive. Not just yet. For the first time since I opened Tom Kinnock’s case notes, everything makes sense.
Medical child abuse. It’s not common. Most social workers will never see it. But it happens.
A switch has flicked and the world has turned dark. I see someone posing as an angelic, caring mother and fooling everybody.
With shaking fingers, I take out Tom’s note and read it again.
Mum
Then I call Tessa.
‘Hello?’ she barks. ‘Are you going to tell me what on earth is going on? Where have you been?’
‘We need an emergency protection order,’ I say. ‘For Tom Kinnock.’
‘An emergency protection order? At this stage of the game? We’re already looking to move Tom out of her care.’
‘Lizzie is hurting Tom,’ I say. ‘Medical child abuse. She’s causing the seizures. It all makes sense. The odd pattern to them. The injection marks. The head injury – she probably knocked him out to inject him with something.’
‘Good lord.’
‘We need to get Tom out of harm’s way.’
‘Steady on. He’s in hospital at the minute. That gives us a bit of breathing space.’
‘Assuming she doesn’t take him out of hospital.’ I’m in my car now.
‘Get yourself back to the office. We’ll get the papers sorted out and see what can be arranged.’
It’s way past office working hours, but for once, I don’t feel tired. I have way too much adrenalin.
Lizzie fooled me so perfectly. Blaming the school. Blaming the father. Such a loving mother. And she’s been hurting Tom the whole time …
Ruth
When Elizabeth leaves, I get to work on her kitchen. Try and fail to make it look half decent. I give up in the end. It’s a job that will take days and anyway, there are no cleaning products. Or teabags.
No clean cups. Not even fresh milk. The food cupboards are empty and piles of dirty laundry are strewn around the place.
Chaos. Absolute chaos.
Eventually, I find the courage to look in Elizabeth’s wardrobe again. To find the box that I saw the other day; one she’d pushed into the far depths of the wardrobe to keep it hidden.
I know about hidden things. What they can mean.
Something about that box wasn’t right, but I didn’t have the cour
age to find out exactly how wrong it could be.
With Elizabeth, I never know what I’m going to find.
When I open the box, I’m not surprised at all. I knew all along, somehow.
It’s the strangest feeling.
The box is stuffed with empty medicine bottles. Olly’s medicine, and some of mine. Clearly Elizabeth has been stock-piling.
I stare at the bottles for a long while, willing them not to be there. Occasionally, I’m able to fool myself like that. But not this time. The implications are just too heavy.
I consider throwing them all away. Destroying the evidence. But if I put my fingerprints all over that stuff and they know I’ve interfered – well, my life won’t be worth living.
When I was growing up, there was a little boy who lived on our street – William.
He was always getting ill. In and out of hospital. And then he started having blackouts. Seizures. Eventually, he died.
We learned from the autopsy that he had sodium poisoning. The mother had done it with table salt. They said she had some sort of illness.
Munchausen syndrome by proxy, it was called.
No one suspected a thing – the mother seemed like such a bright, happy woman. Everyone in the street knew her. She even ran a sewing group.
I remember telling Elizabeth the story. She was fascinated. I’ve always known she wasn’t like other children. She could lie and manipulate from a very early age, no doubt imitating my own little flights of fancy.
But Elizabeth was never careful, like me. She always took it too far. And she’s so close to being found out with all these hospital visits.
I admit, I was depressed when Elizabeth was young. Frustrated. Not the kindest parent. Intelligent women had fewer choices back then. I know I got things wrong. But for Elizabeth to be hurting Tom on purpose …
It’s just beyond normal.
Sometimes in life it’s kill or be killed. Elizabeth is holding me at gunpoint.
I knew there was something going on with Olly’s health. It didn’t seem right to me, the amount of tablets Elizabeth was giving him. Or the fact his leg never seemed to get better. And nurses don’t train in physiotherapy – why was she giving him leg exercises and pulling his joints around?
