A Dark Secret

by Casey Watson

  I smiled back, thinking Colin might have missed his vocation – as a politician, perhaps, or after-dinner speaker. But I immediately realised the silliness of the thought. He hadn’t missed his vocation – far from it. He’d found it.

  And I had another thought. That the cliché was right. That not all superheroes wore capes.

  Chapter 15

  While I had put a lot of thought into planning how to prepare Sam for his police interview, I hadn’t spent the same amount of time wondering how he’d respond to it, because you just can’t predict these things with any accuracy. Anyway, wasn’t ‘expect the unexpected’ my personal mantra?

  But if I’d expected anything it would have been a return of Sam’s nightmares, because revisiting what had happened to him would surely stir everything up again. And nightmare he did have, that very night. Where I was slightly surprised (and I fully admit this was ridiculous) was that, even given that there was still so much to learn about Sam, he responded to his nightmare in such an unlikely, visceral way.

  When we returned home after the meeting, he was still full of beans; having put the skirmish with the little girl behind him, he was in good spirits, both about the ball pool and spending time with Colin.

  He played with the Lego for some considerable time, both before and after tea, building various complex traps for catching bad guys. Which struck me as worth noting, because it was a positive way to go about addressing the re-imagining of his personal horrors. I duly did so. We also went out into the garden to gather a collection of little pebbles, so he could add to his stock of important counting things. I figured, with what we’d stirred up in him today, he might need them.

  I also had a brainwave. ‘How about beans as well?’ I suggested. ‘Did you know that people who count money for a living are sometimes known as bean counters?’

  ‘Are there money beans?’ he asked.

  ‘No, but have you ever heard the expression “I haven’t got a bean”? That’s what people sometimes say when they have no money. I think it came from Jack and the Beanstalk – when Jack sold the cow for a handful of magic beans. Do you know that story?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t think so.’

  ‘It’s a very famous fairy tale. Jack climbs the beanstalk he grows from the magic beans he sold his mother’s cow for, and at the top he finds a giant. And all sorts besides. Tell you what,’ I said, as I pulled out a bag of dried haricot beans from the back of the cupboard for him, ‘you count out a hundred of those while I go and find my big book of fairy tales. Then I can read it to you, can’t I? You’ll like Jack. He’s a bit of a superhero himself, just like you.’

  And by the time Sam had had a bath and gone to bed, and I’d read him Jack and the Beanstalk, I even allowed myself a small pat on the back. He was processing his traumas, we’d made measurable progress, we would continue to make progress, I was sure of it.

  But that pride of mine was clearly setting itself up for a major fall. And from a greater height than previously, because when I woke refreshed the following morning after an unbroken night, I blithely assumed Sam had slept through as well.

  That he had not was apparent as soon as I went in to wake him, however – at around nine, long after Mike and Tyler had left for work and college, and purposely late because if he was exhausted by the previous day’s dramas then it made sense to let him sleep on till he woke naturally.

  But he’d been awake a good while, I judged, and given the state of his bedroom had spent a good part of the night awake as well. He was still in pyjamas, but not the ones he’d gone to bed in. At some point, he’d fetched his favourite pair from the washing basket in the bathroom and, given the state of his bedding, had done some serious thrashing about. Three of the four drawers in his chest were gaping open, contents spewing, and spaces in the same made it clear without my even looking that he’d had all his collections of counting things out.

  And there was something about his expression that made me stop myself giving him the now usual hair ruffle and kiss on the head. ‘Morning, sleepy head!’ I said instead, sticking with my usual jaunty morning tone. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to get up so we can have breakfast together.’ No response. Nor would he meet my eye. I sat down on the edge of his bed. ‘Sam? Are you okay, sweetie?’

  ‘Get out,’ he said. And said it evenly, but with an undertone of contained anger.

  So I was persona non grata. Because of the reprimand about the girl yesterday? Or because he’d begun to think more about the disclosures he’d shared yesterday, and what the implications might be?

  I dismissed my first thought – the latter – because would Sam do that? Really? Sam didn’t think about consequences. Definitely not negative consequences. Yes, he understood the relationship between chores and getting stars, but that, up to now, had been as far as it went.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, equally evenly. ‘I can do that, if you want me to. But I can see something is bothering you, love. Can we talk about it?’

  Sam’s reaction was instantaneous. He’d been sitting on his bed but now he sprang up into a crouch, then, using his legs as pistons, he pounced at me. And when I say ‘pounced’, I mean ‘pounced’, just like an animal. Which took me by surprise, because it had been weeks since he’d been violent towards me. But, boy, was he making up for that now. He had both hands buried in my hair, each gripping a clump, which made my scalp scream, and was using his legs now to knee me in the thighs and stomach.

  ‘Get out, get out!’ he screamed. ‘I don’t want you no more! You maked me tell!’

  I shouted back, equally loudly, using the force of my voice in the hope of shocking him into submission. ‘Sam!’ I barked. ‘Stop this right now!’ I grabbed both his wrists as I spoke, but that did nothing to loosen his grip on my hair, so while my thighs continued to take a battering, I let go with one hand and used it to untangle one set of his fingers. I then held on tightly to his released hand and tried one-handed to release the other – which, given the strength of his grip, was no mean feat.

  Having finally managed it, I then held onto both his hands, very firmly, and slowly brought them down to his sides. And as I bent my head down to try for eye contact, I had a stupid thought – that I must look like Medusa, and maybe that would scare him into calming down. ‘Can you hear me, Sam?’ I said – again loudly enough to be heard over his yelling, ‘I said stop this right now, and settle down so you can tell me what is upsetting you.’

  ‘You are! You and stupid Sampson and that Kim woman. You’re all crazy if you think that bad guy isn’t coming for you now. For me too! He’s gonna kill us all now!’

  ‘That’s silly, Sam,’ I said. ‘No one knows you’re here. No one can get you at this house. You are safe. This is a safe house,’ I added, warming to my theme. ‘You were brought here in secret. Just like superheroes do with people they’re protecting. And when Kim finds out who the bad man is, she’ll see to it that he can’t hurt anyone ever again. Do you understand that, Sam? Do you hear me?’

  Sam met my eyes then. And stopped thrashing about as suddenly as he’d started. Then he leapt from the bed, and bolted from the room. ‘Don’t care!’ he screamed as he thundered down the stairs. I followed, just in time to see him heading into the kitchen where, as I entered, he was ripping the chart from its new permanent home on the back of the conservatory door.

  ‘Sam! Stop that!’ I called out. ‘Calm down and think before destroying your chart. Think about all those points you’ve earned – you realise that you won’t be able to earn all your stars today if you continue to behave like this?’

  ‘Don’t care about the stupid stars,’ he yelled back, ‘or pizza or burgers or movies! Don’t care about none of that stuff.’ He then screwed up the chart and threw it down on the floor, jumping up and down and stamping on it as he raged.

  I knew that to intervene at this point wouldn’t be wise, so, instead, without saying anything
further, I walked across to the dining area and sat down at the table. There was a now cold, half-mug of coffee on it so I picked it up and started to sip it. I wanted Sam to see that I was calm and not reacting. And, eventually, it seemed to work. After a good minute’s stand-off – Sam glaring at me with clenched, white-knuckled fists, while I pretended to leaf through a pile of Mike’s left-out managerial paperwork, while stealing sideways, corner-of-the-eye glances – his shoulders finally dropped. He then kicked the chart across the floor and marched past me into the living room. The TV came on moments later. At which my own shoulders dropped a little – I had been prepared for crashes and bangs. And when I looked in on him, he was sprawled on the sofa.

  I slipped back into the kitchen, thinking that, after a period of time, Sam would do as he usually did and start to behave better, deploying his well-honed skill at seemingly forgetting his rages. In the interim, it was just a waiting game so I made myself another coffee and took it, and my mobile, out into the back garden, where another bright spring day had got under way, oblivious to the squalls and storms within.

  Once I was sitting down, I took the opportunity to call Christine Bolton. She needed an update on the events of the interview yesterday anyway and though I’d obviously log and send an account of this morning, I still favoured the old-fashioned business of chatting stuff through on the phone.

  ‘Bless him,’ she said once I’d given her an account of how betrayed Sam now felt about us ‘making’ him talk. ‘It’s a great shame this has created difficulties with the points programme, too, because it seemed to be working so well. But hopefully it’s only going to be temporary collateral. Once he realises his fears aren’t going to become reality, I’m sure he’ll begin to trust that we all have his best interests at heart. Listen, would you like me to see if I can get someone to come out and help reassure him on that score?’

  ‘No, that’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’m sure this is only temporary, as you say. I just wanted to put you in the picture, touch base. Here’s hoping there’s progress once his mother has been interviewed, and we’re in a position to back up our reassurances with hard facts. Though it makes no difference to Sam now, it would be good to know the law’s on to him, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Absolutely. And the very minute I hear anything on that score, I’ll let you know. Or Colin will, obviously. In the meantime, since you’re on, any chance we could get a date in our respective diaries for your next supervision visit? I’ve been checking my lists and I think yours is overdue.’

  Supervision is a vital component in fostering, and an ongoing one. Every six weeks, a supervising social worker (who, in our case, was also our link worker, Christine) is required to make an official visit to the foster carers on their list, to check on the standard of fostering they provide. Naturally, it also involves a lengthy, official form, which covers areas such as a child’s diet, their medical appointments, their daily routine and so on, plus a personalised checklist to ensure the carers are following the initially agreed individual care plan. The foster carer is expected to give clear examples of how they have met the government standards of care, and details about how they’ve addressed any given ‘flashpoint’, or difficult situation, and then provide feedback about how they think they could improve, if they felt they could have handled things in a different way. Pretty standard stuff, really, but all of it important. And to a new carer, it could be both intimidating and daunting. It was something I remembered very well.

  These days, however, I approached these sessions differently. Not as opportunities for the powers-that-be to find us wanting, but more as brainstorming sessions where I could pause and reflect, and add to my stock of strategies and skills. There was something new to learn with every child, after all. And much to be gained from the confidence-building business of it being confirmed that, in the moment, you chose the right strategy.

  As I’d clearly done this morning, with Sam. When I came back indoors, having arranged a date for Christine’s visit, it was to find the chart back in place, slightly crumpled, but still functional, and Sam back where I’d left him, watching TV on the sofa.

  ‘Is it breakfast time yet?’ he asked, when he’d realised I’d come in. ‘I’m as starving as the biggest giant in giantland!’

  I pushed my sleeves up and unthinkingly ran my hands through my knotted hair. Ouch! And as strong as one too, I thought wryly.

  Chapter 16

  Sam’s ‘silent protest’, as in the nightmare during which he’d elected not to seek my reassurance, was, it turned out, a temporary measure. Because the next night he seemed to suffer terrors for its duration, and I wore a path through the landing carpet trying to calm him.

  I first woke to hear him screaming, having woken from a horrible nightmare, the details of which, though, he still refused to share with me. But though I knew he was worried I’d ‘tell’ to ‘the others’, he at least let me cuddle him and coax him back to sleep. I’d then woken, just under an hour later, to hear him howling. On that occasion he was sitting bolt upright in bed, head thrown back, like a little wolf-boy.

  Again I calmed him and, once I had, I also reminded him that howling so loud woke the whole house up, at which, touchingly and heartbreakingly, he apologised for being ‘such a nuisance’ and tearfully promised that he wouldn’t howl again.

  And he didn’t. My third awakening was to the sound of what appeared to be something heavy being dragged across a room. And when I went to check, it was to find that my ears hadn’t deceived me; it took some considerable time to get the door open. I pushed my way in to reveal that both sets of bedside drawers had been relocated in a bid to block the door. ‘I dreamed the bad man was trying to get me,’ Sam told me, sobbing. ‘Can you stay with me till I go to sleep?’

  So I had, and by the time Mike had gone off to work, and Tyler to college, I would have loved to burrow under my own duvet for a couple of hours. I couldn’t, though, because I’d already made plans. I’d arranged for Kieron to call up with Luna, after dropping Dee Dee at school, so he could take Sam and both dogs out for an hour. It seemed the most likely way to distract him from his demons and would also give me time to sit and gather my thoughts about the best way to move forward with the placement, both in terms of Sam’s emotional well-being and as a statement of intent – one that I could present to Christine, to hopefully inspire a bit more action in terms of assessment and schooling. The school Easter holidays were almost upon us, after all, and if he wasn’t back in education of some sort for the summer term, we’d be looking at September. And, though the disclosures about a possible abuser were no less important, Sam’s education was, arguably, more so.

  But to say I was pleased to get a call from Colin Sampson was an understatement.

  ‘You should be getting an email yourself, I think,’ Colin said, ‘but I got one this morning from Kim Dearing, regarding her interview with Sam’s mother. And from what I’m reading, there’s clearly no love lost between her and Mrs Gallagher. Which I think we already knew, didn’t we? But it seems Mrs Gough has her own thoughts on Mrs Gallagher. She says – let me read it – “she’s a busybody, a bloody liar and a troublemaker”.’

  ‘As she would, I suppose,’ I said. ‘She’s obviously going to fight her corner. But it’s still a bit rich given that Mrs Gallagher appears to have been the only glue holding that family together over the years. Look how often she stepped in to pick up the pieces whenever there was a crisis.’

  ‘My thoughts too,’ Colin said. ‘But she’s apparently made it quite clear to the police that she wishes she never accepted any help from the woman in the first place. Said that all their neighbour ever did was made her feel inferior and then gossiped about her to anyone who’d listen.’

  ‘Well, there’s probably something in that bit,’ I said. ‘Look how quick Mrs Gallagher was to spill the beans about her to us. Doesn’t mean she’s a bad woman, of course. Better to be a gossip and actually care about th
e children’s welfare than be a gossip and not get involved.’

  ‘I agree,’ Colin said. ‘But Mrs Gough apparently swears blind that there were no boyfriends – at least not for the last few years. She said – and I think she shows emotional intelligence in doing so – that her illness prevented her from forming relationships, that how on earth did they imagine she’d have sustained any?’

  ‘So it’s definitely an illness then?’ I asked, slightly embarrassed. Like many others, I imagined, I’d leapt too easily to the conclusions that had been planted in my head by Mrs Gallagher. ‘As in a recognised condition?’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ Colin said. ‘She’s still undergoing assessment and will be detained under the Mental Health Act – I can’t remember which section offhand, but she’ll be there for quite some time, it seems. But she’s definitely had a psychotic episode, and is currently being medicated, so yes, it’s safe to say she does have some form of mental illness.’

  ‘And what else? Did Kim Dearing ask her about the episodes of Sam being locked in the dog cage?’

  ‘Yes, she’s admitted that on occasion she did put the boy in a dog kennel. But again she is adamant that it isn’t what it seems. She admits that she did put him in there a couple of times as a punishment – when she was at her wits’ end because of his behaviour towards his siblings. But she stresses that she never actually locked him in there. Not for more than ten minutes or so.’