Thrown Away Child

by Louise Allen

  ‘I told you to stay in your room, you little bitch.’ I was distraught, beside myself, sobbing hysterically.

  ‘William…’ was all I could get out between sobs.

  ‘He’s going somewhere you’ll go to if you don’t do as you’re bloody told,’ she shouted at me. I looked at her, wild-eyed, absolutely terrified.

  ‘He wasn’t your blood, he wasn’t your brother, you weren’t related, so stop bloody whining.’ She stopped and looked at me crying in a heap on the carpet. ‘Go to your room. You won’t come out until you stop.’

  And that was it. William was gone.

  6

  Cold Comfort Home

  My heart is broken. I’m lying on my bed face down, howling into my pillow. I was sent up here hours ago. She’s forgotten I’m here and I don’t care; I don’t care about anything. It’s cold and grey outside and there isn’t much daylight. But I howl and howl into my pillow, wanting the pain in my stomach to stop. When I stop howling I see William’s red toothbrush hair sticking up in the back of the car – his head is down, in his hands. The indicator is sticking out to the right. The car is going, going, going, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. Then he’s gone.

  She says, ‘He’s gone.’ That’s it. I howl again, long, painful groans, but I have to keep the noise down as I know too much noise will bring her up. I don’t want that. I don’t want to see her ever again. She’s evil. Why does she hate us so much, or rather, why does she hate me? She said I would be sent away. I want to be sent away! I want to be with William! If he has gone somewhere else, why can’t I go too? I sit up in the murky daylight and look at the dingy net curtains. Why? is all my numb brain can think. Why? Why? Why? Why didn’t they take me too? How could they leave me behind? How could they leave me with her? With them?

  I lie back down, facing the ceiling this time. Snot is running down my face. My eyes are swollen and I can hardly breathe with so much crying. I stare at the ceiling and look at the familiar cracks and the same old white plastic lampshade. Everything is the same. But it’s not the same. Behind the partition there is silence. I get up slowly and walk to the end of the partition – William’s side of the room. It looks horribly empty. I go to the little chest of drawers at the end of the room: an old wooden one with shiny knobs on. I pull open the top drawer. Empty. This had William’s worn-out grey socks and grimy white underwear in it. Nothing. The next drawer – his shorts and shirts: empty. I pull the next two out: empty, empty. A huge well of fear opens in my tummy. Where are his little brown shorts? His grey jumper? His funny old brown shoes? Gone, gone, gone.

  Where is he, my William? I’ve known him all my life, six whole years. He’s all I’ve ever had on my side. Tears bubble down my face again but I have to close the drawers quietly and make sure there is no trace. I always have to do that. In my head I’m screaming – why has William gone? Where has he gone? Why am I still here? But I have to keep quiet. Then I remember – and go to his pillow and lift it. There’s Fizz, his little bear from Sean. I burst into sobs. I pick up Fizz and hold him to me. He hasn’t even got his little friend. Barbara let us keep Fizz and Tony, as they came from Sean – it was unusual that she let us keep them. The became our treasure. But now he hasn’t even got Fizz to keep him company, poor William.

  I hide Fizz under my mattress, just in case. Then I stumble back down the side of William’s bed and round the end of the partition, and then throw myself face down on my bed once more, howling into the sodden pillow again. I am on the edge of a big black hole and I’m falling into it. There is no one out there to help me. My lovely Miss Nickerson has gone. Ian doesn’t care. Kevin hates me. William has gone – really gone. I have no one to ask, no one to turn to.

  I reach out for Tony the panda, whose guts are still half hanging out. I cuddle him to me. The pathetic sight of him starts me off again. I can bear the physical pain, the torture, the insults, but the knowledge that I have now lost my brother-in-pain and am truly alone – this is truly unbearable. It is the worst day of my whole life.

  The day William left I had no food or drink at all. Barbara left me to it but came in at bedtime with her face all pointy and hard and we went through the usual horrible night routine. Only this time I was the main focus of all her nastiness. I didn’t care. I was cried out and numb. I felt empty and exhausted. As she forced the big green pill down my throat, I thought, Good, I don’t care. As she roughly strapped me into bed, I thought, See if I care. I actually welcomed the blurry numbness that took over and pulled me into the familiar dark.

  The next day I was forced to go to school, the new school I absolutely hated. Now I didn’t want to go to school because I didn’t want to go without William. As we left the house, late of course, with Topsy being tugged this way and that, I felt numb. I didn’t smile. I didn’t look at anything. I didn’t care. I watched my horrible old-lady shoes walk along the cracked pavement. They didn’t belong to me. But when we got to the bottom of the street I looked right. Right was the way I’d seen William go. It was like I might see him somewhere down the road, or a tuft of red hair sticking out of something, like a dustbin. I looked for green cars everywhere. He had to be somewhere. Why had he gone? Where was he?

  Barbara just snapped, ‘Stop dawdling. Come on, you’re going to school, you little bitch.’ For emphasis she yanked Topsy’s choke collar so hard that the poor animal took right off from the pavement, hit the low wall, bounced and yelped.

  ‘Shut up!’ Barbara hissed fiercely, pulling her upright. I saw red appear round the collar. It was unbearable and my tears started again. Whack! An open-handed clip right round the head.

  ‘Stop whining,’ she sniffed. ‘No one wants you, we’re doing you a bloody favour.’

  School was terrible. Spencer was on at me straight away as I crept in late: ‘Oh, here’s the smelly little cry baby,’ and everyone turned, stared and sniggered. I knew I looked a sight. My face was swollen and puffy from hours of crying, my clothes were messy and smelly and I hadn’t eaten or washed. I sat down. All I could think of was William. What was he doing now, this minute? I went into a daydream. The teacher was talking but I couldn’t follow. I didn’t understand. The whole day went by in a blur. Even at lunchtime I ate something but didn’t taste it – unusual for me, who craved school dinners. I didn’t sneak a biscuit into my pocket or a plum into my bag. I didn’t care today, as William wouldn’t be there when I got home. It would just be me… and them.

  That thought was like sitting under a giant black cloud. Just me… and them. No William to sit in the shed with, to eat birdseed with or to huddle with and lick our knees for comfort or visit Sean with. We didn’t really talk but we were in the same horrible boat, literally clinging together every day. We always knew where the other one was, and looked out for each other. Who would shout, ‘Run! Run!’ if they got the guns out now? And now – where was he? Why was I still here, in this horrible, hateful school and in that horrible, hateful house, with people who despised and ignored me?

  Barbara was late collecting me, as usual, so I hung around being taunted by my schoolfellows. She was in a bad mood when she arrived, so I said nothing, just followed silently. When we got home she went straight into the garden without a word and got the bonfire going in the silver incinerator bin beside the shed. She was busy stoking the fire with all sorts of things as I wandered out, and it was soon roaring, smoke curling up into the afternoon sky. There were piles of beige folders on the grass next to her feet. Curious, I crept a bit further forward and saw that she was putting photos in the fire. Sparks were flying up and the fire was spitting and hissing as she did so. Her face was set and glowed red in the flames. She looked like a witch.

  I crept even nearer and could see a file full of photos of William. Barbara didn’t say anything to me, but just kept throwing in paper, photos, anything that came to hand. Then she strode off to get some more wood and I saw my chance. I swooped and picked up two photos of William, just his face, the typical school photos we’d had don
e at nice Vernon Lane Primary, and I quickly shoved them inside my long grey socks. Barbara would often search me (‘What’ve you got there, you little thief?’), so I knew not to put anything in my school blazer pocket. I quietly turned and tiptoed away.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she boomed down the garden. I jumped, but turned and managed to say, innocently, ‘Nothing.’ Then I turned back and went upstairs on heavy little legs and had to think quickly about where I was going to hide my precious treasure. I could put them in the mattress, where I kept my food stash. But would the food hurt the photos? I also had to be quick, as I knew Barbara would think something was up. She was always suspicious. I opened my bedside drawer, where I kept the matchbox with the flies that I was trying to bring back to life.

  I put the photos right at the back of the drawer, side on. I closed the drawer as quietly as I could and just stood there in the twilight. I had a bit of William. I could still see his face if I wanted to. I had a warm feeling, if only for a moment. Just the idea of seeing his brown eyes, shock of red hair and sticky-out ears made me feel a little better. My tummy wasn’t hurting as much now. Then I tiptoed downstairs, as if I was away too long Barbara would get annoyed.

  As I came into the kitchen, I could see through the window that she was still busy with her bonfire, poking a stick into it, stirring it like a witch. Smoke was still curling upwards and the sky was getting dark. On the kitchen table there was a notebook. I knew Barbara had to keep records for the social workers about what she did with us and how she spent money. She never stopped moaning about it. But she usually kept them locked in the kitchen cupboards.

  I saw my chance. I quickly opened the notebook and made out, in pencil, the last thing she wrote: William’s name and a phone number. I memorised the number and tiptoed upstairs again, quiet as a mouse, wrote the number down on an old bit of school paper and stuffed it under my mattress. Then I folded the material over it, very carefully. I thought that was a safer place. A phone number for William… maybe he was sick or in hospital? With another family? Or a new school? My head was bursting with questions, but I knew I couldn’t ask Barbara any of them because I would never get a straight answer if I did.

  The next day Barbara marched me home at high speed in stony silence, dragging poor Topsy along, whose nails scratched the pavement the whole way. I knew she was furious and I felt sick. What was it now? When we got home my two precious photos of William were on the kitchen table.

  ‘What do you call this?’ she spat out, going red. I said nothing but my tummy fell through the floor. I wanted to wee. ‘You’re a sneaky little thief,’ she screamed. ‘And a liar.’ With that, she got the box of matches she used for my ears, lit a match and set fire to William’s photos. ‘No! No!’ I cried, the tears starting.

  ‘Get this into your stupid head,’ seethed Barbara, as the photos curled up in flames and fell in the sink, a charred mess. ‘You will never, ever see him again. You are not to mention him to me or to anyone else. Ever again! Do you hear?’

  I was crying uncontrollably now. I just sobbed and sobbed and couldn’t stop. Barbara grabbed me by the shoulders with her scrawny fingers and dug them in like talons. She shook me violently, backwards and forwards, with my head wobbling like a jelly on my neck.

  ‘You are a wicked girl! Who cares about you? You are stupid like your mum. No one wants you. Go to your room.’

  With that, I was pushed out the door and I stumbled up the endless stairs to my now very lonely, scary room.

  The next few days went by in a blur. I got up, had my tiny bowl of Ready Brek, all alone at my little table now. Kevin taunted me the whole time, calling me a ‘cry baby’. He mimicked a sad clown face to me, and then laughed nastily. He was enjoying my misery. Barbara just told me over and over that I was lucky they were good enough to take in the likes of me. Ian said nothing, just went to work as usual or came in and went to the garage. Once at school, I couldn’t pay attention. I could hardly follow what was going on. I couldn’t read properly, or write. It was terrible – everything, that is, except art, which I loved (although I still missed Miss Nickerson and her warm face and lovely perfume).

  I found some scraps of paper and drew Tony and Fizz. When I drew I felt a bit calmer but I also felt very sad. At school I was bullied and taunted by Spencer and his gang, and at home I was bullied and hit by Kevin and Barbara. Ian seemed more absent than ever – always out in his van or watching TV in the best room in the evening. He never came and talked to me about William, or gave me a hug or explained anything. I was just left to my fear and unhappiness.

  When the weekend finally came, I feared the long days ahead away from school. I talked to the chickens when I collected the eggs, and then went down to the orchard. I would gaze intensely at the flowers; I loved the red and yellow petals and deep black centres. I watched the bees dipping in and out of them. Suddenly I remembered Sean Brannon. I’d forgotten him in my unhappiness over William. I hovered around the apple trees, kicking the windfalls and leaves. It was chilly, but I waited and watched his little blue caravan through the hedge. Soon his door opened and there he was on the steps in his usual flat cap, soft brown trousers and braces. He was wearing his rough tweed jacket and was rolling a cigarette, as usual.

  I ducked through a hole in the hedge and ran towards the caravan but stopped short of the steps. I stood and looked up at him, feeling I might cry. I bit my lip.

  ‘Where’s yer little fella?’ Sean asked brightly. I burst into tears. I sobbed and sobbed. Sean lit his cigarette, then got up and came over to me. ‘Come on, girlie,’ he said, and took my hand. I was going up the steps, into the caravan. I’d never been inside it before. I was still crying, but going into the warm narrow house helped me stop for a while. There was a small sink, and narrow orange and brown cupboards and, at one end, a sort of thin bed with a crocheted top and a fold-out table.

  ‘Want some toast?’

  I nodded. I couldn’t speak. I wiped my face with the back of my hand and sniffed. I stood and watched Sean get a plastic bag with bread in, pull out a slice, put it in the toaster and press it down.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he said gently. I stood still, a bit scared. ‘Go on,’ he said softly. ‘It’s all right.’

  I crept past the cooker with pots and pans on top towards the place with the bed and table. It was nice and bright and jolly. There were lacy curtains at the window and funny little knickknacks everywhere: little donkeys, dogs and plastic flowers and a big silver cross with Jesus on the wall. Then I smelt the toast.

  Sean appeared beside me with a plate with flowers round the edge. On it was hot toast with butter sinking in. He placed a glass of milk beside it. I picked up the toast and bit, and it melted in my mouth. I ate the toast and drank the milk in silence while Sean sat beside me, smoking his cigarette. I liked being there. It felt safe. I looked at a picture on the wall of green hills and sky and trees.

  ‘Ireland,’ Sean said simply. ‘County Cork.’ I kept chewing.

  ‘More?’

  I nodded. Sean repeated the toast and I ate it all up. I felt calmer after the food and we sat for a bit.

  ‘Want to tell me?’ he said quietly. I looked at him. He had grey whiskers and a crinkly face. His eyes were kind. I wanted to tell him with all my heart – they’ve taken William! Help me! Please! Save me! But I couldn’t. I wanted to ask Sean if I could stay with him but I feared Barbara. I felt so alone and frightened with everyone in the house. More than anything I didn’t want anyone to hurt Sean. So I said nothing. I didn’t dare.

  Sean let me look at his knick-knacks and talked to me about Ireland – the hills, his home and family. He loved horses, and talked about them. Also horse racing, his favourite pastime. He’d had a lovely wife who’d died long ago in childbirth. I liked imagining the green grass and the leafy trees, the country lanes and farmhouses and the big horses. When I left, after a very long time sitting quietly with him, he just said softly, ‘You can come again… whenever you like.’

  I f
elt warm in my tummy, and full, as I tiptoed down the steps. I also felt naughty, but so much happier inside. Sean was my saviour, my only friend. My hero. His kind eyes and hot toast had saved my life. At least he was still there, along with the nice Polish people. One of the women was pegging out clothes on her line, which hung between her cream caravan and an apple tree. She waved and smiled. There was something to cling onto, after all. But how would I survive without my brother-in-torture?

  7

  Pulling My Hair Out

  It’s morning. A school day. I’m sitting on my bed in my shabby grey uniform. I pull out my bedside drawer. It’s empty, except at the back there’s a matchbox with a picture of a black ship on it. I take it out and pull it open: there are six dead flies, all in a little row, lying on a bed of toilet paper. I look at them in detail and notice their wonderful, veined, see-through wings and little black feet curled up under them. They have big eyes, with lots of colours in them. I will remember them, so I can draw them. I close my eyes and squeeze them shut, as hard as I can, and suddenly I see lots of colours: orange, purple, blue, yellow, flashing lights and swirling colours. Like the flies’ eyes. There are stars and sparkles and whirls in the colours in my head, and I’m fascinated by them. The colours feel a relief from everything around me; I can watch a lightshow simply by closing my eyes and squeezing. Then I open them. Everything is orange and yellow for a moment, then white, and then I focus. I’m back in the tiny, dingy room and the flies are still lying dead in a row. I close the matchbox and put it carefully in the back of the drawer and push it shut.

  Then I put my right hand up to my eyelashes and pull. Hard. There’s a twinge of pain and I do it again. And again. Ow! Ow! But it is somehow soothing to feel the pain. I soon have a little handful of eyelashes. I look at them – white at one end, right at the tip, and then running brown to black. They are long. I run my fingers along my eyelids and can feel some stubbly bits – I pull, it hurts, but it’s kind of satisfying. I feel along my eyebrows, all stubbly. I pull. Ow! Ow! Out they come. They’re thicker, but still black, with a little white tip at the end. Then my right hand goes up to my head and I twist my dipper finger round some strands of my hair and yank. Ow! That does hurt. Out it comes. I now have a handful of hair. It’s fine and shiny. I drop it on the carpet and keep going. I can feel a little bald patch growing on the top of my head where I pull the hair – yank, yank. I feel around with my fingers to find the next few hairs, and then the next. I can’t stop. Yank, yank, yank. They’re on the floor, lying in a shiny black pile. I feel a bit calmer now, and I know I have to go down and face ‘them’. I collect up the hair and put it carefully in the bin, putting a bit of paper over the top. I know I always have to hide things, to be careful, just in case. But I have one more thing to do on the way.