by Casey Watson
The lunch bell went then, as if to underline this assertion. And as it did so, I watched Kiara’s hand go to the bald patch, seemingly unconsciously, and watched as she wound a single strand of hair around her finger and, with a sharp tug, plucked it out. I don’t know why but something she’d said suddenly popped into my mind. Just like my mum’s showed me. I filed the thought away.
‘Doesn’t that hurt you?’ I asked.
‘Doesn’t what hurt?’ she asked, her confusion at the question evident.
‘When you pull out your hair like that,’ I said. ‘It must hurt when you do that, mustn’t it?’
She looked down at her hand then let the hair go. She blushed. ‘I know, miss,’ she said. ‘I really need to stop doing it, don’t I?’
Kiara didn’t go straight off to lunch. She didn’t feel quite ready to face the world again yet, and I was happy to let her stay for a bit while I finished my coffee. She was on school dinners, and as there was always an enormous queue at the start of lunch-break, there was no particular urgency anyway
And now she’d got everything off her chest, she looked much brighter. ‘Wow, this is cool, this place is, miss,’ she observed, draining her juice. ‘It’s not at all like I thought it would be.’
‘Oh, really?’ I asked her, smiling. ‘So you know all about my Unit, do you? So what did you think? What’s the word on the street?’
‘I dunno, miss,’ she said, getting up and placing her cup back on my desk. ‘Like a sort of cell or something – you know. Like a detention room. Not all nice and bright like this. It’s lovely,’ she added, surprising me with a smile that lit up her face. ‘Really nice. What do you teach?’
‘All sorts of things,’ I told her. ‘Though not the sort you might be thinking of. I’m not like the other teachers – we don’t do the regular lessons in here.’
She walked across to the quiet corner. ‘This is nice,’ she said, peering round the side of the bookcases. ‘Reminds me of being in the infants. You know? When you’d sit on bean bags for story time and stuff. And fall asleep halfway through,’ she added, grinning across at me.
I laughed. ‘And it’s like that in here sometimes, as well. No one’s ever too old to have a story read to them, are they? And yes, sometimes we do have the odd person nodding off. And we don’t mind too much. As I say, this isn’t like normal school.’ Something occurred to me then. ‘How about you this morning,’ I asked her. ‘You must have been out for the count and then some. Did you have a late night last night?’
I noticed her hand drift back to the same spot on her head again. It seemed to be entirely unconscious. ‘Erm, a bit,’ she admitted, but the pause before she answered was sufficient to spark a thought in me that there was possibly more to know. ‘So how do you, like, end up here?’ she added. ‘I mean not you, miss. I mean the kids who get sent here. Why’d they come to you?’
I explained what the Unit was all about as I rinsed out my mug. How we took in the kids who were having problems of one kind or another and tried to help them rally their emotional forces and change some of the choices they made. ‘So really,’ I finished, ‘it’s a bit like a port in a storm. Because it can feel pretty stormy out there for some kids at some times. Well, a bit like it must have felt for you earlier on. Not to mention poor Thomas,’ I added. ‘He’s had a bit of a time of it as well, hasn’t he? Not that he didn’t deserve you being furious with him,’ I added. ‘But it’s a shame that he got hurt. Let’s hope he’s okay, eh?’
No pause this time. ‘He’s still a di – sorry, idiot. Sorry miss, but he is,’ she added firmly. ‘You should have him in here. He’s definitely a problem kid.’
I couldn’t help but smile at this. ‘Well, he certainly has a problem today, doesn’t he? But you know, Kiara, there’s something you might not have thought about when it comes to “problem” kids – you know, the ones who are always naughty. They’re almost always the ones that have the problems. That’s what makes them naughty. And it’s my job, once they’re with me, to try and work it all out – unravel it so we can see everything more clearly, if you like.’
Kiara’s hand drifted to her head again and, before I could distract her, she had wrapped her finger around another hair and tugged it out at the root. And as she absorbed what I’d said, I began to wonder. I wasn’t sure why but there was something tugging at me too; some instinct that as yet had no real shape to it, but was persistently knocking on the door of my brain. The hair pulling was obviously a well-established tic, and a tic was a mechanism for self-soothing. And a need to self-sooth was generally a response to stress. And for an apparently fit young girl to fall fast asleep mid-morning … I didn’t know what it added up to, but it did amount to something, as did what she said next.
‘Can anyone come here, miss?’ she said. ‘You know, if they ask to?’
‘That’s not quite how it works,’ I said. ‘It’s generally the teachers who decide. But to some extent, I suppose, yes. If a pupil obviously isn’t managing in normal classes, then, as I was just saying, they can come here for a bit …’
‘Like if they’re too tired to do lessons?’
She looked directly at me, and again I got a glimpse of that rather ‘knowing’ look she had, and it made me suddenly wonder if I was being played here. It wasn’t unheard of for a child to pretend they had problems just to escape the routine, or to have a regular pass out of some subject or class or teacher they didn’t like. I’d been there before – as had Kelly, as had my alter ego, the other behaviour manager, Jim Dawson; having boys and girls practically begging for counselling, floods of tears, the whole kit and caboodle, only to find out later that they weren’t distressed at all – had just forgotten their homework, or their football boots or netball kit or something and didn’t dare turn up to class without it.
But, for all that Kiara seemed perfectly fine now, my antennae were quivering and, me being me, I needed to know why.
‘I tell you what, sweetie,’ I told her. ‘Why don’t you go off and get your lunch now. And while you’re doing that, I’ll have a word with your form teacher. You’re still looking a bit pale to me, and I think you’re still tired, aren’t you? So, if you want to, how about I ask if you can come back here to me this afternoon? I’ve got new children coming in tomorrow and I need it prettying up a bit. How’s that sound? Would you like to do that?’
‘Could I?’ This development seemed to please Kiara enormously. She reached for her backpack, which was bright pink and enormous, stuffed to bursting with goodness knows what. She’d be pretty exhausted just carrying that around all day, I mused.
‘Yes, you could,’ I said, nodding. ‘Just go back to your tutor group for afternoon registration when the bell goes as normal, and then, all being well, she can send you straight back here.’
It was like magic. She fairly skipped out of the room.
I waited for a few seconds after Kiara left, then reached for my log book, so I could quickly scribble down the events of the past quarter of an hour, as well as get down the details of her version of events. It was such an automatic thing for me these days that I did it almost on auto-pilot. It was a vital part of my job and I was meticulous about it, too, because one thing I’d learned early on was that no matter how insignificant-seeming they might be at the time, the most mundane of facts, in conjunction with any timings, could end up being key ones at some point down the line. And though I obviously drew the line at writing ‘very curiously knowing eyes’ I still filed it in my brain, before grabbing my bag again and going in search of lunch and information. I had an itch now, and I was very keen to scratch it.
Chapter 3
Knowing that, in all likelihood, I wouldn’t now get the chance to have lunch in the dining hall, I nipped into the staff-room to grab a sandwich from the new vending machine, and of course another coffee to warm me up. It was safe to say that the heating, or lack of it, was the hot topic of conversation, even if the grumbles and complaints were all about the cold. After waiting for
a minute or so for the corridors to clear of the last remaining children making their way outside, I went along to the learning support department to see Julia Styles.
‘Ah, Casey,’ she said, smiling as I entered her office, ‘I thought you might be popping in. I guess you want to know a little bit more about your new students. Grab a chair and I’ll see what I can find. Not that I’m any wiser than you are at the moment, to be honest. Don’t even know who they are. What with the blasted radiators and everything, I’ve not even had a chance to look myself yet.’
‘Well, yes, that would be helpful,’ I said, sitting down on the chair to the left of her desk, ‘but no rush. Actually I’m here about a year eight girl. Kiara Bentley? I just picked her up from the assembly hall after that fracas earlier. You know about that?’
Julia nodded. ‘I do. Don stopped by before he left and filled me in.’
‘He took the boy himself then?’
Julia nodded. ‘And fingers crossed all is well. Though the consensus seemed to be that he was a great deal more fixated on – ahem – another part of his anatomy.’
I smiled. ‘I’m not surprised.’ I told her the version of events Kiara had outlined to me – a version I didn’t doubt was pretty accurate, too.
She rolled her eyes. ‘So he’s had something of an education today, by the sound of it. And how’s Kiara? She okay now? Don said she was in a right state.’
‘She’s okay now. I’ve just left her. She’s taken herself off to lunch. But I’m going to track down her form teacher and see if she can come back to me this afternoon. There’s something about her … I don’t know, Julia. It might be something or nothing, but she’s clearly over-tired, and she’s got this hair-pulling thing going on. You know what I’m like,’ I added, seeing the grin spreading on my colleague’s face. ‘Just a bit of an itch I’ve got.’
‘We-ell,’ she said, ‘funnily enough, there is something on Kiara Bentley’s record, so that itch of yours certainly isn’t way off-beam. It’s historic, though, so don’t get too excited. An incident from back at the start of year seven. Hang on,’ she said, rising from her chair, ‘I’ll pull her file out.’
It didn’t take Julia long to find the file, and to explain that not long after Kiara had joined the school, another year seven pupil had reported that she’d had cuts up her arm – cuts that, when questioned by the child, Kiara had freely admitted she’d done herself. When confronted by her teacher, Kiara had been equally upfront, brushing it off as silliness; saying that she’d read a magazine article about self-harming and, stupidly – her admission – had decided to try it herself, just to find out ‘if it hurt’.
Which naturally got my itch going all the more. ‘She was apparently quite matter-of-fact,’ Julia said. ‘I remember talking to the teacher myself. Said she had absolutely no intention of doing anything so silly ever again. Though, naturally, not entirely convinced, we brought the mum in for a chat. And she was extremely upset about it all, as you can imagine, but could offer nothing in the way of an explanation for it. Had no idea what had possessed her, apparently. Her inclination was to put it down to attention seeking, and we were inclined to agree with her. She did say she’d been working long hours – perhaps too long – and, well, we all know what it’s like for some of our working single parents, don’t we? And I don’t think there’s much in the way of extended family to provide support. Anyway, Kiara was offered counselling, obviously, but she point-blank refused, after which there was little we could do about it other than try and keep an eye on her.’
‘So it was left at that point?’ I asked. ‘No one continued to monitor her?’
Almost as soon as the words were out I felt myself redden, realising how incredulous my tone had been. I saw something flash across Julia’s face too, perhaps unsurprisingly, as if she couldn’t quite believe I might be daring to insinuate that she’d not done her job probably.
But it soon disappeared; I think she realised I really wasn’t pointing fingers. She had had a big, busy department to run, and she ran it brilliantly. And she couldn’t possibly be expected to have eyes and ears everywhere, any more than the rest of us could.
Even so, stated so baldly, it did seem surprising that something so potentially serious could have been dropped so quickly. No, I wasn’t backing down in that regard. And the itch was itching fiercely.
‘Well, of course we did what we could for a while,’ Julia assured me. ‘Kept our eyes open; informed the obvious teachers in the PE and Drama departments to be on the look-out for cuts and scratches on her arms and legs and so on. But other than that, our hands were – and are – a bit tied.’ Julia spread her palms then. ‘And, well, since then, there’s been nothing to ring alarm bells. Yes, she’s a bit of a loner. Not a garrulous child. Keeps herself to herself. But this was back at the start of year seven and we’re now more than halfway through year eight, and, as I say, no one’s flagged up any cause for concern more recently.’
Yet, I thought. Yet. And I begged to differ. ‘I think there might be now,’ I said, hoping I didn’t sound as if I knew better, but at the same time aware that it needed to be said. ‘I think she’s still self-harming, just a lot more discreetly.’
‘Really?’ asked Julia, leaning forward in her seat, if not exactly pricking up her ears. It was always a delicate balancing act, trying to observe the protocols of position and seniority; it wasn’t up to me to try and tell her her job. ‘And what makes you think that, Casey?’
‘Not cutting,’ I quickly clarified. ‘Nothing like that. But she has got a bald patch on her head – quite a big one – and I watched her myself as she was pulling her own hair out; she’s not even really aware that she’s doing it. I know that in itself doesn’t scream self-harm – it’s more like a tic – but given what you’ve just told me about her history of self-harming, I’m even more inclined to think than I was when I got in here that there’s some underlying problem still present. And she’s clearly come into school exhausted this morning.’
Julia picked up a pen and clicked the end a couple of times as she thought; a little tic of her own. Then she nodded. ‘I take your point. We certainly shouldn’t ignore it. And you never know, if you have a couple of hours with her, you might get her to open up – sniff out whatever’s to be sniffed out in your usual Sherlocky style. But what about the other kids you’ve got coming tomorrow? Shall we run through them quickly now together?’
I shook my head. ‘Don’t worry now,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you can spare me ten minutes at the end of the day instead? Or first thing tomorrow?’
Like me, Julia was invariably in early. In a job that often meant being reactive once the children were put into the equation, there was a lot to be said for having 30 or so precious minutes at either end of the day in which you could be proactive instead, not to mention time to organise your thoughts. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Just come and find me – I’ll be here. And right now, you need to get that sandwich down you, don’t you? Mind you, a hot toddy would be preferable today, wouldn’t it? Honestly, Casey. It’s not on, this, is it? I mean, it’s not as if it’s –’
‘Rocket science?’ I supplied for her, grinning.
I checked my watch as I hurried back to the staff-room. We had a bank of computers there, in the quiet room that was just off the main communal area, and if there was one free, I probably had just enough time to log in before the bell went, and do a bit of speed-research as I ate.
And I was in luck. I was able to get onto one right away.
I never failed to be awed by the usefulness of the internet. Luddite that I was (most new technology tended to baffle me initially) I had come to really embrace the amazing free resource that was the plethora of information on the web. What would probably be taken for granted in no time at all was, at that time (for me, at any rate), an incredibly helpful tool. You had to be savvy about it, of course – there was probably plenty of mis-information on there too – but much to my own children’s consternation and horror, I’d enrolled
in a course at our local library during the last holidays; a kind of idiot’s guide or, as my son called it, ‘idiot old person’s guide’ to the magic of the internet. He might have laughed – and he did, like all smart-alec computer-savvy kids – but I’d actually found it very useful. I’d learned a lot; in fact I now considered myself able enough to even keep tabs on what the young people who came to me got up to when I allowed them to work on my computer in school – a teaching skill of increasing importance.
Having opened my typically impenetrable plastic sandwich wrapper as quietly as I could (you weren’t supposed to eat and drink near the computers) I typed ‘pulling out hair, children’ into the search engine. Up came the results, and the first was one long word: trichotillomania. Intrigued by the fancy name (I had to read it twice, slowly) I started to read.
What I learned immediately was that I was wrong to assume that Kiara’s hair pulling was a sign of continuing self-harm; in terms of something or nothing, perhaps it was a ‘nothing’ then. Because according to everything I was reading, it had nothing whatsoever to do with wanting to hurt oneself, or indeed give oneself a bald patch. It was a neurological condition, more like a compulsion than a habit – indeed a tic – and once started was extremely difficult to stop. It was more common in girls, apparently, and the usual age for onset was around 11, though it could apparently start earlier than that.
What did stand out, though, was that hair pulling wasn’t confined to any particular cultural or social group; even the happiest, most settled children could develop the compulsion, just as easily as an unhappy or abused child could. But as I’d suspected, it was a reaction to stress, and since that bald patch had clearly been there for a while, it was a stress that was ongoing.
So it was probably a case of finding out what form the stress took, and on that score I had little to go on. It might be something as straightforward as the start of puberty and anxiety about the changes that were going on inside Kiara; many girls developed issues with body-confidence around that time, and, physically, Kiara seemed quite a ‘young’ 12-year-old to me. It might be bullying – in which case, was it a response to the stress inherent in coming to school? Or was it home-based – something to do with her relationship with her mum? There could be so much going on that we didn’t know about, after all.
