The Silent Witness

by Casey Watson

  The ‘here’ in this case was, these days, a bureau-type unit that was part of our bigger ‘entertainment’ area. (Which now also housed the redundant karaoke machine, of course.) It was a bit cramped, but it was at least in a high-traffic area, which made it nigh-on impossible for anyone (should they want to – I hoped they didn’t) to nose around in anything unsavoury. Needs must, in the fostering game.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ Bella said, as if it had never occurred to her that it might be otherwise. Which was refreshing; more and more it seemed teenagers treated laptops as extensions of themselves, to be operated from laps – ideally hidden from view, in their bedrooms. But this didn’t seem to be the case with Bella, who, as far as I knew, had never owned a laptop – or else surely she’d have brought one along with her.

  I left her to it and went to the kitchen to make some porridge with syrup – something (in fact the only thing) Bella had so far expressed a liking for. And while I stirred, I thought about the email I’d been reading and the picture I was building up of her family life before the ‘crisis’ – for want of a better word. I still felt unable to find the right one, since it was still unconfirmed – would it all too soon become Bella’s stepfather’s killing?

  Whatever the future held, the past had clearly been a very unhappy place, and though she hadn’t apparently been on the receiving end of physical violence, emotionally it must have scarred her quite profoundly. To witness violence and aggression on such a regular basis can’t have made for a very happy life at all. And judging from the comments by the neighbour, Mrs Murphy, it was a crisis that was always going to happen.

  The porridge made, I went back into the living room, to find the screen filled not with homework, but with flowers. Or homework on flowers, which was possible. And then I realised.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said, ‘but I saw that your computer had a painting game on it, and I just thought I’d have a fiddle – I thought I might make a painting for my mum. Something I can take to her when they let me go and see her.’

  It was the first time she had mentioned her mother since telling Marley Mae she missed her on Christmas night. She’d not once said the word ‘mum’ to me. Which I naturally didn’t comment on.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘I wondered what it was.’ I leaned over her shoulder and peered closer. She’d done a great job; had produced a picture of a vase full of sunflowers that was obviously heavily inspired by van Gogh. But was still very much her own. She was obviously very creative. ‘That’s lovely!’ I told her. ‘Wow – I’ve never been able to manage anything like that on that app. Everything I’ve done has looked as though it was painted by a chimpanzee. A rubbish chimpanzee who’s blind in one eye.’ I got a little smile for that, which pleased me greatly. ‘Do you know how to save it?’ I went on. ‘We can print it out. I’m sure your mum is going to love it.’

  She saved the file (what was I like, trying to tell a twelve-year-old how to work a computer?), then turned and smiled again. ‘They’re her most favourite flowers in all the world. We planted some last summer – against the back wall of the house. And you should see them – they’re so tall. Right up to the bathroom window.’

  ‘Still?’ I said, quietly astonished by this torrent of conversation. ‘They’re still there?’

  Bella nodded. ‘They’re dead, but they’re still there. All brown. We need to chop them down and get the seeds out of the flower-heads so we can grow some more …’

  Her face fell and I could see what she was thinking, because her thought was written all over it. ‘And what about van Gogh?’ I said quickly. ‘Have you studied him in school?’

  ‘We did him back in primary school,’ she said. She sounded wistful. ‘And Mum bought me the painting of the sunflowers for my bedroom.’ She glanced back at the screen. ‘I should have brought it with me, shouldn’t I? Or had the lady go back for it. It’s only little …’

  ‘You know, you could always do an image search and find it, and we could print that out as well. Then you could pin it up on your noticeboard, couldn’t you? Anyway, porridge is ready, and you can carry on when you’re finished. Fine art’s every bit as good as school work, after all.’

  Bella followed me into the kitchen and sat and ate her breakfast while I sorted a load of washing, wondering about the relationship between the two. Wondering about what kind of person Bella’s mother might be. On the one hand a mother who’s engaged enough to grow sunflowers with her daughter, to buy an art print, to be involved, and on the other a woman who brawled drunkenly with her husband in the street. People, I decided, were endlessly complex and fascinating, and no one could ever be second-guessed.

  But there was still this little niggle. What sort of mother let her daughter witness such violence? She clearly loved Bella – well, I had no evidence that said she didn’t – and surely a woman who cherished her daughter would want to protect her from witnessing all that she had? Surely she would rather leave her man than put up with that. Or was it a case – as I’d seen so many times – of love being blind? Of that endless hope that one day he would change? Much as it seemed Bella’s mother was historically pretty feisty – always giving as good as she got, which in some ways was good – was she also a hopeless romantic? Well, till the heartstrings he’d tugged on had snapped. Bella had mentioned a visit. Was there really any likelihood of that happening? I hoped so, but was pragmatic. I thought not.

  It was the next day that I learned that if Adam Cummings himself hadn’t exactly changed, his clinical prognosis finally had. He had been deemed out of danger, it seemed. So he was consequently off the ventilator, out of his drug-induced coma and, by all accounts, expected to make a recovery.

  ‘A full one?’ I asked John, who’d phoned telling me he had news, and who I phoned back once Bella was safely in the shower. Another day, and since Tyler was now back in school another attempt was to be made on the wedding-dress front. Time and Riley’s nuptials waited for no one.

  ‘Not clear,’ John said. ‘You know what it’s like with head injuries. But sufficiently at this point to make a statement to the police, anyway. Of which the short version is that his wife attacked him without any provocation, and that he was sure it was with intent to do him serious harm. And the location of his major head wounds – which are at the back – would support that.’

  I felt relief wash over me. So no murder or manslaughter charge, then. But this was still at odds with Bella’s mother’s ‘self-defence’ version of events, and, given the background of mutual violence, her defence lawyers would have a job on, as she could realistically still be looking at a charge of attempted murder, and a long prison term.

  Sophie, Bella’s social worker, called me soon after, to arrange the best time to come and fill Bella in, on both her father’s condition and the severity of her mother’s current situation; a task I was only too happy wasn’t mine.

  ‘I’d like to come later today, if at all possible, Casey,’ Sophie told me. ‘You know what it’s like; walls have ears, the jungle drums, smoke signals and all that. The sooner she hears it from me, much the better.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Come tonight.’

  Though I privately wondered – who on earth else was going to pass anything like this on to Bella?

  Sophie was prompt enough – I think unfashionably early is the term – that when the doorbell went, Bella and Tyler were still eating their tea. And actually talking to each other, albeit mostly within the safe zone of Harry Potter.

  Which left us ten minutes to sit in the living room and have a quick, private chat – though there was little to say that hadn’t already been said, apart from Sophie’s desire to have this particular task over with. I didn’t blame her. It was good, certainly, that Bella’s stepdad was finally off the critical list, but what he’d apparently told the police made her mother’s situation one that was a great deal more critical. It also occurred to me that Bella herself, as a witness, could be asked to provide crucial evidence. Was she old en
ough to do that? Would they demand that she did? I suspected they could and, if necessary, would, whether it was by the counsel for the defence or the prosecution.

  But first things first, which was to avoid discussing any such depressing matters by chatting away about how different a house looked after Christmas, specially one as bedecked as ours had been. ‘I mean, seriously blingtastic. I couldn’t get over it,’ Sophie told me.

  Her last appearance here felt like a lifetime ago. I said so.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she said. ‘My mum was exactly like you.’ Which brought me up short – particularly the warm way she said it – because I’d got the impression that she had found it all a bit OTT and garish. She drove a very elegant BMW, after all.

  ‘Was?’ I said, her use of the past tense also hitting me like the proverbial sledge-hammer.

  She nodded. ‘It took me straight back. Honestly, for two pins, I could have moved right in along with Bella.’ A pause. ‘Seriously. We only lost her last spring. And you know what it’s like. No one had the heart to do anything really. But I was, like – Mum would be fuming about this lack of effort! But in the end –’ she shrugged. ‘What with my case-load and everything, I didn’t get around to doing anything either, so who am I to moan on at everyone else, eh?’ It was only then that I noticed the raggedy edge around her smile, and remembered her relentless mega-wattage on Christmas Eve. ‘Still, we got through it, me and dad. Sure it’ll be better next year.’

  My face must have given me away all too well. How young must this oh-so-young woman’s mother have died? ‘God,’ she said, reading me. ‘Honestly, it’s fine, Casey. Really. Though I’m booking myself in here for next year. Okay?’ And then she laughed.

  And with consummate professionalism, as soon as Bella appeared from the kitchen she arranged her features for the tough job she now had to do.

  It wasn’t fine at all. But her mother would have been so proud of her.

  Since I didn’t take Bella finding her voice with us for granted, my main concern was that she’d clam up with Sophie. And as she came in there was no doubt she was anxious and wary – as well she might be; every single phone call and visit and email might have life-changing consequences for her. And she was old enough and bright enough to know that. She might be braced for the news that her stepfather had died, even – I’d been on strict instructions not to discuss anything about him at all.

  Sophie put her at her ease straight away, though. ‘Bella, I’m here mainly to bring you good news,’ she began. ‘Your stepdad’s been taken out of the intensive care unit. He’s still very poorly, but he’s breathing on his own now and he’s expected to recover well eventually. Isn’t that good?’

  Bella nodded. ‘Thank you for letting me know,’ she said stiffly. ‘Does that mean my mum can come home now?’

  I was watching her like a hawk, and was aware that Sophie was doing likewise. After all, Bella’s testimony about what actually happened could now prove more important than ever.

  I could see the way Bella’s shoulders seemed to relax and how her demeanour subtly changed; from one of nervous anticipation, to one of relief. But now this key question. She was watching Sophie just as intently.

  Sophie glanced at me. ‘I’m afraid that isn’t clear yet, Bella,’ she said gently. Immediately Bella’s demeanour changed again. She looked anxious, angry even.

  ‘But you know what?’ Sophie went on. ‘You could go and visit your stepdad now, if you want to. You know, in hospital. Not on your own,’ she added quickly, and I could see that, like me, she was trying to read Bella’s expression. ‘I’d be the one to take you, of course. I’m sure he’d be so pleased to –’

  ‘Why would I want to go and visit him?’ Bella said. ‘If it wasn’t for him, my mum wouldn’t be in prison! My stepfather is a drunk,’ she said then, and with such disgust that I think it took both of us aback. It was definitely the first time she’d come straight out and expressed a strong emotion about him. She sounded eerily adult. I could hear an echo, too. Your stepfather is a drunk.

  ‘Sweetie –’ Sophie began. Bella gave her a look that might just as well have said, ‘Don’t you “sweetie” me.’

  ‘If he wasn’t a drunk,’ she pointed out, ‘there wouldn’t be all the fights. And if there weren’t all the fights my mum wouldn’t have had to do the thing she did, would she? To stop him killing her. Anyway, why not?’

  ‘Why not what?’ Sophie answered.

  ‘Why can’t my mum be let out of prison?’ Her voice sounded more child-like again, not to mention wobbly. ‘If he’s going to be okay, then why can’t she come home?’

  Sophie seemed caught off balance by Bella’s concise case history (which struck me as being spot on, in all probability; chaotic families so often shared the same sorry dynamic), and I wondered if she had already been directed as to how to answer her not unreasonable question. Would she be allowed to intimate that it was a question Bella herself could help answer, by telling the police what she’d seen? Apparently, yes.

  ‘Sweetheart, I have to be honest with you about this. Yes, it’s gr– um, good that your stepdad is going to be okay, isn’t it?’ She paused. Bella didn’t even grace the comment with a nod, much less agree. ‘But your mum still has a very serious charge against her. As things stand, she is going to be tried for’ – another pause – ‘attempting to kill your stepfather. It’s very serious, Bella. Even though your mum says that’s not the case, as you already know.’ Yet another pause. Bella’s eyes were locked onto Sophie’s, as if held there by a tractor beam. ‘Which is why it’s now going to go to trial, and this is where you come in, sweetheart. Anything you can remember about that night is going to be vitally important. Any tiny little thing. I know you’re scared to talk about it. I know it’s probably very upsetting for you to even think about it, but … oh, sweetheart, don’t. Come on. Don’t cry … Come here.’ She held her arms out. ‘Come here,’ she said again.

  Bella brushed Sophie’s arms aside, blind with tears now, and fled the room.

  ‘So, that went well, then,’ Sophie said, staring after her.

  The bout of distressed tears was, thankfully, short-lived. By the time I’d seen Sophie out (after we both agreed it was only to be expected) and gone up to comfort Bella, her sobs had quieted to no more than the odd sniffle, and she was already sitting cross-legged on the bed, scouring her face with a tissue.

  ‘I understand, love,’ I told her, sitting down beside her. ‘This must be all so distressing for you.’ She sniffed agreement rather than answered, so I carried straight on. ‘It’s good news about your stepdad – there’s that at least, isn’t there? Or is that not good news, Bella?’ I added on impulse, seeing the way her expression hardened. She let her features settle. A stupid question. She was hardly going to admit to me that she wished him dead, was she? ‘But you know, as far as your mum’s concerned, Bella, Sophie’s right – you might be able to help her. Whatever you saw happen between them … you know, you can help her defence lawyers paint a better picture. Any little thing you remember. Anything they said. Anything your dad said to your mum –’

  ‘Stepfather,’ she said firmly. ‘He’s not my dad. He’s my stepfather.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘Sorry. My mistake. But you know, Bella, if you –’

  ‘I didn’t see anything,’ she said. ‘Casey, I didn’t see anything. Why do I have to keep saying the same thing over and over again? I didn’t see anything!’

  Except perhaps her mother, wielding a heavy object, hitting her stepfather. If I were Bella, in such a nightmare, would I have told on my mum?

  I put my arm around her and she didn’t try to wriggle herself free.

  There was nothing to be said. No point in platitudes about it all working out okay. So I offered none.

  ‘I know. Tough times, sweetie, eh?’ I said, kissing her head. ‘And I promise. No more questions, okay?’

  Later that evening, with the kids in bed, and the spectre of Sophie’s visit having taken
itself off elsewhere, I decided to embark on a bit of soul-nourishing wedding shopping – favours and twiddly bits and fripperies and so forth – while Mike settled down to watch some road-rage programme that inexplicably mesmerised him.

  And, straight away, I noticed that there were a whole load of tabs open, following Bella’s belated homework session before she went to bed.

  Except they seemed entirely unrelated to Key Stage 3, unless the syllabus had changed radically in the last couple of years. As I looked into Bella’s browsing history, I could immediately see what she’d actually been doing, which seemed to have been taking a spin around English law. She’d searched ‘criminal law’, ‘attempted murder’, ‘self-defence’ and ‘sentences’, not to mention getting ahead of herself and also asking the search engine ‘Is having a trial by jury best?’ She’d also been on Facebook, which had my ears pricking immediately. Sophie had made it clear to her – she’d told us – that she’d told Bella she mustn’t go on Facebook. Well, not mustn’t so much, because she could really only advise her. Any mustn’t would have to come from us, as part of any house rules. Which, of course, I’d never imagined I’d need to implement. Not with this child. But here she was, going on social media anyway. Perhaps she simply couldn’t resist it. Perhaps she felt compelled to find out what was happening while she was holed up with us. But if so, who was she talking to? I wondered. And about what, and to what extent? If to any great one, then – to borrow Sophie’s parlance – walls would most certainly have ears. And what, if anything, might she have put on her wall?

  But as the log-in screen was blank, the fields not pre-populated, I realised it could have just as easily been Tyler on Facebook. Or even Mike, who had finally dipped his toe into social media and engaged with it at least three times a year.