Crying in the Dark

by Shane Dunphy

  Her name was Sylvie. I had worked with her in a residential children’s home while I was still a student. As a student, I was not permitted to act as a key-worker, but I had developed a very close bond with her, nonetheless. She had called me her ‘minder’ – her protector. At that time she had just been taken into care, the victim of a psychiatrically disturbed mother, abandoned by her father, and the experience had been a traumatic one for her. I used to read to her before she went to bed, an activity we both looked forward to. She had loved the story of Cinderella – especially the notion of having a fairy godmother, someone watching over you and looking after you all the time. She asked me one evening, snuggled up on my knee as I read her the story, if I believed there really was such a thing as a fairy godmother. I told her that, yes, I liked to think that there was. The world had never been kind to Sylvie, and she needed all the comfort she could get. Judging by what I was seeing, her fairy godmother had been sorely negligent in her duties.

  I did some quick sums in my head. She had been four when I had worked with her. That meant that now she couldn’t be much more than thirteen. As I watched, a couple of men walked up and stopped to talk to the girls. I was torn: I could not handle Mina and this waif at the same time. I hadn’t seen Sylvie in almost ten years – she may not even have remembered me. She would never have come with me right off. I would have had to talk to her for an hour or more, and even then it might have been a waste of time. I wasn’t even a hundred per cent certain she was on the game, although it was starting to look more and more like a dead cert. Cursing myself for what I had to do, I got in and drove away without looking back. Sylvie would have to wait.

  Mina would neither look at me nor speak to me on the drive home. I tried talking to her for a while, then gave up and focused on my own thoughts. I pushed Sylvie to the back of my mind, and considered what had just happened with Mina. My head was awhirl with the possibilities, none of which was good. Had Mina been running away to meet that man? Was she having a relationship with him? Had he in some manner inveigled his way into the Abled-Disabled Club or the workshop and coerced her into a sexual relationship? Had she just run into him by accident this afternoon, and they had got together? She was obviously a regular in The Sailing Cot. How had she even found the place? What had brought her there initially? She was, according to the barman, known as having ‘an eye for the fellas’. Was she purposely going out to meet men? I had no answers to any of these questions, and Mina was not making any effort to enlighten me. I pulled up outside her house, and she opened the door and got out without a word. I followed her up the drive and waited while her mother answered the door.

  Mina shot past her and straight up the stairs. Her mother stood at the door, her mouth open, gazing after her daughter and then looking back at me.

  ‘My God … you … you found her!’

  ‘Can we go inside and sit down, Molly? I need to talk to you both, and what I have to say isn’t pretty.’

  She showed me into the living room, where Dirk was already standing, looking pale and worried.

  ‘Thank you for bringing my daughter home, Shane. About this afternoon …’

  ‘Let’s not go over that, Dirk. I was as much an ass as you were. Just listen to me now. There’s some things we need to go over.’

  I told them how I had found Mina, what had happened in the grotty pub by the river, and described the thin man. They sat through it all, never saying a word. When I was finished, Dirk, whose Adam’s apple had been bobbing like a cork in a basin of water, swallowed and took a deep breath.

  ‘Well, I’m devastated. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to bring you such bad news.’

  ‘Well, she’s home now.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t think that there would be any point in trying to talk to her just at the moment. Let her have her space. I’ll come by tomorrow. Perhaps she’ll talk to you in the meantime, but I doubt it. Let’s just hope she opens up soon. There are a lot of questions that need answering.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she’s got whatever it is out of her system, Shane. I doubt that we’ll have any more trouble with her now.’

  ‘I don’t know. I wish I could agree, but there’s something odd happening. I don’t know what it is yet. There are just too many coincidences. Nothing adds up.’

  ‘I’d really prefer it if we just leave it, Shane,’ Molly said.

  I had almost forgotten she was there. I looked over at her, and saw that she was crying. I felt for her, but I was strongly getting the sense that neither of them was surprised by this turn of events. They were desperately embarrassed that I had tracked her down, horrified that I knew the dirty little secret, but not at all surprised that I had found their daughter in a clinch with a filthy man in a seedy pub in a dangerous part of the city.

  ‘With respect, Molly, we can’t leave it. Mina has been going out and, intentionally or under duress, I don’t know which, has been giving herself to men. And not nice, pleasant, gentlemen, but men who want to use her, who want to take advantage of this vulnerable young woman. Now I don’t think that we can just pretend that this hasn’t happened. We need to talk to her about it, have her medically checked out to see that she hasn’t picked up any sexually transmitted infections, maybe get her some counselling. There are courses, specially designed for people with intellectual disabilities, called “body awareness programmes”, which can help Mina to have a better understanding of her sexuality. We have a huge range of things to do now. This is just the beginning.’

  ‘Thank you for your help, Shane.’ Dirk stood up and extended his hand. ‘I think Molly and I had best be getting off to bed. It’s been a trying day for all of us.’

  At the door I turned and looked him hard in the eye.

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on here, Dirk. But I do know that Mina is hurting, and that she seems to be trapped in a cycle of behaviour that is going to end up with her being hurt a whole lot more. Don’t try and brush it under the carpet. The only way to deal with this is to talk about it.’

  He looked at me for a moment, and I thought he was going to answer me. I could see that he was fighting to keep his composure, that he was on the edge of collapsing. But he just cleared his throat, patted me firmly on the shoulder and said: ‘Goodnight, Shane.’

  I sat in the car and lit up a cigarette. Night had come down, and the street-lights shed a sickly yellow glow over the finely manicured street. I felt tired and old. But there was one final thing I had to do before I could go home. Now that Mina was safe, my thoughts turned to Sylvie. I swung the car around, and went back to the docks.

  The corner where the four girls had been was empty. I parked up the street a bit and switched off the engine. The docks still thundered on with the sounds of people whose lives revolved around better, brighter things. I switched on the radio, fiddled with the dial and found a jazz programme. Charles Mingus hollered Hog Call Blues out of the speakers. Not exactly gentle, but good. I sat and smoked and waited. The glow from the street-lamps was just as yellow here as it had been on Garibaldi Street. People came and went, but the girls appeared to be long gone. I waited another hour and then went home, cursing myself all the way.

  When I got back to my apartment, I opened all the windows to let in some air. The sounds of the street filtered up, and somehow that made me seem less alone. I felt soiled and grimy. I dug out Mingus’s Oh Yeah and put it on loud, then went into the shower and stood under the spray for almost an hour. Wrapped in a towel, I made a long drink and sat on the couch in the dark as the music played and the night dragged on and somewhere out there a little girl who had once thought of me as her minder did tricks for freaks. Sometime after midnight I slept. If I dreamed, I don’t remember.

  PART TWO

  Wayfaring Stranger

  I am a wayfaring stranger

  Travelling through this world of woe.

  And neither toil, nor grief, nor danger

  Are in this world to which I go.

>   I’m going there to see my father

  And all my loved ones who’ve gone on

  I’m just going over Jordan;

  I’m just going over home.

  Poor Wayfaring Stranger, TRADITIONAL FOLK SONG

  (FROM THE SINGING OF JOHNNY CASH)

  6

  Sunlight, in a concentrated beam full of swirling dust-motes, came into the office I shared with Loretta. The window looked out on the overgrown rear garden, the tumbling vines and swaying, sinuous shrubs a mirror of my inner chaos.

  It was just before nine in the morning, and I didn’t know if Loretta would be in. I had called to Dunleavy House only a couple of times since taking up the job, and so had no idea of my colleagues’ routines. A pile of just-opened post sat at my elbow, all of it reports and documentation on my three Cases: articles of information which were missing from the files Ben had given me. I sorted them into chronological order and put them in their relevant folders. It took me ten minutes, and then I sat there, wondering what the hell else I could do. Administration has never been my strong suit, but I felt that I should be doing something. I had come in early to write up a report on the previous day’s experiences with Mina and the Walshes, which proved to be a short job. I finally accepted that there wasn’t really anything else for me to do, and went to get a coffee.

  Benjamin was seated in the kitchen when I went in, reading The Irish Times, drinking a cup of green tea and eating a muffin.

  ‘There you are,’ he said as I went to the coffee machine. ‘How has it been going?’

  I sat opposite him and ran a hand through my hair, sighing deeply.

  ‘Slower than I’d like, if I’m honest.’

  ‘They’re three difficult cases. You have them because you have the necessary skills. You’ll get there.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

  ‘What do you make of the Byrnes?’

  ‘Have you met them?’

  ‘I meet all the children who get referred to us.’

  ‘Then you’ll know that they are a complete mess.’

  ‘I knew you’d like them,’ he smiled, sipping his tea and popping a piece of muffin into his mouth.

  ‘I’ll admit that I’m fascinated.’ I paused, my mind suddenly full of questions I wanted to ask Ben. ‘Do you think it’s accurate to say that they’re feral children? I mean, the term “feral” in this context really means unsocialized.’

  Socialization, as I mentioned earlier, is the process of learning how to behave in a society through living within that society. It involves all the things we learn from our parents: language, how to eat using a knife and fork, toilet training; as well as the patterns of behaviour we pick up from the wider community: moral codes, religion and fashion trends, to mention but a few.

  ‘They have language of a kind,’ I continued. ‘I think that it’s fairer to say that what they really lack are social skills.’

  ‘What about the fact that they run about on all fours?’

  ‘Not all the time. They walk upright far more often. Part of me has been wondering if they affect the animalistic behaviour to scare people. The snarls, the clawing, that whole pattern seems to me to be more a defence mechanism. Who’s going to want to fuck with two wolf-children?’

  ‘I’d go for that if it didn’t seem so ingrained,’ Benjamin said. ‘You can’t just decide to play at being a were-wolf or a monkey or whatever it is they’re meant to be, and within a couple of months be able to catch wild birds with your bare hands. It’s an interesting theory, and I think it may have become a defensive behaviour, but my bet is that there’s something much deeper at work.’

  ‘Any suggestions as to how to isolate it, so that we can begin to form relationships with them, because, as of a couple of days ago, things have not improved one iota?’

  ‘What have you been trying?’

  ‘Well, based on the knowledge that they’ve been confined in a shed for long periods of time and seem to get very edgy and claustrophobic when cooped up indoors, I’ve been working with them outside. They’re certainly happier outdoors – the problem is that Rivendell has fairly big grounds, and once they get outside they’re off like wildfire, usually ending up perched in a tree. Their two key-workers have been attending the sessions, seeing as how they’re the ones who are constants in the children’s lives, and they’ve both worked really hard, but they’re getting frustrated. I spent the last session halfway up a goddam conifer, talking to the twins.’

  ‘Only halfway up?’

  ‘The branches wouldn’t hold my weight any higher, Ben. Larry and Francey are undersized for their age. They can sit on twigs and not break them.’

  ‘How has the violence been since you got involved?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s been anything major since that first night.’

  ‘And wouldn’t you call that progress?’

  ‘I’d love to, but I think that what’s happening is that they’re running off all their energy out in the garden, tormenting us.’

  ‘Don’t sell yourself short. Keep doing what you’re doing. Sounds to me like they may be taking in more than they’re letting on.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘I’d be very surprised if there isn’t some kind of breakthrough within the next week or so. You’ve been staying with it, even when they’ve made it difficult for you. They punched you in the face, and instead of running away, you came back for more. They climb up a tree, you climb up after them. You have made more of an effort to be their friend than anyone else has, and, in doing so, you’ve brought along those key-workers, who by extension have shown the desire to work with the twins regardless of how badly they behave. The twins will have noticed, and are probably quite puzzled. They’re waiting for the bubble to burst, expecting someone to resort to violence. It’ll take time for them to realize that no one in Rivendell will do that to them.’

  ‘Well, I hope that it happens soon, because Olwyn and Karena are starting to lose all faith in me. They seemed to think that I would come on board, wave a magic wand and make everything all right. They’ve been sorely disappointed.’

  ‘Perhaps you need to give them more credit than that. They know that there are no certainties. Have you asked them how they’ve experienced the sessions so far?’

  ‘Olwyn has more often than not been in tears by going-home time. Karena is always very quiet.’

  ‘You should probably be doing some debriefing with them. Treat them like your team. Don’t neglect them because you’re worried about what they’re thinking of you.’

  ‘You’re right. I’ll have a coffee with them after today’s session.’

  ‘Why not do it first? Take some time, let them vent at you. Give them a session if you feel they need it. You’ve been working closely alongside these people now for a week or so. I’d say it’s time to talk with them, wouldn’t you?’

  I nodded and drained the last of my coffee. He was right, as usual. I’d been full of angst about what these childcare workers – my peers, effectively – were making of my painstakingly slow progress, and as a result I had neglected to communicate with them, despite the fact that they were finding the work so difficult. My focus was supposed to be on the children, but not to the detriment of their staff.

  ‘I’ll do that. Thanks, Ben.’

  ‘No problem. Look, you have my number. Let’s meet for a pint some night. D’you still play music?’

  ‘Yeah, when I can find the time.’

  ‘There’s a great little session on Crabbe Street, in The Minstrel Boy. Why don’t you come along next week, and I’ll introduce you. We could do with another musician. There’s no money, but they’ll stand us a few pints if they’re in a good mood.’

  I grinned. ‘That would be really great.’

  My mobile phone rang, a number I didn’t know flashing on the display. I apologized to Benjamin and answered it.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Shane, it’s Olwyn.’

  I could tell strai
ght away that she had been crying, but then that wasn’t unusual for her, so I didn’t put much pass on it.

  ‘Hey, Olwyn. I’m due to come out and see you later. Is there anything up?’

  She was sobbing.

  ‘I’ve fucked up, Shane. I’ve fucked up badly. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Okay. Where are you now?’

  ‘I’m not on shift until midday. I’m at home.’

  ‘Where do you want to meet me?’

  ‘Not here. I live with my mam.’

  ‘No problem. What about The People’s Park? We can walk and you can tell me what’s happened. See you in half an hour by the fountain?’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll be there.’

  She looked subdued and pale. She hadn’t bothered with the Gothic make-up, and was dressed in a simple blue T-shirt and jeans. I had brought along two cardboard cups of take-out coffee and some doughtnuts. She took the coffee, thanking me, but shook her head at the pastries.

  ‘So what’s up?’

  ‘Oh God, it’s hard. I’ve done something terrible.’

  ‘Hold on now. In childcare, because the stakes are so high, when we go wrong it always seems like it’s the worst kind of mistake that anyone could possibly make. And you know what? It rarely is. So start from the beginning, and tell me what’s happened since I saw you last.’

  She started to sob again and I put my arms around her. We stood there in the middle of the pathway and I didn’t say anything. There was no one else in the park except for a couple of dog-walkers, and they gave us a wide berth, embarrassed by the girl’s noisy unhappiness. To hell with them, I thought. They’d forget about us as soon as they’d gone past. After five or six minutes, she stepped back from me, wiping her nose and rubbing her eyes like a child. I took her arm and led her to a park-bench. She was fruitlessly searching for a tissue, so I pulled a small plastic packet from my pocket and handed it to her.