The Foster Child

by Jenny Blackhurst

  She says this with such a fond smile at Lucy it makes me feel even more like an outsider. ‘Yes, she’s been lovely, thanks.’

  ‘We’ve come for your secret key,’ Lucy tells her, and Joy makes a mock-horrified face. ‘Don’t worry, we’re not fly-tipping.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to tip yet.’ I smile. ‘It looks like Emily took everything with her.’ I wince, immediately regretting the insinuation that their ex-colleague is a thief.

  Lucy and Joy exchange a look. ‘Yes, well, we can hardly fire her now, can we?’ Joy jokes. ‘Here you go, stock up.’ I sit for most of the morning at my new desk, watching as IT plug and unplug bits of hardware and try unsuccessfully to get my log-in credentials to work. At one point a photograph-sized piece of paper flutters to the ground when the IT apprentice struggles to pull the desk away from the wall. I pick it up; it is a close-up of a smiling young woman about my age, arms wrapped around a good-looking bloke. They look as though they are on holiday, bare arms and fresh tans.

  ‘Is this Emily?’ I ask, spinning on my swivel chair to show Lucy the picture. She turns and cranes her neck.

  ‘Yes, that’s her. Pretty, isn’t she? And that’s Jamie, the bloke she left to get married to. He’s a right dish.’

  ‘Loaded too, I presume?’ I ask, cringing at how gossipy my voice already sounds. One morning in a communal office and I sound like a different person.

  Lucy’s face is a puzzled frown. ‘I don’t think so. Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, because who quits work to get married these days? I mean, unless she moved away to live somewhere else . . .’

  Lucy shakes her head. ‘She didn’t say. To be honest, I was surprised too, but I never got the chance to ask her. She went off sick and didn’t come back.’ She lowers her voice. ‘That’s what most people here do if they’re looking for a new job. We get full sick pay for six months.’

  I nod as though this makes perfect sense, although I’ve long given up trying to work out how the minds of adults work. Why someone can’t just look for a job while they’re still in their current one is beyond me.

  ‘So how did you know she got married?’

  ‘HR told us. It’s weird, though, she hasn’t changed her name on Facebook, and she took us all off her friends list. Not that I really care, but I thought we were quite good mates. At work, at least.’

  ‘All ready.’ The IT apprentice taps the top of the computer and I swing around to face him.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say with a grin. ‘Better do some work now, I suppose.’ I glance at the clock – half an hour to get myself set up before my first meeting with my new boss, so for now the gossip will have to wait.

  14

  Ellie

  The house is unnaturally silent for this time of night, and Ellie likes it. In this new life of hers she so rarely has time to bask in the quiet that she never even realised that she enjoyed it before. Or maybe she didn’t; maybe it is only now, now that everything is always noise and colours and constant people, that she has learned to really appreciate the silence.

  Her foster carers, Sarah and Mark Jefferson, are with Billy the Mean at parents’ evening, leaving Ellie and Mary home alone. Mary is fifteen, and so she’s allowed to be in charge of Ellie for a few hours, or so Sarah says, even though Ellie is sure she won’t mention it at the social worker’s visit. Billy is sly and vindictive and almost certain to get a glowing report at the school; they are all too stupid to see what he can be like when there are no grown-up eyes on him. The school, Sarah and Mark . . . only Ellie knows what he’s really like; even Mary says he’s just harmless – mixed up and sad – but that’s Mary for you, always trying to see the best in everyone.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  When she hears the sharp clinking against the window pane, Ellie isn’t afraid. The worst has already happened to her – she is nearly impossible to scare. She imagines that it is the long hooked talons of a scaly black-eyed demon strumming a rhythm on the glass.

  Let me in, let me in, little Ellie, he is saying. Let me in and I’ll be your best friend. Let me in and I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.

  Why should I trust you?

  Well who else can you trust?

  It is when she hears the voices that Ellie realises it isn’t the clicking of a demon’s fingernails against her window. It is the sound of stones snapping against the glass. She gets out of bed, crosses the room and peels back the curtains.

  Underneath a street lamp on the pavement outside stands a group of seven girls. It’s dark, and Ellie doesn’t recognise any of their faces – she hasn’t been at her new school long; she barely knows anyone, since none of them will even speak to her. But she knows that these girls are not here to make friends with her.

  One of them looks up, sees her face at the window and points. Through the glass Ellie hears the girl hiss, ‘There she is. The witch.’

  The rest of them look up as one. One of them shouts, ‘Come down, witch!’ and they all begin to laugh and chatter, all except one, who is staring up at the window, her face blank and unreadable. Now Ellie recognises her. Naomi Harper. Of all the girls there, it is she who sends goose bumps up Ellie’s arms. There is a real meanness in Naomi’s eyes, a meanness Ellie has seen to a smaller degree in Billy. Even from this distance Ellie knows that she is here tonight to cause harm. She won’t go down, she won’t give them what they want. But what if they come up here? Is she certain that Sarah and Mark locked the doors when they went to parents’ evening earlier?

  It is Naomi who starts the chant, low and quiet at first, then louder as the other girls join in, all staring up at the window as they sing.

  ‘One, two, Ellie’s coming for you. Three, four, better lock your door . . .’

  Ellie recognises the tune and words from a rhyme she heard in a scary movie back in her old life, when Jessica George invited her to a sleepover and they sneaked A Nightmare on Elm Street out of her dad’s DVD collection. They barely made it halfway through when, screaming, Jessica ejected the DVD and threw it out of the window into the garden beyond. That seems like a lifetime ago now, the fear they had then so childish and innocent.

  Ellie bangs loudly on the window to make them stop, and one of the girls screams like she’s been struck. The noise is such that it brings Mary in from her own bedroom and she rushes over to the window to see what’s going on below.

  ‘What is it, Ellie?’ she asks, peering out. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’

  She disappears from the room as fast as she came in, and Ellie waits to see if she will emerge from the front door into the street below. She prays Mary won’t do anything stupid in her defence. She would rather these children were here all night singing their stupid song than that Mary got hurt trying to defend her. She is a full four years older than Ellie, but a couple of these girls look older too, and there are more of them.

  The front door doesn’t open and Mary doesn’t emerge onto the street below. Instead she pushes her way back into Ellie’s bedroom, hauling a washing-up bowl, water slopping over the sides and landing on the carpet.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Ellie asks, watching her in fascination.

  ‘I’m going to teach them a lesson,’ Mary tells her. ‘They need to know that they can’t mess around with you, otherwise they’ll be doing it all year.’

  She balances the bowl precariously on the windowsill and then, realising she can’t let go of it to open the window, gestures with her head at the handle. ‘Open that, Ellie.’

  Ellie fumbles with the window and then pushes it open as wide as she can. As quick as a flash, Mary hurls the water out at the girls on the street. Screams echo as it hits the pavement, soaking one, splashing the rest, and the two girls in the room turn to one another, both grinning.

  ‘Now piss off!’ Mary yells out of the window. ‘Or I’ll be throwing something worse than water at you little cowbags.’

  The girls scatter and then run away, shouting over their shoulders as they
do so, ‘Witch!’ Naomi stops halfway down the street and looks up directly up at where Ellie is looking out of the still-open window. Her expression is no longer unreadable; it is now one of fury.

  ‘This isn’t over, witch!’ she screams.

  Ellie places a hand against the cold window pane. Her features feel as though they have been carved from stone. She stares at Naomi Harper and sees the expression on her face change from hunter to hunted. Her eyes widen in shock and she stumbles backwards, just as she did in town. Ellie jerks her head forward as though launching an attack, and Naomi turns and runs into the night.

  Mary places the empty washing-up bowl on the floor and pulls Ellie into a hug. ‘They’re just being horrible because you’re different,’ she tells her, squeezing her tightly. ‘You don’t talk much and your background is all mysterious. If they don’t have all the facts, they start making them up. And the stuff they make up is usually much more inventive than the truth.’

  ‘They were saying that I’m a witch,’ Ellie says, and her voice sounds detached, as though she is hearing snatches of a conversation through a closed door.

  ‘It only takes one of them,’ Mary explains. ‘That’s the way it works. It only takes one mean little bitch like Naomi Harper to start some rumour, and it’s like a huge game of Chinese whispers. They are stupid little idiots. All they’ve heard is that you survived a fire when your parents and brother died. And who else survives fires? Witches. That’s how pathetic they are. That’s all it takes for them.’

  ‘Stupid girls,’ Ellie spits, and she is talking more to herself than to her sister. ‘Witches don’t survive fires. Witches burn in fires; that’s how they used to kill them when they didn’t drown.’

  ‘That’s what I mean, Ellie, about you being different. Normally eleven-year-olds don’t talk about people burning alive. They hear you survived a fire and they think of witches. They don’t know all the details of the Salem witch trials.’

  ‘My mum told me about them,’ Ellie explains. ‘She said that a long time ago one of our ancestors was burned at the stake. The villagers didn’t trust her because she used to heal people with herbs. That was enough for them to think that she was a witch.’

  ‘And the fact that you’re a bit quiet, and people don’t know a lot about your past, is enough for them to decide that you’re a witch now,’ Mary says with a shrug. ‘Not much has really changed, has it?’

  Ellie thinks about this, about the women her mother told her about, put on trial for witchcraft for simply being different to everyone else. She never imagined for one second that people would be that way now. Or that it would be her put on trial for being a witch.

  Mary strokes her hair, cups her chin and lifts Ellie’s face to meet her gaze. ‘Listen, Ellie, don’t worry about it. Hopefully they’ll go home soaking wet, and think about what happened tonight and realise how stupid they’ve been. Or at the very least realise that you’ve got someone on your side who won’t stand for them treating you like that. And if anything is said about this in school, I’ll kick their asses myself. I won’t have them treating you like this, Ellie. You’re my little sister now and I’m going to look after you.’

  Ellie tries to smile, but the anger inside her runs too deep. ‘Yes,’ she murmurs. ‘Like you said, I’m sure they’ll get bored of it eventually, I’m sure they’ll find someone else to focus their attentions on.’ If they know what’s good for them.

  ‘Well if they don’t,’ Mary says, ‘if you get any more trouble when I’m not around, you just try your best to stick up for yourself. You know you can do it. And then tell me and I’ll make sure it gets sorted out.’

  ‘Shall I tell Sarah what happened?’

  Mary shakes her head. ‘Not yet. Let’s try and take care of Naomi ourselves first, hey? When adults get involved, things just seem to get messed up.’

  When Ellie was little, her mother gave her a worry monster. She would write all her worries down and stick them in his mouth, and then in the morning they were gone. She wishes she had her worry monster with her now. She imagines its pointed felt teeth morphing into gleaming fangs, watches in her mind as they sink themselves into Naomi Harper’s throat, bright red blood dripping from the deep puncture wounds. She knows that tonight she will dream of Naomi.

  15

  Imogen

  ‘Imogen, I’m so sorry I’m late.’

  I’ve been in the meeting room for ten minutes when Edward Tanners bustles in clutching a dog-eared A4 notebook and a mug of something hot. I didn’t have time to get a drink – I was too afraid of not being able to find the room and being late to stop at the canteen on the way. Edward, to his credit, notices my glance at the mug.

  ‘Oh, do you want one? Has someone shown you the canteen? I’m so sorry I haven’t been around much this morning; I’ve been in partnership meetings back to back since nine. If I never hear the words “performance targets” again it will be too soon.’

  I smile politely. ‘I’m fine, honestly. Lucy has shown me where everything is and IT have me all set up and ready to go.’

  ‘Christ, you must have the magic touch – IT is usually day four or five at least.’ He smiles in a way that screams #jokingnotjoking. ‘And I’m glad Lucy is helping you settle in; you’ll be working quite closely with her and the rest of the team. We’re all supposed to have our own caseloads here, but it’s not like the private sector: there’s four of us to do the work of six, and for a while there’s only been three of us. We have to be a close team and luckily we have a really good one.’ He smiles genuinely this time and I get the impression that this, at least, is true. For all the differences here that will take getting used to, the team’s easy, relaxed nature towards one another is going to be one of the more positive ones.

  ‘It seems great. I’m looking forward to working with everyone.’

  ‘Speaking of working . . .’ Edward opens his notebook and jots the date at the top; I follow suit. ‘We take referrals from several out-of-town schools as well as Gaunt. You and Lucy will take on the school referrals, Jemma and Charlie the vulnerable-adults cases, but you can expect to move between the two when necessary. Does that sound okay?’

  ‘Perfect. How do we allocate the cases?’

  ‘We have a planning meeting every second Tuesday to divide the workload, but if urgent cases come in between them, we tend to take them on an ad hoc basis depending on who’s free.’

  I take that to mean ‘whoever picks up the phone’ and nod. ‘Okay. Are there any outstanding cases you would like me to take on from my predecessor?’

  Edward hesitates for a second. ‘There are a couple of referrals the team haven’t managed to fit in; I’ll email the details over. The team tend to manage their own diaries, and we’ll show you the case file program we use to keep everyone updated in case someone wins the lottery and ups and leaves.’

  I smile, trying to look super-duper keen. ‘Well at least you don’t have to worry about me running off to get married.’ I hold up my hand. ‘Already done and I’m still here.’

  Edward looks confused. ‘Why would getting married make you leave work?’ His face falls. ‘We don’t frown on marriage here.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I falter. ‘It’s just that I thought that’s why Emily left. I was just joking . . .’

  Edward nods enthusiastically. ‘Of course, I see what you mean! Ha! It does seem a bit odd, doesn’t it? I’d almost forgotten.’ He pushes his chair out. ‘Right, I’m sorry this is a short introduction, but I have meetings all afternoon as well – it’s coming up to the end of the month.’ He shrugs as if this explains everything. ‘Tammy from HR is going to do all the boring health-and-safety stuff with you this afternoon, and I’ve arranged for you to shadow Lucy on a couple of her visits later on in the week. I’ll send over those cases for you to have a look at, and just give me a call or drop me an email if you need any extra info or you’re unsure of anything at all.’

  He stands and I do the same, feeling a little blindsided by the abrupt
ending to the meeting.

  ‘It’s great to have you on board, Imogen. We’re really excited to have someone of your experience and background on the team.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply to his retreating back. ‘Great to be here.’

  16

  Imogen

  ‘How did it all go today?’ Dan hands me a mug of tea and arranges himself on the sofa next to me. ‘No salt in your tea? Cling film on the toilet seat?’

  I grin. ‘It wasn’t my first day at school, Dan. They were all really nice to me.’ I pretend to look over my shoulder. ‘Unless they stuck a “kick me” sign on my back that I didn’t notice.’

  ‘I peeled it off when you came in,’ he jokes. ‘The urge to kick you was too tempting with it there.’

  I swat at him with my mug-free hand. ‘How about you? Get any best-selling novels written today? What with your inspiring change of scenery and all that.’

  ‘Two.’ He reaches out and pulls my feet up onto his lap, begins massaging one of them. I let out a groan of appreciation and shift to get myself comfortable. ‘You were right about this place, it really is a perfect country town.’

  I wince inwardly, sure that I’ve never used the word ‘perfect’ in all the times I’ve described my home town. I think of how often I felt out of place here in the past, all the times I dreamt of escaping Gaunt for good. Then when I finally did, I ended up being drawn back here like a moth to a flame. I’m telling myself it was a necessity – who pays to rent when they have inherited a home in the country? But being back here, I’m wondering if it wasn’t something more. A matter of unfinished business.

  ‘And a great place to raise a family,’ Dan adds when I don’t speak. ‘Did you look at the maternity policies?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I retort, not even trying to keep the sarcasm from my voice. ‘The first thing I did when I got to my desk was print out the whole staff handbook and double-underline the maternity benefits.’