The Foster Child

by Jenny Blackhurst

  ‘Nearly there now,’ I promise. I reach out and place a hand on Mary’s knee. ‘Don’t worry, nothing will happen to her. I’ll make sure of it.’

  ‘I just can’t figure out who might have sent that text,’ Mary says. ‘I know the people here don’t exactly like Ellie – they have this weird, crazy theory that she’s evil. But it’s not Ellie who is evil. It’s this place.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Mary looks at me. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t feel it,’ she says. ‘Don’t tell me you can’t sense the evil spreading outwards like mould. I don’t know why anyone lives here. As soon as I’m old enough, I’m out of here and taking Ellie with me.’

  ‘It’s always been the same,’ I murmur. ‘It’s always felt like that here.’

  ‘What do you mean, always?’ Mary asks. ‘I thought you’d only just moved here?’

  I could kick myself at my stupidity. ‘I lived here when I was younger,’ I admit. ‘This is where I grew up, in Gaunt.’

  Mary’s eyes widen. ‘You lived here? And you left? Why the hell would you come back?’

  I shake my head. ‘My mother died and I inherited her house. Then I lost my old job, so moving here seemed the logical conclusion.’ I don’t know why I’m telling this to a fifteen-year-old girl. ‘But it’s not just that. It’s like you say, there’s something different about this place, something that pulls you back even though you don’t actually want to be here.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your mother.’

  ‘Thank you. We hadn’t spoken for a long time. I didn’t even go to her funeral. She wasn’t like a real mother. Not like yours.’

  ‘What, you reckon mine is the perfect mum?’ Mary scoffs. ‘You reckon taking in waifs and strays makes her some kind of saint?’

  ‘She’s got to be better than what I had.’ I shouldn’t be talking about this, discussing my past with a teenager. I gesture ahead as the woods come into view. ‘Whereabouts do you and Ellie go in?’

  Mary points. ‘Just up there on the right; there’s a little hole in a fence. We usually climb through that.’

  I drive slowly down the lane until I see the hole Mary is talking about. I pull over, tucking the car in as tight to the edge of the woods as I could manage, and swing open the door. ‘Come on then.’

  Mary hesitates. ‘Do I have to come with you?’

  ‘I haven’t got a clue where this clearing might be.’ I pause. I shouldn’t be dragging a teenager into the woods after school. Although technically she is the one dragging me. ‘I’d better call the police.’

  ‘No!’ Mary practically shouts. ‘They’ll take forever to get here. We’re here now, we need to just go in and get her.’

  We are at the fence, just about to climb through the tiny gap, when we hear the scream.

  68

  Ellie

  She smells the burning twigs and begins to scream. The crackling, the smoke, just like before. Only this time there’s no one to save her. This time she’s going to die.

  The clearing has gone quiet now, or maybe Ellie just can’t hear anything over the noise of her own screams. Where are they? Have they left her here? Or are they going to watch as she burns, like the witch they believe she is? She thinks about her mum and her dad and her brother and hopes this will be over quickly. Hopes that she will see them again soon. But despite wanting to be with them, despite wanting to see them again, she can’t help but fight against the ropes that bind her to the tree trunk. She can’t help screaming as the heat rises and she wonders when the pain will begin. Why has the power deserted her now? Is it her fear that stops her from being able to break the ropes?

  Tears run down her cheeks and into the gag over her mouth. Snot pours from her nose and she hopes that she will suffocate, suffocate quickly rather than burn. She’s afraid, more afraid than she was in the house, more afraid than she’s ever been in her life. Her bladder loosens and empties, warmth spreading down the leg of her trousers. Now she really is the smelly Ellie they already thought she was. But still the pain doesn’t come.

  And then she hears a voice. The voice of an angel, calling her name, but it’s not her mother. It’s a voice she knows well, it is Mary’s voice. Mary has come to save her! And then there is another voice – Imogen! Surely they will save her, surely they will not let her burn? But the voices aren’t close enough, they won’t reach her in time. The smoke is filling her lungs and she can’t breathe.

  Then fingers grasp her arms. Naomi? One of the boys? But no, Imogen’s voice is in her ear now, saying it’s okay, Ellie, we’ve got you. And the ropes around her, the ropes that pin her to the tree, loosen, slackening enough for her arms to move, and then she is falling away from the tree. Her legs won’t hold her up; they feel like jelly, useless. But strong arms hold her tightly, and it feels as though her mother is back, and she is being held in a way that she hasn’t been held in a long time.

  Deft fingers pull the tennis ball from her mouth, untying the fabric at the back of her head, and the cloth falls away from her eyes, but they are full of tears and they sting, and she can’t see a thing. Yet still the voice keeps whispering in her ear, it’s okay, I’ve got you. Imogen’s voice.

  Ellie’s body is racked with sobs. Once the tears come, she can’t stop them, loud, noisy sobs that feel like they will never end. But she is alive, and they will end, and she will be okay. Because Imogen has saved her.

  69

  Imogen

  I stalk up the stairs, not bothering to check in at reception. When I reach the top, I bang loudly on the door in front of me. It swings open and Florence Maxwell stands in front of me, a concerned look on her face.

  ‘Imogen, is everything okay?’

  ‘No, it is not.’ I barge past her into her office without waiting to be invited. She follows me back in.

  ‘What is it? What can I do for you? What’s happened?’

  ‘Last night I had to deliver a hysterical young girl to her foster parents,’ I tell her, fury building inside me with every word. Fury that had been bubbling inside me all evening, fury that had prompted me to text Lucy and ask her to cover my morning appointment so I could drive straight to the school this morning.

  ‘Ellie?’ Florence gestures for me to sit down, but I remain standing, where I feel more in control. That being said, control is not my strong point at this moment in time. I’m so bloody furious that I feel like every blood vessel in my body is about to burst, leaving a pile of skin and a river of claret where I stand. ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘A group of students from your school took it upon themselves to tie that girl to a tree and pretend to set fire to her. Because they said she was a witch.’

  ‘Oh Jesus.’ The colour drains from Florence’s face. ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘What do you bloody think?’ I point a finger at the headmistress, and she steps back. ‘Of course she’s not okay! She’s completely traumatised. Luckily there’s no physical damage; they didn’t set fire to her, just some twigs about a foot away. They wanted her to think she was going to be burnt alive. That’s how evil these little bastards are. They accused her of attacking Naomi and murdering Hannah Gilbert.’

  Florence shakes her head pathetically. ‘Well I can assure you—’

  ‘What can you assure me?’ I demand, cutting her off. ‘Because you can’t assure me it won’t happen again. You can’t assure me they’ll be dealt with. Ellie is so petrified, she won’t even tell us who it was. She says she doesn’t know.’

  ‘I’ll speak to them all, I’ll get them in here one by one . . . I’ll hold an assembly . . . I’ll . . .’ She doesn’t have a clue what she is going to do. Florence Maxwell is well and truly out of her depth, and any fondness I had for the endearing, bumbling uncertainty is well and truly gone.

  ‘You’re lucky the police haven’t been here. You’re lucky they aren’t crawling all over the place,’ I inform her. ‘Sarah Jefferson wanted to call them last night. Ellie begged her not to; she said it would just cause her more tr
ouble. She is terrified of these kids. It’s assault, plain and simple.’

  Florence lets out a groan. ‘How the hell did it come to this? What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Whatever you do, you need to do it fast. Because if anything else happens, if anyone even so much as says a word out of line to that girl, I’ll go to the police myself and I don’t care what Ellie says.’

  Florence nods. ‘Of course, of course,’ she mutters. ‘I’ll speak to the teachers. I’ll have them keep an extra eye on Ellie in class, and see if we can’t find out what’s going on. Who was involved.’

  ‘Mary said a group of them turned up at the Jeffersons’ house a few weeks ago, shouting up at Ellie’s window, calling her a witch. This has been going on for some time. And I think you know how it started.’

  ‘Hannah?’ Florence rubs a hand across her face. ‘But Hannah is dead.’

  ‘I’m not saying she had anything to do with what happened last night, obviously. But it’s quite clear that whatever feelings she had towards Ellie have spread. The whole town is talking about it. About how she’s different, how she’s evil, all things that Hannah Gilbert said to me just a few nights before she died.’

  Florence’s eyes widen in shock. ‘When did she say these things? I had no idea it was this bad . . .’

  ‘She came to my house, ranting about how bad things have happened to people who upset Ellie. And obviously her feelings haven’t died with her. Now the children have taken up the baton, ganging up against that poor girl, trying to make her life hell.’

  ‘And you don’t think . . .?’

  ‘I don’t think what?’ I snap, daring her to say what I know is coming.

  ‘You don’t think there might be something in what Hannah was saying?’

  I shake my head in despair. ‘Ellie’s family burned to death.’ I stress each word and watch Florence flinch. ‘And now the people who are supposed to be looking after her, the people who are supposed to be keeping her safe, are making her feel like a monster. Tell me, Florence, would you not be acting a little strange if that were you?’

  Florence shrugs. ‘I can’t explain it.’

  ‘No, you can’t explain it because it’s bloody ridiculous. And if you don’t find a way to put a stop to all this, I’ll be sending a full and frank report to the school board stating that Ellie is in danger under your care.’

  I don’t wait for her to reply. I don’t want to hear any more about how this is Ellie’s fault, or that the girl is different, or strange. I don’t want to see grown adults acting like scared little children, giving in to mass hysteria. The way they are behaving is beyond reprehensible. And I have had enough.

  70

  Imogen

  I know there is something wrong as soon as I walk into the office the next morning. It’s too quiet, as though there’s been a conversation going on and it has stopped the minute I arrive. When I say good morning, everyone replies, but they are all staring intently at their screens as though they hold this week’s lottery numbers. Mornings are usually a loud, raucous affair, a cacophony of noise only settling to a dull murmur when everyone has made themselves their morning coffee and fully dissected last night’s TV. Some mornings it’s 9.45 before any kind of silence falls, as people filter out to meetings and home visits. It’s one of the things that took me some time to get used to – in my old job, I barely spent ten minutes greeting my colleagues in the kitchen before closing the door on my quiet office – but now I prefer this bustling, sociable environment.

  The stark contrast between the usual joviality and this tense, uncomfortable quiet fills me with unease, and a sense of pending dread settles over me as I turn on my PC and open my emails. A quick scan of the messages gives me no real clue as to what may have caused the thick atmosphere; no emails from HR announcing potential redundancies or budget cuts. Perhaps I should try the news – a local newspaper often knows when jobs are on the line way before the workers. I glance up from my screen. Lucy, who is usually the last person to settle to work, is deep in concentration.

  ‘Lucy,’ I hiss. The other woman can’t have failed to hear me – even Tim a few desks away looks up – but she keeps her eyes firmly on her screen. ‘Lucy!’ I hiss again, louder this time, and I’m certain I see her wince. Slowly she looks up from her screen and I mouth, ‘What’s up?’

  Lucy shakes her head slightly and looks back at her screen. Within seconds, though, I get an email: Ted called us all in separately yesterday afternoon. Can’t talk about it in here. He wanted to talk about you.

  I feel my stomach lurch. What was Edward asking about me? And more importantly, what did people tell him? For one awful second, the only thing I can think is that he knows about the baby.

  But that is ridiculous. For a start, it would be a serious breach of procedure to ask my colleagues about a subject so personal, and Edward doesn’t seem the type to invite that kind of trouble. Secondly, my colleagues know nothing about my pregnancy – I’ve managed to disguise my sickness well, and it’s far too soon for anyone to notice any changes in my figure, especially people who have known me such a short time. No, whatever this is about, I’m sure it’s not about the baby.

  In that case, he knows what happened in London. Oh God.

  I tap out a reply – What about me???? – and cringe as Lucy’s email tone sounds, certain that everyone will realise we are messaging back and forth. I feel as nervous as a teenager waiting for my crush to text me back, and click ‘mute’ on my PC’s speakers. When Lucy’s reply flashes up on the screen, I can’t double-click fast enough.

  He wanted to know if you’d asked us to cover your appointments. I had to tell him about yesterday. It was like he already knew and he was testing me. I’M SORRY:-(

  My face flushes with embarrassment and fear. Obviously everyone knows that Edward is questioning my work in my first few weeks on the job. Do they think I’m going to get fired? Am I going to get fired? I send a reply to Lucy – Don’t worry about it. I hope I didn’t get you into trouble – and sit back in my chair. But when the next email pops up on my screen, it isn’t from Lucy; it’s from Edward himself.

  I click on the message, almost wishing that I don’t have to, but it’s better to know what’s going on than to have everyone else talking about it behind my back. It’s a formal request from Edward to come to his office when I have a minute. It’s obvious from Lucy’s email that he knows she covered a meeting for me yesterday while I went to confront Florence, but is that really a sackable offence? I’ve seen the others do it for one another countless times since I arrived; I’ve even attended a planning meeting with the Safe and Well team on Edward’s behalf. So what else have I done? I know I’m still behind with some of my paperwork, and I forgot that one report on safeguarding at the school. Then there was the time Chaz had to make an excuse when I missed a follow-up appointment with Mrs Bethnal in community health . . .

  I put my head in my hands and brush my fringe from my face. Now that I think about it, there have been a few oversights – in fact my colleagues have been covering for me continuously ever since I started. Well, to be more accurate, ever since I started my sessions with Ellie Atkinson.

  I suck in a deep breath, straighten my hair and stand up, preparing myself for the worst. I pick up my notepad, although I’m unlikely to need it – We’re sorry we have to let you go hardly requires writing down to be remembered – but it feels like some kind of safety blanket, a shield against my failures. What are we going to do now? It took me long enough to find this job; I’ll never find another one as close to our new home. Maybe it’s for the best. We’ll sell for a pittance, but at least we’ll be able to afford rent on a flat somewhere for a while. But can we afford the baby?

  As I walk through the office, nobody looks up; everyone seems stubbornly determined to avoid eye contact, as though I’m contagious and so much as a look in my direction will bring disaster upon them too.

  In the kitchen, I make myself a cup of tea to take up to Edward’s offi
ce – that is the done thing here; we carry around notebooks and hot drinks like accessories. As I wait for the kettle to boil, I wonder if maybe I’ve sabotaged this position on purpose, perhaps subconsciously. Do I want to be fired, so I can tell myself I gave it a go, but that this place has shunned and deserted me again as it did when I was a child? I wondered as we drove into the town if returning to Gaunt would turn out to be the worst possible mistake I could make. And maybe it has been.

  71

  Imogen

  ‘Come in.’ Ted motions for me to take a seat at the tiny round table in his office. ‘Do you want a drink?’ I hold up my cup and Edward picks up his own. ‘Do you mind if I get one? I won’t be a minute.’ He hits the lock button on his PC and the screen shuts down. I sit myself at the table, staring up at the various Mental Health Awareness posters and the whiteboard full of notes between the team leaders, squiggled flow-chart processes and scrawled appointments. At the top, in Kim’s untidy loping scrawl are the words Ted – Florence from MA called – call her asap on 07345 879092.

  Edward returns to the office with a coffee in one hand and a packet of crisps and a chocolate bar in the other. Placing his coffee on the table next to me, he opens his desk drawer and shoves the latter two items inside.

  ‘No lunch,’ he shrugs by way of explanation. I try to smile but am certain it crosses my face as more of a grimace. Edward seems to sense my tension and sits down opposite me, ready to get straight to the point. I steady myself.

  ‘Okay.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I’m not going to drag this out, Imogen. The reason I called you in here is because I’ve had a complaint.’

  Oh fuck. An actual complaint. One of the team? I glance again at the whiteboard bearing Kim’s scrawled message.