‘Are you trying to say that you wanted the baby?’ Pammy asks, leaning closer. ‘Surely that’s normal, Im, to be scared and unsure. Maybe you wanted it all along, you just didn’t know.’
‘I think I did know,’ I admit. It’s a relief to be able to talk to someone removed from the situation, although I’m painfully aware of Pam’s desire for a baby of her own. Selfish Imogen, always thinking about what you want, what you need. ‘I convinced myself I didn’t want a baby because I was so certain it would ruin my relationship with Dan, that I would end up resenting it . . .’
‘Like your mum,’ Pammy finishes. That’s why I needed Pammy here. She knows about my upbringing. She knows about this place and what it does to people, the hold it has. I’m just surprised she’s considered bringing children of her own into it.
‘You, Imogen Reid, are nothing like your mum. And I know how you feel about Gaunt, but none of that has anything to do with how you would be as a mother. That’s inside of you; not in your DNA, but in your heart. And if you tell anyone I said anything that soppy, you’ll need to book yourself another bed in this place.’
I try for a smile, but fail. It’s like my face has forgotten how. ‘Thank you. Although I don’t think it matters any more – I’m pretty sure my marriage is finished.’
Pammy sighs. ‘For someone quite clever, you can be so stupid sometimes. Your husband loves you, anyone with half a glass eye could see that, and despite the fact that you’ve done your best to push him away, he has just spent the whole evening sitting by your bedside before rushing off to get you whatever you need from home. And before you say it’ – she raises a hand to stop my reply – ‘he doesn’t have to do that. If you give up on him and let him go, Imogen, well, there aren’t any pills to fix that kind of stupid.’
I don’t even attempt a second smile. ‘I’m not sure I have the energy, Pam. I just feel like I could sleep for a thousand years.’
‘Well I’m not surprised, given what you’ve just been through.’ She lowers her voice, even though no one else can hear us. ‘Have the doctors said why it happened?’
I shake my head, a thumping rhythm beginning even at the thought of it. ‘They’re booking tests in.’
‘Well I just want you to know I’m here for you.’ She twists the bedcovers in her fingers and I actually get the impression she’s nervous. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Pammy nervous before. ‘Because I’ve been where you are.’
‘Oh God, Pammy, I’m so sorry. Why did you never tell me?’
She shrugs. ‘I dunno. I didn’t want to put it on you, I guess. You were so far away, living this perfect life in the city with your amazing career and your perfect flat, and I didn’t want to burden you with my small-town crap.’
‘It doesn’t feel like small-town crap right now.’
Pammy winces. ‘Oh shit, I didn’t mean that. I’m just awful at this.’
‘You are not. And I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could talk to me.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Maybe it’s time I told you the truth about this perfect life of mine.’ My fingernails pick absently at the loose skin around my thumbnail. ‘The real reason I left my last job was because there was a complaint about me. I was given the option to leave before they fired me.’
Pammy is watching me intently and I can’t meet her eye. My cheeks burn in shame. When she says nothing, I carry on.
‘There was a boy,’ I say. ‘Not much older than Ellie; in fact he’d only just turned twelve. He was referred by the hospital as part of the pro-bono work we did. The boy . . .’ I take a deep breath. ‘God, I haven’t said his name in almost twelve months. Even during the inquiry I just couldn’t bring myself to say it.’
Pammy gives my leg a squeeze.
‘He had just turned twelve. His parents brought him to me because he was hurting himself. He was covered in bruises, and they said that he would punch his own arms and kick his shins against the furniture, scratch himself and hit himself in the face when he was angry or upset. We worked together for a long time and I . . . I felt like I got to know him very well. He was kind, and funny, and so clever for his age. But the whole time we worked together he never spoke once about the episodes of self-harm. It was as though he wanted to avoid the topic completely.
‘Then one day he came to me and his arm was in a sling, and his hand in a cast. His mother said he had thrown himself down the stairs in a fit of rage and broken his wrist and fractured a bone in his elbow. When I asked him to tell me what happened, he shrugged and said he wasn’t sure. He looked nervous and I could see that the situation made him uncomfortable, but I didn’t want to leave it alone – not like I normally did when I asked about his injuries. By that time I had a suspicion and I wanted him to confirm it for me. So I asked him outright: “Are you causing your own injuries, or is it someone else? Are you protecting someone?”
‘He didn’t answer straight away, just sat in silence staring at the desk in front of us. Then eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, tears began to roll down his cheeks. I told him he didn’t have to be scared, that anything he told me in these sessions was between the two of us. I said that even though I knew that if he was being hurt by someone, I would have to tell; I knew I was probably lying to him. There and then, sitting in that room, facing that sad little boy, all I wanted was to get to the truth. So I lied. I broke one of my own rules and lied to a patient.
‘He sat in silence for a little while longer, and then, eventually, he nodded. Just a small nod, just the slightest inclination of his head, and I knew that what I had been thinking was true. I knew he was protecting someone, probably his parents, and I knew there was more to this than anyone was telling us. So I vowed I would help him, and I meant it. Together we went through every one of his injuries and I encouraged him to tell me how they had really happened. We drew pictures together: a picture of his father shoving him, him hitting his arm on a dresser. A picture of his mother standing at the top of the stairs while he tumbled down. We did word associations, and every time I said words like “caregiver”, “parent”, “guardian”, “mother”, he would write words like fear, hurt, pain, confusion.
‘After a few of these sessions, I felt like I had enough to go to my supervisor. He sat down with me and went through every session, listened to the tapes, analysed the drawings. Then, after seeing and hearing the exact same evidence as me, he made the decision that there wasn’t enough in what we had to go to social services. He suggested that I’d asked leading questions, encouraged the boy to give the answers that I wanted to hear, rewarded him for making up stories against his parents. I was furious. I believed unequivocally what that boy was telling me. It wasn’t something you heard in the sessions or something you could see from the drawings; it was a feeling you got from being around him. It was a hunch, it was instinct. But instinct isn’t something you can prove, and so it was mine and his word against his parents’.
‘My supervisor and the board decided that there would be no action taken against the parents. That unless he decided of his own accord to make a complaint against them, there was nothing further we could do. I was livid, hurt, confused. You see all these stories about children being taken away from their parents because of a bruise on their leg and here was this boy telling us he had been abused and they were just going to ignore him. I was ordered to give up the case, and his parents were told that they should find a new psychologist. But I couldn’t leave it there. I couldn’t leave him on his own with those people, knowing what they’d been doing to him, knowing what might happen to him if I didn’t take action. So I went to the police.’
Pammy puts a hand to her mouth, as though she is trying to stop herself from interrupting, and I know that if I don’t carry on now, I will just clam up and never speak of it again. But I want to tell someone, and so I push on before she can say a word.
‘I showed them everything: the drawings, the statements; I spent hours in a tiny grey room outlining every injury the boy had sustained, every brutal att
ack I believed the parents had committed against this child.’ I’m speaking faster now, and tears are tumbling down my cheeks at the memory. I can still see the boy’s face, so confused, so betrayed when the police turned up at his house with me by their side.
‘They took the boy’s parents, they interviewed them for hours; they took him too. But he said nothing. He refused to give any kind of statement against his parents, and when faced with the recordings of our sessions he said that I had made him say those things, that he had said them because he wanted to please me, because he knew that was what I wanted to hear. He said that when the tapes weren’t rolling I told him that he couldn’t possibly have given himself those injuries, that someone else must have been to blame. He said I pushed and pushed and pushed until eventually he just agreed with me to make me stop.’
I brush the warm tears from my cheeks and shake off the hand Pammy places on my shoulder. I don’t want her pity; I want her to understand. ‘Eventually the police had to let the parents go. There was literally no evidence; without the boy’s statement, they had nothing on them. I had been waiting in the reception of the police station in case they needed me, in case he needed me. I thought that after his ordeal he might want someone to speak to and I would be there for him. Instead I was faced with his parents. The mother had her arm around the boy’s shoulders and pulled him closer to her as they passed me. Then, as they were about to leave, she turned on me, shouting and screaming that I was trying to ruin their lives and take their child away from them. That I was a liar and a bully and that I was to leave them alone and never speak to them again. He didn’t look at me once.’
I take a deep breath. ‘When I got back to work, the supervisor called me into his office. He was furious that I had gone against the wishes of the clinic, and that I had released confidential case notes without their permission. The boy’s parents had made a complaint against me that had to be investigated, and were it to be upheld, the clinic would be fined a considerable sum. The parents said they were going to sue; they said they were going to take away my licence and that of my supervisor. The only way around it was for the clinic to settle out of court, and I was to have my own separate hearing with the General Medical Council.
‘I couldn’t stand the thought of the publicity – not for me, but for the boy. He was a juvenile, so the papers wouldn’t be able to name him, but I was frightened that people would find out who he was, that this would make his life more difficult. So I quit. Not just my job, but psychology altogether. I told my supervisor I would go quietly, there would be no need for a lengthy investigation, no need for the clinic to be brought into disrepute. I begged them to give me a reference so that I could move away, get a new job. My supervisor agreed, but said that the only way they could give me a reference was if I never practised as a psychologist again.
‘The worst thing about all this? The absolute worst thing was that I still believed, I still believe, that I was right. I still believe that we sent that boy back to his parents knowing the damage they had inflicted on him, and there was nothing I could do about it. After I left, I went to his house, I sat outside in my car. I only wanted to see if he was okay, but his mother saw me there. She must have watched me for over an hour, recording me on her mobile phone, although I didn’t know it until the police turned up. I was told that if I didn’t stop stalking – that was the word they used, stalking! – the family would press charges against me. I was to stop calling the house, even though I’d only rung once or twice to speak to the boy, and I wasn’t to write him any more notes. I’d had no idea she’d found the note I’d given to one of his classmates, imploring him to tell the truth, telling him that was the only way I could help him. The police rang Dan to come and get me and I was forced to tell him what I’d done.’
‘Oh Im,’ Pammy breathes. ‘What did he say?’
‘Well, he was typical Dan,’ I reply, remembering how he nursed me back to health as though I was a child myself. ‘He was worried about me, he fussed around and tried to get me to see a doctor. He was the perfect husband, all the while not understanding anything.’
‘How did you expect him to understand, Im? How did you expect him to know that the reason you were so desperate to save that boy from a life of abuse and neglect was because no one saved you? Because everyone saw the way your mum was and no one did a damn thing about it. Because you know that’s what it was, don’t you? And you know that’s what it is with this little girl. You’re desperate to do for them what no one would do for you. But your past gets in the way of you thinking clearly. I mean, I get it, really I do, and you know I love you like a sister, but turning up at the kid’s school? Giving his friends notes to pass to him?’ Pammy shakes her head. ‘You are the stupidest clever person I know.’
I groan. ‘I know. Don’t you think I don’t know? Once I was out of it all, I could see it clearly, how crazy I’d been. I was so certain, so sure I was right.’
‘Like you were certain about Ellie?’ Pammy asks gently. ‘You don’t think you got so involved in this case because you couldn’t help that little boy?’
‘Maybe,’ I reply. ‘But what if I was? Does that mean I’m wrong? Does one mistake mean I should just give up my convictions completely?’
‘It means you should be more careful,’ Pammy advises. ‘It means you shouldn’t get so involved that you lose your mind. It means you can’t afford to ruin your life a second time. And that’s exactly what you’re in danger of doing.’
‘That’s not everything.’ If I’ve come this far I need to tell her the rest. The real reason why I was so unsure about giving Dan the baby he craved, the real reason I had slunk back to Gaunt at the first available opportunity. Exactly what I’d been running from. ‘The boy I’m talking about, he’s the one that was in all the newspapers; Callum Walters.’
Pammy’s eyes widen and I know that she knows exactly who I’m talking about. ‘The one who . . .?’
‘The one who committed suicide after his parents were falsely accused of abuse.’
79
Ellie
‘Was it you?’ Mary grabs Ellie’s arm excitedly, her eyes are shining. She’s been looking at Ellie weirdly throughout dinner, and now, at the first moment when the others aren’t around, she rounds on her.
‘Was what me?’ Ellie asks quietly. ‘I don’t know you what you’re talking about.’
‘Everyone is talking about it,’ Mary says dramatically. ‘That woman that was coming here, working with you, Imogen Reid.’
‘What about her?’ Ellie interrupts.
‘She’s been off work for a few days; she was taken into hospital. Maisie King’s mum works with her at the social. Says she lost her baby.’
Ellie takes in a sharp breath. She remembers Imogen’s face when she spat out the words at their last meeting.
You don’t deserve that thing that is growing inside you. It would be better off dead.
‘So was it you?’ Mary asks, echoing Ellie’s thoughts as clearly as if she’s read them. ‘Did you do it? To teach her a lesson, like we discussed?’
‘Of course I didn’t. That’s horrible, I would never do anything like that.’ Her voice comes out sharper than intended and Mary narrows her eyes.
‘But you can, can’t you, Ellie?’ Her foster sister is looking at her intently. ‘Maybe you did it by accident, without meaning to.’
‘I already told you I didn’t,’ Ellie snaps. ‘I’m going up to bed.’
She gets up and pushes her chair back under the table, wincing as it squeaks against the floor. Sarah appears from the kitchen. ‘Where are you going, Els? There’s pudding.’
‘I’m not really very hungry,’ Ellie lies. ‘I thought I’d just go and read in my room for a little while.’
‘Erm . . .’ Sarah looks backwards into the kitchen at Mark. ‘Well, okay then, if you’re sure . . .’
And then Ellie realises that the reason Sarah hasn’t left her alone all day, the reason she has consistently suggested that they
do things together, spend more time as a family, is that she knows about Imogen. And she wants Ellie where she can see her.
‘Me too, Mum,’ Mary agrees, jumping up from the table and pushing her own chair underneath. ‘We’ve got tons of homework this year.’
But as they go upstairs, Mary doesn’t head into her own room; she follows Ellie into hers.
‘So,’ she says, throwing herself down on Ellie’s bed, ‘how did you do it?’
‘I’m telling you, I didn’t,’ Ellie insists, gritting her teeth. For the first time since arriving at the Jeffersons’, she wishes Mary would just go away. Mary is the only person who has made her feel properly welcome here, she has stuck up for her at school, she has shared her clothes and her make-up, but right now Ellie just wants to be alone.
‘It’s so cool,’ Mary says, folding her legs underneath her. ‘I wish I could do it, I wish you could teach me. To be able to just make anyone suffer, anyone who upset you or pissed you off. I know a few people I’d use it on.’
‘It’s not like that,’ Ellie insists. ‘I don’t do any of this stuff on purpose. I don’t even know I’m doing it. It just seems to . . . happen.’
‘Okay,’ Mary relents, but Ellie can tell she doesn’t believe her. ‘But don’t you think you could learn to control it? Don’t you think that if you really tried, instead of fighting it, you could harness it, you know, like use the power? You could get whatever you wanted. Imagine, eventually they’d have to make you prime minister or something.’
‘Or stick me in a zoo,’ Ellie replies, which she thinks is much more likely. She’s seen the X-Men; no one was rushing to put them in charge of a country. ‘Or a mental hospital.’
‘I wonder if that woman . . . that Imogen . . . I wonder if she knows it was you? I don’t suppose she’d be able to prove it, even if she suspected.’ Mary is talking to herself more than Ellie now.
The Foster Child Page 24
