The Girl in the Dark

by Angela Hart

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Is she going to school?’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘Do I have to go?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘That’s not fair! If I run away, does that mean I don’t have to go to school?’

  ‘Marty, Melissa is very tired and—’

  Thankfully Marty interrupted me, saying he was only joking and that he liked being back at school.

  I had a banging headache, having had so little sleep. Jonathan had gone out very early to the wholesaler and had commented that he felt ‘like death warmed up’ when he left the house in the dark. His six o’clock alarm had woken me up and I told him about Melissa being up in the night, and the pregnancy test. He kissed me on the forehead. ‘Try not to think about it now. Get a bit more sleep, you need it. I’ll see you later. We’ll deal with it all, don’t worry.’

  I always say you should sleep on things, and that problems that often seem huge at night or in the early hours don’t seem so bad in the morning, when you’ve had some rest and time to let things settle in your mind.

  ‘Thanks, you’re right. I’ll try to grab a bit more sleep.’

  I shut my eyes and had managed to sleep for another half hour or so, before I got up to help first Marty then Ryan get ready for school.

  Marty’s taxi arrived on time and I was still in my dressing gown when I waved him off. Ryan was eating his breakfast by then and I was glad we’d have a bit of time to talk privately, as I wanted to make sure he was OK after the incident with the hangman game the night before.

  ‘How are you this morning?’

  ‘Fine. How are you?’

  He didn’t seem at all disturbed, thank goodness. He’d already showered and was in his uniform, and he seemed full of beans as he started telling me all about the Year Six trip he would be going on later that year. He was looking forward to being able to choose which friends he’d share a room with, and there was going to be archery and kayaking at the outdoor activity centre they were staying at. He didn’t stop chattering, and the time slipped by.

  Glancing at the clock on the cooker I suddenly realised I was running a bit late.

  ‘Oh look! We need to leave in fifteen minutes. You’d better go and clean your teeth, and don’t forget you need to take your PE kit today. And that library book needs to go back.’

  Ryan looked at the clock too and got to his feet straight away. ‘I didn’t realise the time,’ he said, heading for the kitchen door.

  I’m normally much more vigilant about timings in the mornings. I like to teach all the kids the importance of punctuality and I try to get them into good habits of building in enough time and avoiding last-minute rushes. I’d slipped a little this morning, no doubt because I was so lacking in sleep I was doing everything at a slightly slower pace than normal.

  I put the dirty plates and cereal bowls in the dishwasher and then dashed upstairs to have a very quick shower and get dressed, suddenly feeling all at sixes and sevens. At least Ryan’s OK, I thought.

  As I got myself ready I realised I hadn’t had a particularly good start to the day in terms of my diet either. Instead of the porridge and skimmed milk or yoghurt and fruit I normally made the effort to prepare, I’d eaten a thick doorstep of toast with strawberry jam. I needed the sugar kick, I justified. I’m never at my best when I’m short of sleep and that morning I definitely felt on the back foot as I rushed around.

  Jonathan was back from the wholesaler just before Ryan and I left the house to walk to school.

  ‘Any sign of Melissa yet?’

  ‘No, but I don’t expect she’ll be up much before lunchtime.’

  Ryan had also made a remark about the fact it wasn’t fair Melissa was allowed a day off school but, like Marty, he didn’t really mean it. I could see he was looking forward to his day. When we left he had quite a spring in his step as we walked along, wrapped in warm coats, gloves and hats. I told him the story about me mistaking the donkey tea towel for a scarf and he laughed his head off.

  ‘What do you get when a donkey eats a porcupine?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied, telling him I was impressed that he always managed to tell a joke that somehow tied in with what we were talking about.

  ‘A pain in the ass!’

  He delivered the punchline loudly and I hoped none of the small children walking in front of us heard. Then I had to gently tell him that although I could see the funny side, it was best not to tell that joke again, as the word ass was a bit rude.

  ‘Ass isn’t a swear word!’ he said, even louder this time.

  Some of the kids in front turned around and giggled and one of the mums caught my eye and smirked: I think she’d heard the whole conversation.

  ‘No, it’s not a swear word, but it’s not a polite word. Your teacher would tell you off if you used it in the classroom.’

  ‘Well I tell you this, Angela, it’s hard to be funny without offending anyone.’

  There’s a lot of truth in that, I thought. Ryan was a great little character and good company, and I’d miss him when he was gone.

  While I did the school run Jonathan sat at the kitchen table with a stack of invoices and a pot of tea. We had cover in the shop that morning, and he was still in the kitchen when I returned.

  ‘Cuppa? I’ve just boiled the kettle again.’

  ‘Yes please. It’s cold in here, I think I’ll turn the heating up. Been any sign of Melissa?’

  ‘No,’ Jonathan replied, yawning as he spoke. ‘Not a peep.’

  ‘Lucky her, having a lie-in.’

  ‘Indeed. Let’s hope it’s the tonic she needs and she wakes up feeling more positive.’

  ‘Yes, let’s hope so, hey? I’ll just go and check on her.’

  I turned up the temperature on the central heating thermostat in the hall and went up the stairs. It was shortly after 9 a.m. when I tapped gently on Melissa’s door. There was no reply.

  ‘Are you OK? Can I come in?’

  Still there was no response.

  ‘I’m going to come in, sweetheart.’

  I would never have gone into Melissa’s room without giving her any warning, and even though I presumed she was so fast asleep she wouldn’t hear me, I still told her what I was going to do. I pushed open the door and winced when it creaked. This needs oiling, I thought. It was very dark in the room as the curtains had a blackout lining.

  Melissa was snuggled down under the duvet. From my position in the doorway she looked like she was bundled up like a little hamster in a nest, wrapped up so well I couldn’t even see her head. Bless her, I thought. There is no way she could have gone to school this morning.

  I thought the room felt a bit airless with the central heating on and so I decided to open the air vent above the window, figuring that Melissa would benefit from having some fresh air, particularly as she was buried under the duvet. I tiptoed across the carpet and silently slipped my hand behind the curtain, reached up above the window and slid the air vent open. As I did so I turned and glanced at the bed, and that’s when I realised something was wrong. From this angle it looked like Melissa wasn’t in the bed at all. Surely I was seeing things? I held my breath and slowly reached for the top of the duvet.

  ‘Are you there, Melissa?’ I said quietly. ‘I’m turning down the duvet.’

  I gasped. Underneath the duvet was a pile of her clothes. My stomach turned over. How could I have been so stupid? I ran down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  ‘Melissa’s not here!’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s not in bed. She must have slipped out.’

  ‘But how? Are you sure she’s not in the bathroom or somewhere else?’

  I explained about the clothes and that she’d tried to make it look as if she was tucked up in bed, to fool me. ‘You were first up. Were the doors still locked this morning?’

  ‘Yes! Are you absolutely sure she’s not in the house?’

/>   ‘Yes! Well, no. MELISSA! MELISSA!’

  We both searched the house from top to bottom. No keys were missing and we couldn’t work out how she could have left the house locked up if she’d escaped in the night. Her trainers were still in the hallway too.

  The very last room we checked was the utility room. A blast of cold air hit us as soon as we opened the door. The window was swinging open and a space on the worktop had been cleared, no doubt so Melissa could climb up there before she lowered herself out of the window and ran off.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Jonathan exclaimed. He already had black circles under his eyes; now he had a face like thunder. He thumped the worktop. He’s never an aggressive person, but he had to vent his frustration somehow. His anger was immediately replaced by worry and fear. He held his head in his hands. ‘What a silly, silly girl. Why is she doing this to herself? What’s going to happen to her this time?’

  I wanted to cry. I thought I’d made some progress with Melissa in the early hours, encouraging her to open up as I had done. She was tired out and her face was cut. I wanted to look after her, nurse her back to school and then send her on the next step in her life in the best possible state. Now what?

  Later that day, in Melissa’s absence, we had an emergency meeting with everyone involved in her care. We were told that unfortunately the auntie she was meant to move in with – Auntie Cathy – could not give her a home immediately, and so in the circumstances a different aunt and uncle had agreed she could move in with them as soon as she was found. This would mean Melissa would have no school place, as this family lived in a different county, many miles away. However, the general consensus was that Melissa’s safety was the top priority. Getting her as far away as possible from the people she was mixing with and the towns she gravitated towards was of the utmost importance: we’d reached crisis point.

  Before I’d called Social Services and the police that morning I’d quickly checked the log on our landline. Sure enough, a call had been made from our phone in the early hours of the morning – presumably during the very small window of opportunity Melissa had had when Jonathan and I were both asleep. I imagined she must have kept herself awake for as long as possible, waiting to creep into the lounge and make the call only when she was certain we were sound asleep and wouldn’t disturb her. Mind you, even if we had caught her using the phone, no doubt she’d have come up with some excuse or other about why she was calling someone at that hour.

  I didn’t recognise the number she’d called but I made a note of it and gave it to the authorities. I explained about the conversation we’d had about Stacey and the pregnancy test but said I had no idea if the number Melissa had called was Stacey’s or somebody else’s. I emphasised that I agreed with the decision to relocate Melissa across the country.

  I felt that as long as she could call the friends she was associating with, presumably to arrange a place to meet them nearby or to be picked up in a car or van, then she was in danger. The only solution was to fix it so that these arrangements were extremely difficult, if not impossible, for her to make. We couldn’t stop her using the phone or going out to meet her friends locally, we couldn’t patrol the perimeter of her school, and at night we had to get some sleep. As previous foster carers had found out, we simply couldn’t guard her every minute of the day and therefore we could not stop her running away. Moving Melissa far away from the people who led her astray seemed the only solution. I couldn’t imagine she would run away to be on her own in a place where she knew nobody but her aunt and uncle; at least I dared to believe she wouldn’t. I sincerely hoped the strategy would work.

  I was incredibly grateful to the relatives who had stepped in. Nowadays, ‘kinship carers’ like Melissa’s aunt and uncle would need to go through an assessment process, similar to but less rigorous than the F Form assessment foster carers have to undergo. I don’t know if things were different back then; we were given no further details about Melissa’s aunt and uncle. Unfortunately, her placement with us had come to an abrupt halt and our job was now done.

  The Social Services manager who presided over the meeting thanked us for having taken Melissa in, knowing she was a runner. ‘It was always going to be a challenging placement. You have coped admirably.’

  Wilf and Doreen were both at the meeting and they seconded this, praising us for our patience. The manager was also keen to point out that we’d barely had a chance to get to know Melissa, as she’d spent more time away from us than with us during the length of her placement. ‘You are certainly not at fault,’ she said. Jonathan and I appreciated the support. We’d heard other foster carers talking about how disheartening it was when a placement broke down. The manager made it clear that this was not a breakdown. She said it was only ever going to be a short placement and what had happened was more of a curtailment than a breakdown. It was kind of the professionals to attempt to soften the blow as they did, but Jonathan and I still felt extremely bruised by what had happened.

  One youth worker at the meeting – someone we’d never met before – talked about a project that had been set up in our county to deal with the growing problem of runners and missing children. She mentioned that the project was for all kinds of missing children – not just runaways like Melissa, but also ‘child prostitutes’. She explained that these were children who fell into the clutches of ‘pimps’. I remember feeling disturbed by that term. It was such a shocking concept and it made me realise that even though Melissa’s situation was bad, it could have been a whole lot worse.

  It was icy outside and I slipped and fell in the car park of the Social Services office. I landed on my right hip and right forearm. Jonathan helped me up and wrapped his arms around me. I tried to laugh it off; the embarrassment I felt hurt more than the pain. Thankfully nobody saw me, was the first thing that crossed my mind.

  ‘It’s not my day really, is it?’

  ‘You know what they say – things can only get better.’ Jonathan was trying to cheer me up but I could tell he was feeling as crushed as I was. I sat in the car, my hip and arm starting to smart. I’d been buckling under the strain of caring for Melissa – or trying to care for Melissa – and now the placement had officially collapsed. The fall felt symbolic.

  ‘I hope you’re right. I really do hope that things can only get better, but the way I’m feeling, I’m worried something else will go wrong. Things happen in threes, don’t they?’

  ‘We’ve already had three things today,’ Jonathan said. ‘Ryan saying “pain in the ass” at the top of his voice on the school run, Melissa disappearing and you falling over.’

  ‘Nice try,’ I said, ‘But I’m not sure the first one counts.’

  I hoped to God Melissa would turn up safe and well and it was not too late to save her. It didn’t matter that we were no longer her foster carers, I still cared deeply for her and hoped that someone would let us know as soon as she reappeared. It was arranged that Doreen would come to the house to collect her belongings, and I hoped that when she did she would bring good news.

  ‘Melissa always turns up,’ Jonathan said. ‘It’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘I know. But the waiting is awful. I can’t stand it. I really hope she isn’t in danger. I want her to have a totally fresh start – it’s the only way forward for her, I really believe that.’

  Melissa’s aunt and uncle lived in a beautiful part of the country and I dared to picture Melissa walking by the sea, the wind in her hair and the demons of the past being blown away. I kept hold of that image while we waited and waited.

  Epilogue

  About six or seven years ago I was lying in the dentist’s chair having a filling replaced. The sound of the drill was reverberating around my skull and I was clenching my fists into tight balls, even though the pain and discomfort was nowhere near as bad as I expected it to be.

  The radio was playing in the background and the national news headlines came on. The dentist stopped drilling long enough for me to hear the main stor
y. It was about a gang of men convicted of trafficking underage girls for sex. I shuddered. The drill started up again and I thought how horrific this was, especially as it had happened in a part of the UK I was familiar with. In my mind, trafficking was something that happened in foreign countries, or at least the perpetrators of such crimes came from overseas. Girls were drugged and smuggled across borders. They were poverty-stricken, desperate youngsters from families who didn’t have the means to protect them, or girls who were orphaned in wars and had nobody to save them, and no means of protecting themselves. It was not something that happened in our country, to our young people; that’s what I thought.

  When I heard that news report it had been almost twenty years since we’d had Melissa staying with us. I’d never forgotten her; I don’t forget any child who stays with us, and my memories of Melissa were clearly etched on my mind.

  I can remember the bittersweet moment when her social worker, Doreen, called at our house to collect her clothes and the few other possessions she’d brought with her. I was incredibly relieved that she had been found. Two weeks after she went missing she had been picked up in a B&B with one of her friends. Their boyfriends had paid for them to stay there, it seemed, and the landlord raised the alarm when he saw how young the girls were.

  Packing Melissa’s bags was very upsetting. She was such a young girl, as her belongings attested. The Disney designs on her clothing, the childish hair bobbles and her little fluffy rabbit slippers pulled at my heartstrings. She was too young to be involved in the grown-up world she seemed so addicted to, running off with her friends and loving the thrill of going out with older boys as she did.

  When I emptied the contents of Melissa’s bedside drawer I found instructions for the discarded pregnancy test that was still in her room, the long list of names I’d seen before and a cigarette lighter, which was hidden under a pair of Beauty and the Beast socks. There was also a packet of hair dye, a pair of tweezers and an old cinema ticket. I noticed it was for a film she should not have been allowed to see; it was a 15 classification. I discovered her school shoes were missing: presumably, she’d worn those deliberately on the day she absconded, so as to leave her trainers on display in the hall.