The Girl Without a Voice

by Casey Watson

  ‘Okay, Gary,’ I said, ‘but you will tell me the very minute you hear anything, won’t you? I’ll have Kelly on standby so I’ll be able to come up at a moment’s notice.’

  Gary laughed his usual laid-back laugh. Perhaps keeping your cool was a prerequisite to doing the sort of full-on job that he did. ‘Don’t worry, Casey,’ he said. ‘I know what you’re like. I’ll have my carrier pigeon good to fly soon as I get word.’

  The children were all like bottles of pop, which was fairly standard in the Unit after any sort of break. Fairly standard for school generally, as everyone caught up on everyone else’s important news, which was obviously much too important to be derailed by boring stuff like keeping silent during registration, something that regularly challenged at least two of my kids in any case.

  So I eased them in gently. ‘Ten minutes chatting time,’ I told them, ‘and then we get started, okay?’ Then began getting prepared for our first period, which would mostly be involving poetry.

  Poetry was one of my staples at this time of year. Lock some of these children in a room with a pen and a sheet of paper with the instruction to ‘write a poem’ and from their reaction you might expect to be arrested for committing war crimes, such was the sense of cold dread it could invoke. But give them a trigger – particularly one with lots of meaty imagery and connotations – and you could, if you were gentle, coax all manner of surprising word-combinations from them.

  We’d just had Halloween – plenty of meaty imagery and connotations there, for starters – and as the last half-term had fallen close to 5 November there had been lots of organised firework displays already. So there was something for everyone: dead souls and ghouls, clanking chains, and trick-or-treating or pyrotechnics, loud bangs and burnings at the stake.

  I began handing out workbooks and pens and coloured pencils, and as I did so I noticed that Imogen had taken herself off to the far side of the girls’ table, while the other five were all currently gathered around the boys’ one. What was her news, I wondered? Whatever it was, she obviously wasn’t keen to share it. No, she wouldn’t have much to say, I knew, but she’d normally at least be there, close beside Shona, taking her cues from her friend.

  ‘Imogen, love,’ I said quietly, not wanting to make a big deal of it and start stressing her. ‘Why don’t you join the others at the boys’ table for a bit. Like I said, we’re not starting straight away.’

  She’d had her head bowed, nose in book, as was standard, but now she looked up at me and I was shocked by just how wretched she appeared. Her face was pale and puffy. She’d clearly been doing a lot of crying. She shook her head by way of an answer and returned to scanning the pages.

  I leaned down. ‘You okay, sweetie?’ I whispered. She shook her head, but, again, didn’t say anything. Not even in the monosyllabic way she’d become used to doing in class now. Oh God, I thought, had she slipped back to her mutism again? In so many other areas, kids did tend to slip back a little when out of school – and in this too? And what was the cause? Was it simply the week at home? The heightened anxiety about returning after the break? Or was it because of something more sinister?

  I squatted beside her. ‘Imogen, love,’ I whispered, ‘I’m going to come straight to the point, okay? Have you stopped speaking again?’

  I watched and waited and, presumably with no place to go, she eventually raised her gaze and met mine. Then she nodded, and as she did so I heard the door open behind me. It was Kelly. And, seeing her, Imogen immediately shrank back and lowered her head again.

  Damn, I thought, standing up. This was a setback. And perhaps it wasn’t just about half-term; maybe it was because she’d been thinking. Maybe she’d been worrying that she’d said too much in her ‘secrets’ note to me, and would now be in trouble. But whatever it was, there was no way I’d find out at this moment. I went back to join Kelly – who I still needed to bring up to speed – and get the day under way.

  ‘Right then,’ I began, once I’d had the kids return to their usual working places, ‘from what I’ve just heard, it sounds like you’re all going to have lots to write about this morning. Not in the shape of a story, however. Today I’m after two pieces of poetry.’ There was the usual groan from the boys – something that seemed almost automatic – but I was used to that, so I carried straight on. ‘The first,’ I told them, ‘I want to be all about Halloween. Any aspect of it: how much you enjoyed it, which parts of it scared you, what you might have dressed up as; and the second piece I want to be about Guy Fawkes Night, which I know hasn’t happened yet, but did any of you go and see any fireworks over the weekend? Have bonfires? Make a guy, or …’

  I stopped in mid-sentence, because Imogen, previously just sitting there, head bent, had jumped from her chair, which fell back and landed with a clatter, made a dash for the door and ran from the room.

  The other kids stared, open mouthed, just as I did. ‘Imogen?’ I called. But it was too late. She’d gone. ‘Okay, everyone,’ I said, to forestall another wave of chatter. ‘You know what you’re doing now. Any questions, ask Miss Vickers, while I go and find Imogen, but come on, chop-chop, let’s get those thinking caps on, okay?’

  I left the classroom, then, expecting to have to start stalking the corridors, but Imogen hadn’t gone very far at all. I fact, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall. Just by the door. I squatted down beside her and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Sweetie, what’s the matter?’ I asked her, as the tears started up. ‘Something’s clearly wrong but if you don’t tell me what it is I can’t help you, can I? Come on, try,’ I coaxed, which only made her cry harder. My instinct was obviously to gather her into my arms but I stopped myself. I needed not to provide a method of retreat but to keep her outside her comfort zone, so I actually moved away slightly, then stood up, then extended my hand.

  ‘Come on, sweetie,’ I said, gesturing towards it. ‘Come on, let’s go somewhere more private. Somewhere quiet where you can tell me what’s wrong.’

  It took a while but eventually she slipped her hand into mine, and once I had a hold of her I helped to pull her up. ‘Good girl,’ I said, as we headed off down the corridor. ‘Now let’s go and see if Mr Clark’s office is free.’

  And, thankfully, it was. Perhaps he was even then deep in conversation with the head. Perhaps he wasn’t, but either way I knew he wouldn’t mind us taking refuge in his room. There was a box of tissues on his windowsill and, seeing it, I grabbed a handful. ‘Here, love,’ I said to Imogen, ‘now have a blow and wipe your eyes and then you can tell me what’s upsetting you, okay?’

  She duly took the tissues and blew her nose, but it was like stopping a leaky dam. She was still crying and I suspected she would continue to do so, until such time as she got this huge weight off her chest. But the speaking bit – that was probably going to be the hard part.

  ‘Imogen,’ I said, taking a seat opposite her, ‘I know this is going to be difficult, now you’ve gone to that place in your head, but, honestly, it’s just a question of starting. If you can just get the first few words out, the rest will be easy, so let’s start at the beginning and get the hardest part over with. Now, before half-term you put your secret letter in my box and you knew I was going to read it – is that what’s upsetting you?’

  Again I waited, resisting the urge to fill the lengthening silence, while Imogen again blew her nose and dabbed at the tears on her cheeks. ‘No, Miss,’ she said finally. ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘Well done,’ I said. ‘There. That’s a start, isn’t it? Okay, so it’s not that, so has something bad happened?’

  She twisted the life out of another bunch of tissues before answering. ‘It was our Bonfire Night, Miss,’ she said. ‘My nan and grandad did a party, for a surprise.’

  ‘A firework party?’ I prompted.

  She nodded. ‘An’ they never told me. And they invited my dad to come. And her.’

  Now we were getting somewhere. And that was interesting. Were they tryin
g to build bridges? Help effect a reconciliation? Take the school’s lead and try to get Imogen back home? How ironic. ‘Gerri?’ I asked gently. ‘Your step-mum?’

  She nodded. But didn’t speak. So now I did prompt her. ‘And what happened, love?’ I asked her. ‘Did she do something? Hurt you again?’

  She shook her head decisively. Wrong track, then. ‘It was the fire,’ she said. ‘And her being there. And the way she kept grinning at me. Miss, she’s horrible! And I knew why she was grinning at me, too. She was doing it to remind me. About how she could set fire to me too.’

  She was getting into her stride now, fear and anger helping her to overcome her difficulties. And it was important things stay that way too.

  ‘Imogen, you know what you told me about how you thought Gerri was going to set fire to you? Do you think you could tell me what you meant? What actually happened? What made you think that would happen?’

  And as she started to tell me, I realised that what I’d said to her was true, because once she began, out it came, like a flood.

  ‘My dad was away working in Italy,’ she said, ‘and was going to be away for two days. And we’d been arguing, like we always did, and she’d refused to let me have anything to eat. And when I went into my room, she locked it – all the rooms in my dad’s house have keys because of valuables –’

  ‘Valuables?’

  ‘Because my dad works away lots.’

  ‘Ah, okay.’

  ‘Anyway, she said I could stay there till I stopped being horrible and I told her I’d scream out the window so the neighbours could hear me and she told me she’d tell them I was horrible and naughty and that I screamed to get attention, because that’s what she always said she’d say if I told her I’d tell on her. So I told her I’d kick the door in and tell my dad, but she didn’t take any notice, and in the end, after hours and hours, I must have fell asleep. And then when I woke up it was really dark – it was night-time by now, I think, and I woke up and I was wet and I could smell something funny and at first I thought I must have peed the bed. I’d never done that, not since I was really, really little, but I was warm and wet and then I saw her, sitting in my chair. Which was really frightening, and when I sat up she told me I’d better not move too much because I might go up in flames. I didn’t really know what she was on about at first, but then she showed me. She had my dad’s petrol can – you know those green plastic ones you get in petrol stations? One of those. And she had this lighter. And she kept flicking the flame on in front of me, and she told me I was wet because she’d soaked me in dad’s emergency petrol and that she’d woken me up so that I would have a chance to say a prayer before she burned me to death.’

  To say I couldn’t believe what I was hearing was wrong, because, for reasons that had no basis in evidence, I did believe it. But, even so, a part of me still couldn’t believe it – how could anyone inflict such cruelty on a child?

  In years to come I would have that question answered, and comprehensively, but right then I asked the question that seemed the only one to ask. ‘Love,’ I said gently, ‘did this actually happen? This wasn’t just part of some horrible dream?’

  ‘Yes, Miss!’ she said immediately. ‘I mean she didn’t actually burn me. And it wasn’t even petrol. She’d just poured water over me. That’s why I thought I’d peed, because it was warm, but she told me it was petrol. And I could smell it. She’d put some on a hankie, so I could smell it …’

  ‘I’m sorry, love,’ I rushed to reassure her. ‘Of course I believe you. So what happened next?’

  ‘I was terrified. She kept flicking the lighter on and off. So I begged her not to burn me and she started laughing and telling me I was pathetic and telling me I had to beg some more. I had to say, Please, I’m so ugly, but please don’t set fire to me, and she kept doing that for ages and then burst out laughing again and telling me it was all a big joke. That’s when she told me about the water and said how silly I was for believing it, and said that if I told dad she really would burn me, and that it was just to show me how she would do it if she had to. That now I knew just how easy it would be, and that I should be very careful not to annoy her.’

  Which was when a half-remembered thought suddenly came to me. What had the woman said to me that day, about winning all those trophies? That was it. That it was all about attention to the little details.

  I took Imogen into my arms then and tried to soothe her racking sobs. No wonder she’d been stunned into silence, I thought. She must have been scared half to death by such wickedness.

  Attention to detail. How easy it would be. This was a monster, and I was speechless myself.

  Chapter 17

  With Kelly already looking after my kids, I used the internal phone to call Jim Dawson, and while we waited for him to arrive I impressed upon Imogen that she was not in any trouble whatsoever. And that, actually, what she’d done had been very brave and very important and that once her nan and grandad knew (I was careful not to mention her father) they would make sure she was safe.

  This had brought on another intense bout of sobbing as she revealed that her nan had given her a huge telling off for stomping off to her bedroom and spoiling their party, and how fed up they were getting of her living there.

  Which made me wince, but, of course, that was exactly what would happen, her wicked stepmother having done such a brilliant job of painting this child – who she clearly hated, for whatever twisted reason – as some spoilt and odious kid set on trouble.

  But it was trouble that was about to be heaped on her own head, and, boy, I thought, as I sped off to track Gary Clark down, would I love to see that happen.

  Just as I’d hoped, Gary was indeed in a meeting with the head, and, hopefully, as a part of his doubtless long list of items, discussing the action the school should now take. And as the receptionist confirmed that there were only the two of them in there, I had little hesitation, despite the Meeting in progress sign hanging on it, in rapping sharply on the door.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ I said, as both men looked up at me in surprise, ‘but there’s been something of a development with Imogen Hinchcliffe.’

  Gary gave me a ‘What the hell?’ look as Jim stood to greet me. ‘Come on in, Casey. How are you? Rested after half-term, I hope? Come and grab a chair, and let’s hear what you’ve got for us. Gary’s already filled me in on where we’re at with her written disclosures, but you’ve something else now?’

  ‘I have,’ I said. ‘She’s been talking to me. Properly talking,’ I added. ‘About the first thing she told us.’ I glanced at Gary. ‘About thinking her stepmother was going to burn her? Well, now she’s told me the full circumstances and it’s shocking, it really is.’

  ‘Which are?’ Gary asked.

  So I told them. Both men listened in the same shocked silence that I had, and when I’d finished Mike Moore spread his hands. ‘I’m at a loss for words,’ he said. ‘And I’m not trying to be funny. Where’s she now?’

  ‘In Gary’s office with Jim Dawson, currently,’ I told him. ‘In no fit state to stay in school but, well, where do we go now? Can we really just send her home, now, to nan and grandad, business as usual?’

  He turned to Gary. ‘As CPO, what are your thoughts?’ he asked him. ‘What’s the next step we should take at this point?’

  ‘Well,’ said Gary, ‘it’s both complicated and made easier by the fact that she’s already living with her grandparents. Complicated because it makes intervention more complex as there is another layer of family involved, but easier in that, as far as we know, she’s already in a place of safety, so there will hopefully be no need for an emergency intervention – picking her up and placing her in care; that sort of thing.’

  ‘Well, that’s something,’ I agreed, thinking just what a trauma it would be for Imogen to be taken away and placed in the care of strangers. The implications for her mutism could be potentially catastrophic. ‘So what would happen?’

  ‘Well, the key
thing is probably the dad here. We’ve yet to speak to him, so we don’t yet know what part he’s played. On the face of it, all this has been going on in his absence, and, from what Imogen herself says, without his knowledge.’

  Mike tutted, and I knew exactly what he was wondering: just how foolish or, indeed, hands-off a parent had to be not to see what was happening right underneath their nose. But it was unfair to prejudge him, I supposed, not without getting all the facts. ‘And what a shock he’s going to get,’ I said.

  Gary shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. Odds are he is, but there are lots of abuse cases where the uninvolved parent has known what’s going on – in some cases, exactly what’s been going on – but, for whatever reason, has chosen to ignore it. Sometimes it’s coercion, or fear of retaliation, but sometimes it’s just plain expediency. And after all, this is a man who’s been left with his daughter, but who has a job that means he has to work away. It could well be that he’s chosen to turn a bind eye on how she’s been treating his daughter because he needs her to take on the lion’s share of the childcare. Trust me, people can talk themselves into all sorts of things – it’s just a case of skimming over the details and shutting your ears a tiny bit. No,’ he said finally, ‘this is a complex situation. And, happily, it’s not our job to sort it out.’

  He stood up then. ‘So, assuming you are okay with it, Mike, I’m off to bend some ears at social services. They’ll decide how to proceed from there, and I imagine it will involve the police, but in the meantime you need to get this all written up, Casey. So I’ll pop down and see Kelly, make sure she’s coping okay with your lot, then I’ll make the call. Okay to tell them you’ll email a full report to them shortly?’

  I nodded. ‘So what happens to Imogen? Like, right now I mean. She’s still in your office.’