by A. L. Bird
‘No!’ the woman shouts to Chloe. ‘No, you can’t have my baby!’
‘I can have everything that’s yours,’ Chloe says. ‘It belongs to me. Nowhere is safe. Nowhere, nowhere, nowhere.’
And she leaves the room. It is dark again, and the light gradually fades. The other woman gets younger and younger and younger and smaller and smaller until there is nothing left of her at all.
***
It’s light. The sun is peering in through the thin curtains. Josh is sleeping, his face stained with tears and sleep. Trying not to rustle the covers and wake him, I look around the room. It’s not as bad as it could be, I suppose. Everything is peachy-coloured. Blankets, duvets, curtains, carpets, walls. Someone will have decided it was comforting and then gone with it.
Aside from their peachiness, the walls are adorned with the standard sort of posters. ‘Don’t suffer in silence – tell someone!’; ‘Will you let him hurt your children?’; ‘What’s to stop the next time being murder?’; ‘You can talk to us!’
Yeah, yeah. The usual shit.
The baby is crying outside again. Maybe that’s what woke me. It sounds closer than in another room. I slide out of bed and venture to the door. I open it a crack to look out. There’s a woman in a headscarf nursing a baby and a black eye. It goes well with her split lip. I try to make eye contact but she doesn’t want to – she is just staring at the baby on her breast and rocking backwards and forwards, while she walks up and down. The woman is young, too young for this. The baby is tiny. Unexpected, unwanted by someone? Thank God it’s only the mother with the bruising, not the little one too.
I peer into the other room, the door slightly ajar. The shape in the bed doesn’t shift. It just groans a little, then cries. I can see the covers shaking.
I retreat back into our room and sit on the edge of the bed, one hand on Josh. These people are deep in their trauma. We’re beyond this, surely? We just need increased monitoring, increased surveillance. I need to not go out on dates. Simple. We’ll be fine.
‘Next time he’ll be gone.’
Never. I will never let that happen. I will demand everything, and we will be safe. Make that negligent witness protection woman get her act together.
I feel the bad mobile in my pocket. Should I check it? After all the drama of last night, it may have some clue, some fragment of an idea as to who is after me, of what we should do next. I turn it on. I wait. There is nothing. I cradle it in my hand, waiting, but it stays quiet. No Chloe messages. Just silence. It’s as unsettling as another screaming voicemail.
Josh starts wriggling next to me. I switch off the phone and put it in on the bed. He does a little stretch, eyes still closed. He opens them and there’s a moment of innocence. Then he sees me. Then he remembers. I can see it in the way he physically shrinks his posture, the nervous craning of the neck about him.
I’d forgotten – all this is new to him. There weren’t emergency foster bedrooms, shared children’s home dormitories. And he was too young to remember all the shitty rooms last time round. This ‘not so bad’ place must seem beyond scary to him.
‘What are we doing here, Mum?’ he asks me in a whisper. ‘I don’t understand. Why are we here?’
‘To keep you safe,’ I whisper to him.
‘Who from? I don’t understand. I was safe at home.’
He looks up at me, sees I don’t have an immediate answer, then his little lower lip begins to quiver again.
I hug him. ‘It’s OK, Joshy,’ I say, over and over again. He doesn’t reprimand me for using his baby-name.
‘But why are we here?’ he asks.
‘Come on, let’s see if we can get you some breakfast,’ I tell him. I have no idea what it will be like downstairs. But this floor is a place of doomed souls.
I lift the duvet off Josh and lead him out into the corridor. I nod to the baby woman, who doesn’t nod back. Now it’s daytime, I can see the staircase has some cheerful posters (‘Two women are killed per week by their partner – don’t be the third’; ‘Are you keeping your child safe?’; ‘He always says sorry – but does that stop him doing it?’). Josh stares at them.
‘Daddy is dead,’ he says, as if explaining to me: you are wrong – we don’t need to be here at all.
‘Do you need the bathroom?’ I ask Josh, trying to distract him.
He nods.
‘They’re just along there.’ I point down the corridor.
He doesn’t budge and he doesn’t let go of my hand.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ I ask.
He nods. We walk along the corridor together. The bathroom is not a bathroom, it’s a simple shower unit, a toilet, and a basin. There’s a baby bath optimistically slung into the shower, as if there might somehow be the space (mental or physical) to bathe a tiny person in here. Josh does his wee, crying as he does it, washes his hands and wipes them on his jeans. Then he makes to go outside.
‘Give me a sec, kiddo. I need one too. You want to wait outside?’
He shakes his head, so we swap places. I go, scrub my hands, look at the communal hand towel, then wipe my hands on my clothes like Josh did. Still my date clothes. I feel like a stale whore.
I take Josh’s hand again and we propel each other along the landing and downstairs. I’m hoping for a sort of cosy breakfast nook. A thin stern woman with grey hair and a clipboard greets me at the bottom of the stairs. I don’t know where Caroline’s gone.
‘You must be Jen and Josh,’ she says.
‘That’s right,’ I tell her.
‘I’m Lesley. Come through, we’ll get you some breakfast and get on with the paperwork, and find out what we can do for you.’
‘OK,’ I say. At least there is mention of breakfast.
I follow Lesley down the hall. There’s no smell of sizzling bacon or baking bread so there goes that fantasy.
In the (peach) breakfast room cum living room there is a big pine table set out with breakfast bowls. Tupperware jars of miscellaneous cereal are laid out next to them. There’s a faded burgundy couch against one wall of the room. The opposite corner is ‘Children’s corner’ – a big paper butterfly peeling away from the wall says so. There are a few toys, designed for five-year-olds. Josh keeps hold of my hand.
‘Let’s have some breakfast, hey, Josh?’ I say, overbright.
I pull a chair out for him and he slumps onto it.
I want to hug him and cry. This is not how I’d planned his childhood. But we need to put on a brave face for Lesley. I don’t trust women with clipboards.
As we munch through our Rice Crispies, Lesley tells us things.
‘There are three of you women here at the moment, two children. Everyone respects each other because everyone’s story matters.’
‘I was wondering, what’s the story with the baby –’
‘Moving on. You do not answer the door – only staff members open the door. In a situation like yours, we ask you not to leave the hostel until you’ve been assessed by social services and the protection officers have been again to assess your case. There’s a garden in the back for the little man.’
I look outside to where she’s gestured. There’s some concrete and a plotted plant. It’s a smokers’ yard, not a garden.
‘There’s no abuse of staff. We know you have had a difficult time, but we are here to help. If you become abusive, you have to leave. OK?’
‘OK.’ I shrug.
‘The kettle’s boiled so there’ll be tea soon. Now, let’s run through your details. You’re being kept safe from someone who may be the boy’s father, is that right?’
Josh coughs on his Rice Crispies.
‘Josh’s father is dead,’ I tell stupid Lesley. I try to look at her meaningfully, but not so meaningfully that Josh will understand.
‘That’s funny. It says here: running from father – worried early release from prison – history of abuse.’
I want to smack Lesley across the face with her
fucking clipboard.
Josh is standing up from his chair.
‘Mum! What is going on?’ His eyes are teary with shock and he’s looking at me as if I can make it all OK again. Like I can just right the snowglobe that this crass cretin of a woman has shaken up around us.
‘Lesley, can you give us a minute, please?’ I ask her. But it won’t take a minute. This is ten years’ worth of lies I have to unravel.
‘Mum, is Dad alive? What’s going on?’
Lesley’s face is starting to crumple. The clipboard hangs loose. She’s covered her mouth. ‘Oh,’ she whispers.
Yeah, fucking oh. Now get out of my sight. ‘Perhaps you can go and check on the tea?’ I say to her.
She leaves.
Josh is standing before me, fists clenched.
‘Mum, what is this? Dad, in prison, history of abuse? What is she talking about?’
I take Josh’s hand and lead him over to the sofa. Pull him, rather. He is not a willing participant in any of this.
‘Josh, you get that I love you, and only want what’s best for you, don’t you?’
‘Mum! Tell me!’
I smooth down the sofa with my hand. Which version? The second official version, I suppose. The State-endorsed version.
‘I met your daddy when I was very young and very vulnerable. In some ways he was a very nice man, but in other ways he was a very bad man.’
‘But is he alive?’
‘Just listen, Josh. He used to beat me up. Sometimes he beat me up with you inside me. He also used to sell drugs to people. Bad drugs. Illegal drugs. The police wanted to catch him. So I helped them. But we knew that he and his friends might want revenge and come after me. So you and I – before you were even born – went into witness protection. He went to jail and we carried on with our lives, safely and happily.’
‘You said my daddy was dead!’
‘Josh, listen to me – if there had been any alternative, I wouldn’t have said that. But he’s a bad man. He tried to kill you, before you were even born.’
‘If he knew me, he wouldn’t try to kill me!’
‘Sweetie, last night I had a threat that he was going to kidnap you.’
‘So he wants to see me! He wants to meet me!’
‘Josh.’ I hold his shoulders and look into his eyes.
‘No! I hate you!’ He breaks free, his fists clenched. ‘You told me I didn’t have a daddy, and I do have a daddy, and I want to see him!’
‘Josh,’ I say to him again. My eyes fill with tears. I let them. ‘Do you understand? Your daddy did very bad things to me. He sold bad things to good people and that’s why he went to jail. If he finds me, he will kill me. It’s possible he’ll try to kill you too. I thought we were safe because we moved to a whole new part of the country and he’s supposed to be in prison. We’re here while the police figure that out. But you mustn’t think you have a nice friendly daddy to go to. He never existed in that way. He’s as good as dead. OK? That’s why I said he was dead.’
There. It’s out there. The truth (most of it). Josh is the first person I have ever had to tell, like that. I feel stronger for having said it. Vindicated.
Josh doesn’t seem stronger. He seems destroyed. He won’t look at me. He’s just standing there, crying, biting at his lips, alternately clenching his fists and wringing his hands.
And that’s how we are when the nice lady from social services comes to see us.
Chapter 21
‘I’m Patricia, but you can call me Pat. I’m your designated child protection officer.’
The new woman is a wiry brunette wearing jeans. She doesn’t have a clipboard, just a paisley coloured notebook with a pen stuck into it. Those are even worse. I have seen so many of those sorts of notebooks.
‘Why do we have a child protection officer?’ I ask. Because I’m a parent, I know that child protection generally means you’re at risk of not seeing your child.
I try to hug Josh to me, but he won’t budge. He’s still just standing there trying to come to terms with himself and his un-dead father.
‘Oh, it’s just routine. In these delicate sorts of situations.’ She turns to Josh. ‘How are you today, little man?’ She uses that awful fake candied voice some adults use to speak to kids. For some people, kids are aged up to eighteen. I got sick of it.
‘Can I have a quiet word?’ I say to her.
I stand up and pull her to one side. ‘Look, he’s just been moved in the middle of the night into a hostel, he’s found out his dad isn’t dead but in prison, and that we’re living under a witness protection order. I get that you have to do your job, but can we take it gently?’
‘Of course,’ she says. I see her hand twitching to write in her notebook.
She goes over to the sofa and takes the seat I was sitting in. The lid comes off the pen. I perch on the opposite end of the sofa. She angles her notebook away from me.
‘Now, Joshua,’ she says.
‘Josh,’ I correct.
He looks at us, red-rimmed eyes flitting from one to the other.
‘I understand you’ve had a bit of a difficult time,’ says Pat, the mistress of understatement.
Josh shrugs.
‘Are you a bit sad and confused about your daddy?’ she continues.
I’m not convinced this counts as ‘going gentle’. I keep my mouth slightly open, all the better to intervene.
Josh half-shrugs, half-nods.
Pat makes some notes. ‘Is he usually more talkative than this? It’s not good for children to bottle things up.’
‘Yes, he is usually more talkative than this. I expect he has too many words in his head to voice any of them.’
‘Has he ever been tested for autism?’
Oh for goodness’ …
‘No, he has never been tested for autism.’
‘Hmm.’ The pen moves again.
‘Josh, why don’t you come and sit down next to me?’ Pat says.
Josh looks at the sofa, then woodenly walks over and plonks himself on the edge of it.
‘Now, Josh, why don’t you tell me how you’re feeling?’
‘I want to go home, and I want to see my dad.’
‘Is your dad at home?’
Oh Christ, has she not read the file properly either?
‘His dad is in prison,’ I hiss. ‘Or at least, we think he is.’
She holds up one hand to me, meaning ‘shut up.’
‘Josh, I just want to make sure you understand what’s going on. Do you know where your dad is?’
‘No.’
Pat makes some scribbles.
‘When did you last see your dad?’
‘I’ve never seen him.’
‘And how does that make you feel?’
‘I have a dad and I’ve never met him and I want to see him.’
She nods. ‘M’okay. Mum, is that an option?’
I stare at her. ‘You’re kidding me, right? His dad is a drug dealer. He abused me. He punched me in the tummy when I was eight months pregnant with Josh. He’s threatened to kidnap my son. We’re in witness protection so he and his associates don’t hurt us. And you want them to have a happy father-son reunion?’
Pat looks down her nose at me. ‘I can understand you may be angry at what’s happened, but young boys can be impacted by not seeing their father at all. It might be a case of a supervised visitation, or …’
‘No. Just no. When I gave evidence, when I turned my life fucking upside down, I was told we would be kept away from that man, and we would never have to see him again. The police said I could tell Josh that daddy was dead, and that I’d never have to untell that lie.’
‘Hmm. The police. Yes, well, they’re not really the specialists are they? And we are where we are.’
‘Yes, in a fucking hostel!’
‘Ms Sutton, I really must ask you not to swear in front of your child. It’s not a good influence.’
/> ‘Oh for goodness’ sake!’ I get up from the sofa and walk to the other side of the room and lean against the wall. This cannot be happening.
‘Josh,’ Patricia (she’s damn well not getting ‘Pat’ from me now) says in a low tone. ‘How are things with you and Mummy?’
‘She lied to me. She told me my dad was dead. And then she goes out on dates with other men, and brings them back to stare at me in the bath. Who does that?’
‘Right …’ says Patricia. I’ve never seen a pen move so fast.
‘It wasn’t like that,’ I protest. ‘Dan was –’
The ‘shut up’ hand forms a barrier again.
‘And this man,’ Patricia continues. ‘Did he touch you in anyway? Did your mother leave you alone with him?’
Josh shakes his head. Thank God.
‘Why was the man in your home?’
Josh shrugs. ‘Mum had gone out on a date with him, but she wanted to bring him back early to look in the bedrooms.’
Shit, Josh! I bet he knows exactly what he’s doing. What impression this woman will get. But he doesn’t understand how powerful she could be.
‘Josh …’ I warn.
‘And had she left you alone while she went out?’
‘No, Louise was there.’
‘Who is Louise?’
Josh shrugs. ‘Don’t know really. I met her for the first time yesterday. She saw me in the bath too.’
‘And did she do anything in the bath that made you feel uncomfortable?’ Pat asks.
I step forwards.
‘Look, look, timeout, OK? This is ridiculous. My life with Josh is safe. It is good, it is clean, it is happy. There are no child molesters hiding in bathrooms, right? I do not go out like a lady of the night and bring perverts back into my flat. The sole thing that is an issue is that we are seeking refuge from my abusive ex, which is why we are in this shelter. OK?’
‘I’m just doing my job, Ms Sutton. I need to test what I’m seeing. It’s important to see how children are affected by witness protection and whether they’d be better off in the care of someone who …’
‘No. Look. I’ve been there. I have been in foster homes and “care” homes and emergency shelters and under bridges and Lord knows what else. I know, OK, that my son is safest with me.’
