Cathy Glass - Damaged

‘Well, what do you think?’ I asked, smiling at Lucy as she handed me a cup of tea.

‘She’s weird,’ said Lucy, sitting down next to me.

‘I don’t like her,’ said Paula, then looked at me sheepishly, expecting to be told off.

‘And what about you, Adrian? What’s your first impression?’

‘She reminds me of that doll Chucky in the horror film. You know, the one that’s possessed by the devil.’

‘Adrian!’ I admonished, but I felt a cold shudder of recognition. With her broad forehead, staring blue-grey eyes, lack of empathy, and her detachment from the real world, she could easily have been possessed. I caught myself; whatever was I thinking? She was just a child who had been through some miserable times and needed our help – there was nothing more sinister to it than that. I had taken this challenge on and now I owed it to Jodie to see it through for as long as she needed me. Part of her problems no doubt stemmed from people falling at the first hurdle when it came to dealing with her, and passing her on for someone else to deal with. I couldn’t do that to her again.

I tried to look relaxed. ‘I’m sure she’ll improve with time.’

Perhaps I was haunted by the lingering image of the possessed doll, for suddenly I was awake, with my eyes open and my senses alert. I turned and looked at the alarm clock: it was nearly 2.15 a.m. I listened. The house was silent. Yet something told me all was not well; a sixth sense from years of looking after children.

I eased my feet from the duvet and felt for my slippers. The house was cold, as the central heating had switched off for the night. I fumbled to get my arms into my dressing gown, tied it loosely, and opened the bedroom door. Suddenly, I gasped in shock. Jodie was standing outside the door, her face covered in blood.

‘What is it? What have you done?’ I frantically searched her face and neck for the source of the blood. ‘Where are you hurt? Tell me! Come on, quickly!’ I couldn’t find anything, but the blood was fresh.

In a trance-like state, she slowly raised her hands and showed me her palms. They were smeared with blood, but I still couldn’t find any sign of a cut. I pulled up her pyjama sleeves, and then I saw it. She had a cut on her left forearm, about an inch long, which was lightly seeping blood. I steered her into the bathroom, and took her to the sink. I turned on the tap and ran the cut under cold water. She didn’t even flinch and I wondered if she might be sleepwalking.

‘Jodie?’ I said loudly. ‘Jodie! Can you hear me?’

She grinned at her reflection in the mirror, and I knew that she was awake.

‘What happened? How did you do this?’

She met my gaze in the mirror, but said nothing.

I washed the wound thoroughly and examined it. It wasn’t deep, and wouldn’t need stitches, so there shouldn’t have been nearly this much blood. It seemed that she had smeared the blood deliberately, for maximum effect. But how? And why? No one had mentioned anything about Jodie self-harming, but I doubted this was the first time she’d done it. I looked closer, and saw there were other fine, pink scar lines running up both arms. How recent they were was difficult to tell.

‘Stay here, Jodie,’ I said. ‘I’m going downstairs to fetch a bandage.’

She grinned again. That strange, mirthless smile seemed to hold meanings I couldn’t fathom, and it gave me the shivers. I covered her arm with a clean towel, then went down into the kitchen, where I opened the first-aid box and took out a large plaster. My mind was reeling. She wasn’t even distressed, which made it all the more worrying. Just as before, with her soiling herself, there was that cool calmness and detachment that was so strange in such a young child. It was as though she didn’t feel the pain, or perhaps wasn’t even aware of what she’d done. She couldn’t have cried out when she’d cut herself, as I would have heard her – years of fostering had made me a light sleeper. I suddenly had an awful image of Jodie sitting silently in her room, squeezing the cut, then wiping the blood on her face.

Upstairs again, I found her looking in the mirror, grimacing, but not from pain. She appeared to be trying to make herself as ugly as possible, screwing up her face, and baring her teeth in a lopsided grin. I peeled the backing from the plaster, sealed the cut, then wet the flannel and wiped her face and neck clean. I washed my hands in hot soapy water, remembering too late that I was supposed to wear gloves when dealing with wounds, to prevent cross-infection. In the panic of the emergency, I’d forgotten.

When she was clean and dry again, I felt a sense of normality returning. ‘All right, Jodie,’ I said encouragingly. ‘Let’s get you back into bed.’ She still didn’t speak.

I led her round the landing as Lucy appeared at her door. ‘You OK, Cathy?’ she asked, her eyes only half-open.

‘Yes, don’t worry. I’ll explain tomorrow.’

She nodded and shuffled back to bed.

In Jodie’s room I found her duvet in a heap on the floor. There was no blood on it, but on top was a small fruit knife I’d never seen before. I picked it up. ‘Where did you get this?’ I tried to keep the accusation out of my voice.

She finally spoke. ‘Hilary and Dave’s.’ Her previous carers.

‘Do they know you’ve taken it?’

She shook her head mischievously, as though being caught out in a game. I could hardly tell her off. I was more annoyed with the carers for giving her access to it, but I did understand. I had learned only from experience that leaving a child for fifteen seconds in the vicinity of the kitchen could produce untold dangers. I’d once fostered a teenager who had self-harmed, but I’d never known a child of Jodie’s age doing it. If a child has been physically abused at home, they can have very little respect for their bodies and are often careless about hurting themselves. Deliberate self-harm is relatively rare and is usually the preserve of teenagers. I’d never heard of an eight-year-old purposefully slashing herself with a knife. It was very worrying.

‘Have you taken anything else?’ I asked gently.

She shook her head, but I checked the room anyway, then remade the bed.

‘Come on, in you get. We’ll talk about this in the morning.’

She shook her head angrily. ‘Park,’ she demanded. ‘I want to go to the park. You said.’

‘It’s the middle of the night, Jodie. We’ll go tomorrow. No one goes to the park when it’s dark. All the gates are locked.’

‘Open them!’

‘I can’t. I haven’t got the keys.’ I realized the absurdity of this conversation. ‘Jodie, get into bed and go to sleep before you wake the whole house.’

‘No. Don’t want to.’ She made towards the door.

I caught her lightly round the waist and gently drew her to me. ‘Come on, good girl, into bed and I’ll tell you a story. We’ll go to the park in the morning. When it’s light.’

She struggled for a moment, then flopped against me. I eased her into bed, and drew the duvet up to her chin. I looked at her little head on the pillow, blonde hair falling over her face. I perched on the bed and stroked her forehead until her features relaxed. ‘Jodie, you must be hurting very badly inside to cut yourself. Is there anything you want to tell me?’

But her eyes were already heavy with sleep. ‘Story,’ she mumbled. ‘Free ’ickle pigs.’

‘All right.’ I continued to stroke her forehead, and began the story which I knew by heart. Her eyes closed and her breathing deepened. I kissed her cheek, then quietly came out and closed the door.

At five o’clock I was woken by a loud crash. I threw on my slippers and dressing gown, and staggered to her door, disoriented from lack of sleep. I gave a quick knock and entered. ‘Jodie! Whatever are you doing?’