Helen Black - Damaged Goods

Lilly winked at her boss and stumbled towards her car.

She sped through Harpenden towards Luton. Bespoke shoe shops and upmarket gastro pubs soon gave way to pawnbrokers and kebab shops. The women on the streets no longer carried designer handbags and all-white floral arrangements, instead they pushed double buggies laden with bumper packs of nappies. Further still into the sprawling housing estates of Ring Farm and windows were boarded, overgrown gardens housed old sofas, and cars stood on bricks.

Eventually she pulled into a cul-de-sac overshadowed on three sides by granite tower blocks. Even on glorious days like today, at the height of a summer stretching into autumn, scarcely any sunlight fed through and The Bushes Residential Unit for Young People existed in permanent gloom.

Lilly parked in the shadows and pulled out the relevant file from the pile stacked beside her on the passenger seat.

BRAND, K. – CARE PROCEEDINGS

Kelsey Brand, eldest of four girls. Their mother, a heroin addict who funded her habit by prostitution, and was unable or unwilling to clean up, had finally given up the distracting charade of parenting and placed all four girls in care.

So far so familiar.

Lilly reached for some chocolate. She’d sworn to restrain herself to a bar a day, two in dire emergencies, in an attempt to stop the slide from sexy size twelve to pleasantly plump. As she bit into her first Twix of the day she smoothed her hands over her hips. Still the right side of curvy. Just.

She skimmed the pages in search of the ETF. Every case had one. An especially awful aspect that lawyers like Lilly looked for. Something to set their client apart, to prevent them from becoming ‘ just another kid in care ’. Something to remind the professionals that although they dealt with these stories every day of the week they weren’t commonplace.

She found it on the last page – her search made easier by the lack of detailed notes – and it was tremendous. An all-singing, all-dancing Extra Tragedy Factor . Kelsey Brand, at fourteen years of age, had tried to kill herself by drinking a bottle of bleach.

Lilly closed her eyes and swallowed the chocolate. It stuck in her throat with a peppery sting as she tried not to imagine how Domestos might taste. She pictured herself instead as a corporate lawyer in a smart office overlooking St Paul’s Cathedral in the heart of the city. Dressed in a black Armani suit, which fitted snugly but not tightly over her hips, she crossed a plant-filled atrium, her high heels clicking on the marble floor. Tap, tap, tap.

The heels dissolved as Lilly focused on the doughy twelve-year-old who was rapping day-glo talons against the car window.

‘You on drugs?’

Lilly ignored her and got out.

‘Got any fags?’

‘Not for you,’ answered Lilly.

The girl spat on the ground, inches from Lilly’s feet.

Lilly appraised her with practised cool and nodded at the silver boob tube which threatened to release a small pair of spotty breasts. ‘Been auditioning for a porn movie, Charlene?’

‘You’ve got a big mouth.’

‘All the better to eat you with, my dear.’

When Lilly got to the door she tossed a packet of Marlboro Lights to the girl.

‘You ain’t so tough,’ Charlene said.

‘Wanna bet?’

Lilly stepped inside the unit. It was buzzing. Most of its residents had just returned from their ‘morning education session’, along with all the pupils that had been excluded from every school in the area. Nearly all the kids in The Bushes went there for a couple of hours a day – if they learned anything it was a bonus. Lilly, who had represented at least half of the young people in The Bushes, was greeted with waves and requests for cash or cigarettes.

‘Who’re you here for, Miss?’

‘Kelsey Brand,’ said Lilly.

‘Nutter,’ came the chorus, and several boys pretended to drink from imaginary bottles.

‘Enough of that.’

‘She’s well weird,’ a boy in a baseball cap shouted, his left eye quivering in its socket.

Lilly rubbed his shoulder in long strokes to soothe away both the twitch and the habitual beatings he had suffered at the hands of an alcoholic stepfather, now serving life for setting the boy’s mother on fire while she fed their six-week-old baby.

‘We’re all weird here, Jermaine, it’s why we get on so well.’

Despite her bravado Lilly felt trepidation as she passed along the corridor to room twelve. Self-abusers didn’t usually threaten Lilly’s equanimity. Headbangers, cutters, anorexics, Lilly had worked with them all, but drinking bleach was so extreme. The girl must have been in the depths of wretchedness to punish herself like that.

The last kid in room twelve had been Irina, the daughter of a deported asylum-seeker. Attractive and well-educated, she had been easy to place with a middle- class foster family. Lilly fingered the soapstone pin she wore at the back of her lapel. It was smooth and cool to the touch. Irina had given it to Lilly on the final day of the court hearing when she learned she was not being sent back to a village torn apart by civil war.

Would the present occupant be so lucky? There was nothing to be done about Kelsey’s family. If the mother didn’t want her kids then no one could force her to take them back. Getting her out of The Bushes and fostered would be the next best thing, but placements for those fond of cleaning fluid were hard to come by. Lilly would give it her best shot but the question was whether her client would have the stomach for the road ahead.

Lilly knocked three times and waited. She gave the girl sufficient time to hide any contraband and let herself in.

‘Hi there. I’m Lilly Valentine.’

The girl sat on her bed and hugged her knees. Her chin was tucked into her chest and her lank hair, the colour of pee, fell like a greasy mask, obscuring Kelsey’s face. Her frame was so slight she reminded Lilly of a small bird hiding under her wing.

Lilly smiled and gestured to the bare walls. ‘I love what you’ve done to the place.’

No reaction.

Lilly softened her tone. ‘Can I sit down?’

The nod was almost imperceptible but Lilly caught it and sat on the bed next to her client.

‘I’m sure someone’s told you that social services have applied for a Care Order because your mum can’t look after you.’

Kelsey retracted further. It was as if she were trying to implode.

‘When we go to court it’s my job to tell the judge what you want,’ Lilly said.

Kelsey didn’t move.

‘I have to at least know that you understand what’s happening to you,’ said Lilly. ‘If you can’t face going to court that’s fine. We can just write it all down in a statement.’

She reached towards her client, slid her fingers under Kelsey’s chin and gently lifted her face.

What Lilly saw made her reel. The bleach had burnt off most of the skin from Kelsey’s lips and chin and revealed a red-brown layer like days-old meat. Lilly flinched, but forced her gaze to remain on the child’s damaged face.

‘I can do all the talking, Kelsey.’ She swallowed hard. ‘But you have to tell me what to say.’

As her eyes locked with Kelsey’s, Lilly flinched again. In fifteen years of practice she was unable to remember the last time she had seen such utter hopelessness.

‘Speak to me, please.’

The noise when it came was somewhere between a choke and a sob. A strangled sound from the depths of Kelsey’s throat. Lilly’s heart beat loud in her chest as she realised her client could not speak.

Lilly shut the door to room twelve and hurried towards the kitchen to make coffee. She could still taste the cold void in Kelsey’s eyes and needed to warm her mouth. Her chest was pounding as she filled the kettle. How the hell was she going to help Kelsey?