Casey Watson - The Silent Witness

Mike, from the sofa, mouthed the words ‘What’s wrong?’ I mouthed back ‘Emergency’. Enough said. Tyler, all ears now, turned the television down.

‘Well, yes,’ I said, eyeing my abandoned microphone sadly. ‘But that’s okay. Go on, tell me then. What’s up?’

It was a short call, because this was clearly no time for rambling on. Suffice to say, I would now be working this Christmas. Mike and I both would. And all of us, because that’s the nature of the job, would in all likelihood have our Christmas plans changed. We would be looking after a twelve-year-old girl, who was apparently called Bella, and who’d already been in the care system for a week. The details were sketchy (the usual ‘I’ll fill you in once we’re sorted’) but the gravity of the situation was not. Bella was in care because her stepfather was in a coma on a ventilator in an intensive therapy unit, having been put there with a life-threatening head injury, which had apparently been inflicted by Bella’s mother. Attempted murder, by all accounts, which Bella had apparently witnessed, and while her stepdad fought for his life her mother was in prison.

People often ask me what kind of circumstances lead to a child being placed in care, and much of the time my responses are broadly similar. Abuse features regularly, as – equally depressingly – does neglect. The children of addicts, the children of virtual children themselves, the children who’ve been abandoned, those whose families have imploded or disappeared – the list of childhood miseries sometimes seems endless. But this was a new one. The grimmest kind of new one, to me anyway. Because the child who was coming to us had witnessed her mother attempting to kill her stepfather. Where did you start to imagine the myriad ways she must be in agony?

And on Christmas Eve, too. Yes, just another day, but a day that was marked in most calendars every year, which for a child was a treasure trove of happy memories. It didn’t matter in the scheme of things what the date was. Of course it didn’t. But if her stepdad died tonight, and her mother was convicted of murder, Christmas would be bound up with horrible memories for ever more.

‘Yes, of course,’ I told John, as soon as he’d finished filling me in. ‘If there’s no one else willing or able, of course we’ll take her.’

‘You don’t know how relieved I am to hear that,’ he told me. I knew he meant it, too. ‘I’ll pop an email to you now,’ he added. ‘You know, just outlining what I’ve told you, and with whatever else I can find out. Ten minutes, I promise. Pronto.’

‘No worries,’ I said. ‘We can chat when you get here.’

‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘That’s the thing. I have to get home. I am so sorry, Casey, but between you and me I shouldn’t be here at all. I’m only in now because I forgot to switch my bloody mobile off. And here I am, passing the buck to you.’

I sympathised. I knew how guilty he must feel. I also knew just how many hours he clocked up in a week, many of them extremely unsociable ones, too – because fostering emergencies didn’t keep office hours and, because that’s the way life worked, often happened in the small hours, in the darkness before dawn, when the pubs turned out, the drug deals were completed, when reason went and tempers began fraying. And the wives and children of people with jobs like John’s mattered too. I knew full well how little they got to see of him.

‘No need to apologise,’ I reassured him. ‘Go on, get yourself home, okay?’

‘That’s the plan,’ he said. ‘Fingers crossed. Before I’m lynched! Bella’s social worker, who’s on her way to get her now, will bring her over to you, if that’s okay. Hour or so. Two at the most. I’ll double check and confirm in the email. Really, Casey, thanks so much for this. Terrible timing. And thanks to Mike, too.’

‘No, it’s fine ,’ I reassured him, before putting the phone down.

‘No it’s not,’ Mike said immediately, as I walked back into the living room. My turn to face the music now, I realised. I knew I shouldn’t have said yes. Not without checking with Mike first. But I knew that if I did check he’d say yes too. So not doing so was a time-saving exercise, that was all. ‘It’s Christmas Eve , love,’ he said, not yet knowing the circumstances. ‘Wasn’t there anyone else John could ask?’

‘If there had been, he wouldn’t have called us, would he?’ I told him reasonably. Though Mike did have a point. She wouldn’t be the first child to have been deposited with us close to Christmas. But this close? John had said she was already in the system, hadn’t he? So what had happened? Had another foster family decided they couldn’t keep her? I decided not to tell Mike about that part. Just the facts. An episode of violence (I was necessarily editing as I went, for Tyler’s benefit). Dad in hospital. Mother in jail. And her a witness to it all, to her family falling apart. To her father’s last hours of life, even, potentially. The poor child, we agreed, must be in bits.

And it wasn’t like we had anyone in at the moment, was it? Bar Tyler, who no longer counted, of course, on account of being one of the family now. It had been a while, in fact, since we’d had anything approaching a long-term placement. Since Adrianna, a lovely Polish teenager, had left us at the end of spring, we’d only had children come to us on a short-term basis, keeping us free for the sort of child who needed specialist care long term.

This wasn’t being billed as that, exactly, but, given the gravity of the circumstances, it might well turn out to be, mightn’t it? Specially given John’s email, which pinged into my inbox five minutes later, and, though brief, did make mention of Bella’s demeanour, her probable post-traumatic stress disorder and her refusal to say a single word about what she’d seen. Emotionally shut down. Eating poorly. Unreachable. Deeply distressed.

‘Well, that’s Riley’s breakfast off the agenda,’ Mike said when I’d finished, ever the practical one. ‘We’d better give her a ring and let her know.’

‘She might like it,’ Tyler suggested. ‘Take her mind off stuff and that.’

‘She might,’ Mike conceded. ‘Though by the sound of things Christmas will be the last thing on her mind. After all, she’s –’

‘Oh, lord ,’ I said, a thought having just occurred to me. ‘Presents. She’ll need some presents. Mike, we have to get her some presents.’ I checked the time again. ‘The supermarket. The supermarkets will still be open, won’t they? For another hour, at least, anyway. Mike,’ I went on, seeing his pained expression, ‘I can’t have a child here with nothing to open on Christmas morning. I just can’t. Look, please, love. There’s still time. You go off and get some bits for her while I go and sort the room out –’

‘ Me ? Case, how am I supposed to know what to get a twelve-year-old girl?’

‘Use your imagination,’ I said, while grabbing his trainers so he could put them back on. ‘Use Tyler’s. Ty, you’ll go with Dad, won’t you? And I’ll make a list. Let me see … pyjamas. She’ll need some anyway, probably, as I don’t have anything the right size. A dressing gown. A fluffy one. Some CDs. Some smellies … Get some paper, Ty. Write it down. Go on, quickly, the pair of you. You know what’s current, Tyler … actually, on second thoughts, you can stay here with me. Help me clear all the rubbish in the bedroom …’

‘And clean it to within an inch of its life,’ he said, grinning. ‘I know the drill, sir.’ He clicked his heels.

‘Cheeky tyke,’ I said, aiming a gentle swipe at him. He was such a good boy. Such a lovely nature about him. Whatever else was true, Tyler’s presence was a bonus for any child who came to us.