Casey Watson - The Silent Witness

In answer, she shook her head and lifted the bag slightly. Which, again, was progress, even if not very much.

‘Well, you get sorted then,’ I said, stepping back out onto the landing. ‘Bathroom’s just over there, see? And it really is up to you. If you want to go to bed, then that’s fine, but if you want to come back down again that’s fine too. No sweat either way, sweetie. You do what you like tonight, all right?’ I nodded towards the bedside table. ‘And get that tea down you before it gets cold.’

A nod this time. I closed the door softly behind me.

I decided not to hang about, either. I suspected she’d need to hear I was actually back downstairs before she could properly relax, get undressed, use the bathroom or whatever, so I made a bit of a stomp about going back down so that she’d know she was safe to move around.

Back in the living room the mood, despite the light show, was darker.

‘She’s not spoken a word hardly,’ Mike told me as soon as I entered. ‘I was just asking Sophie about the post-traumatic stress thing, and apparently she’s barely spoken since they took her.’

‘I thought she might be, by now,’ Sophie said, ‘you know, since being with the other carers, but there’s no change, not while we were there, not while we were waiting, not in the car. Not a single word, nothing. It’s like she’s mute.’

I had some experience with mutism from back during my days as a school behaviour manager. Not this kind of mutism, as in an extreme response to a trauma – the girl in my care had longstanding selective mutism, which only manifested itself while in school. But this kind – the ‘response to severe stress’ kind of mutism was, I’d read, a great deal more common. And it wasn’t just that it had only been a matter of days, either – it was ongoing; she’d witnessed something no child should witness, and, to compound it, she was now being told what to do by complete strangers while her dad was in hospital and mum was in jail. It was a miracle she wasn’t hysterical. She may yet be. These things could be episodic, ebbing and flowing, triggered by all sorts of things.

‘It’s understandable,’ I said. ‘It’s a nightmare, all this, isn’t it? And now, to compound it, she’s been moved here, so it’s like she’s back to square one. And for who knows how long?’

‘Mike was just asking me about that,’ Sophie said. ‘And the honest truth is that we have no idea.’ She flicked her hair, which was long and dark, back across her shoulders. ‘It’s all so sad, isn’t it? And no guessing what the outcome’s going to be either. Still, soon as Christmas is over, we’re arranging for Bella to see a counsellor. Which might help. We hope. There’s no question of her being returned to her previous placement, by the way – John might have told you?’

‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘What’s happened? Have there been complications with the baby?’

Sophie shook her head. ‘No, no – well, not as far as I know. No, they just don’t have any idea when they’ll return right now. And to be honest, even when they do they’ve already said they’d rather not have her back. They said they were struggling with her, to be honest – not sure they were the right couple for her. Just the three of them in the house, rattling around, Bella so silent. They feel she’d be better placed with a younger, busier family …’

‘We’ll we’re certainly busy,’ Mike said.

‘Excuse me? And young …’ I couldn’t help adding.

‘Exactly,’ Sophie said. ‘Which is why it’s so great that you’ve said you’ll have her. Big noisy family. Lots of distractions. Your other child – Tyler? It is Tyler, isn’t it?’ We both nodded. ‘Let’s hope they bond, eh? Oh, and that reminds me. I’ve already spoken to her about keeping off of social media. I don’t know how much she uses it, because it’s impossible to get anything out of her. But she’s got an account – I checked – though I have no idea how much she uses it. Parents do too. So I’ve explained how it’s important that she should avoid it – all the chitter-chatter and idle gossip and so on – and that if she wants to get in touch with friends, she needs to do it the old-fashioned way: putting pen to paper, through you. But you’ll know all that anyway, of course. Sorry.’ She gave an apologetic little grimace. I was really beginning to warm to her. ‘Anyway, we really are incredibly grateful,’ she finished. ‘And I’m here, of course – well, I say “here”, I need my bed now, as I’m sure you do. But you know, as a port of call – I’m on call right through Christmas. You know, if there are any problems that you need me for and so on … And I’m a constant,’ she said. ‘I’ve been assigned full time to Bella’s case, so at least there’s that.’

‘That’s good news,’ I said, because it really was. I knew all too well that, in their early days in care, children often went through many different social workers. It was no one’s fault. It was just that, often, there was simply no one free to take them on as a long-term commitment; caseloads were huge, always, and there was also the problem that a lot of the time no one knew how long a child was even going to be in the system. So it was often a case of filling in, helping out, the child being passed hither and thither, between social workers who already had way too much to do. And at Christmas, of course, all these problems were compounded. So, yes, it was indeed good that Bella already had that continuity in her social worker, even if Sophie might not be the most experienced one in the world.

But, arguably, she was at least the brightest.

‘I’ve got to say, Casey,’ she said, once she’d drained her mug and put her coat back on, ‘your Christmas tree is magical .’

Which made me smile. At least till we waved Sophie off, and the reality set in. That I didn’t have a magic wand to go with it.

As far as I knew, Bella slept soundly through the night. Perhaps she was just as physically exhausted as she was emotionally, but on both occasions I checked on her – I couldn’t sleep a wink, of course – I was actually surprised to find her dead to the world, star-fished on her back, snoring, one arm cradling a large and surprisingly ugly-looking soft toy – not one of ours – that looked a bit like a gremlin. Each to their own, I thought.

And both times I tiptoed in there it occurred to me that for the majority of kids, and the majority of the Western world, this was supposed to be a night of an excess of excitement, and of waking disgruntled parents long before dawn. Not so Bella. Not for many other hidden-from-view, desperate children. No happy family Christmas for them come the morning. I wondered where her mother was. What she was feeling. What a mess.

It was a far from normal Christmas morning in our house as well. Despite the lack of sleep, I’d left my alarm set for six thirty, knowing the hours ahead were going to be fraught, unknown territory. I was therefore anxious to steal a march on the day. And when it roused me – from one of those deep sleeps the sleepless always seem to fall into just before waking-up time – it was down to a cold, silent kitchen that I tiptoed, so I could get ahead with all the tasks I invariably had to do, before anyone else was awake.

Not that I expected Tyler to be that far behind me. He might be fifteen now and in theory too old to get over-excited about such childish pleasures, but, of course, many of his Christmas childhoods had been exercises in pure misery, as his father capitulated and let his stepmother bully him, while lavishing love and gifts on his younger half-brother. No, I didn’t think he’d ever outgrow such a simple, precious pleasure. And, if I had any say in it, nor would he.