Casey Watson - The Silent Witness

This book is a work of non-fiction based on the author’s experiences. In order to protect privacy, names, identifying characteristics, dialogue and details have been changed or reconstructed.

HarperElement

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First published by HarperElement 2017

FIRST EDITION

© Casey Watson 2017

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

Cover image © Tanya Gramatikova/Arcangel Images (posed by model)

Cover layout © HarperCollins Publishers 2017

Casey Watson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780008142643

Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 9780008142650

Version: 2017-11-22

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Topics for Reading Group Discussion

Casey Watson

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

About the Publisher

To all the selfless people out there, in all walks of life. When you wonder whether or not your contribution makes a difference, please know that it does. Every act of kindness or compassion touches someone in some way, and down the line it will be remembered and reflected upon. As always, I’d like to give a special mention to those that work with children and spend every day trying to make a difference – I’m with you every step of the way.

Forever grateful to the team at HarperCollins for continuing to have faith in me and for helping me to get my stories out there. During hard times and good I have felt supported and inspired to carry on. Thanks also to my wonderful agent, Andrew Lownie, who never falters in his faith in me. I owe him everything! Finally, special thanks to my inspiration, mentor and good friend, Lynne, who keeps me plodding on regardless, and helps me to always see the sunny side.

Christmas Eve. Early evening. Tools downed. To-do lists ticked. And to say I was excited is a bit of an understatement. I had begged. I had pleaded. I had wheedled and I had whined. And in the end, because there was clearly going to be no stopping me, Mike had caved in and let me open my main present early.

Just ten minutes ago, in fact, accompanied by heartfelt groans from Tyler, whose early mortification had just been endorsed by my first effort at channelling Beyoncé.

Yes, it had happened. I’d got my wish. My very own karaoke machine.

‘ What ?’ I asked Tyler, who was staring at me open-mouthed, and not, from the look of it, in a complimentary way. But why the face? He’d been our foster son for a good few years now. Our son now. He already knew about my singing abilities.

About which term we had to agree to disagree. I believed I had some, hence my list for Father Christmas, whereas Tyler believed that I must be tone deaf. ‘Mum!’ he cried, sounding mortified. ‘Have you listened to yourself? Ever ? Seriously,’ he added, glancing at Mike, whereupon they shook heads in unison, ‘you need to.’

‘Well, exactly,’ I said, beaming, despite the assault on my singing confidence. ‘That’s precisely why I needed to open it tonight. Plenty of time to get some practice in before tomorrow’s singalong.’

Tyler picked up a cushion and covered his face with it, groaning, as any self-respecting fifteen-year-old boy would in such a circumstance. Though he still managed to guffaw from behind it when Mike added thoughtfully that it was less Beyoncé than a pastiche of early Shirley Bassey with a touch – a big touch – of Lee Marvin. I didn’t care. I had a karaoke machine and I wasn’t afraid to use it. I riffled through the choices and prepared to delight them with some Streisand. And got a belt with Tyler’s cushion by way of gratitude.

I didn’t care. I didn’t mind. Exchanges like these were some of the greatest joys of family life. Not just the big things – the big moments, the overt displays of affection – but also the little things. The everyday and the largely unremarkable. Such as the gentle banter that thrives in an atmosphere of love and harmony. The gentle ribbing. The wordplay. The giggles and all the nonsense. It was Christmas Eve and all was well in my world.

Not that I was consciously thinking about that. I was too busy responding via the medium of song. But was saved, then, from further familial abuse by the sound of my mobile phone ringing. ‘That’ll be Riley,’ I said, putting my microphone down and heading towards the dining room to take the call. She’d doubtless be calling with some last-minute directive or other, having summoned us to her house at silly o’clock the following morning.

Riley and her partner David had blessed us with three grandchildren by now – Levi and Jackson, who were ten and eight respectively, and the little mischief-making machine that was their youngest, Marley Mae, who was three going on the usual thirteen.

In previous years, we’d done things differently on Christmas morning. Now they were a bit older, they would generally open their presents at home (no sense getting the grandparents up at 4 a.m. when you have two parents already there for the purpose) and then coming over to ours mid-morning for another gift-opening session with Tyler and our other grandchild, Kieron and Lauren’s darling little Dee Dee.

This year, however, it was all change. David’s parents, who lived some way away now, were staying over with them, and it had been decided (unilaterally, because that’s my Riley, bless her) that we should join them at hers for a big Christmas breakfast, so we could chat about Riley and David’s upcoming wedding before they left for home.

The wedding was to be in February – scheduled for Valentine’s Day. I couldn’t have been more excited about that either. Oh, yes, all was very well with my world.

But it wasn’t Riley. It was a male voice. One I recognised immediately as that of my fostering link worker, John Fulshaw, even though a glance at the clock made his call something of a shock. He’d already delivered my Christmas poinsettia, after all, and, as far as I knew, all was quiet on the fostering front.

It clearly wasn’t. ‘I’m so sorry, Casey,’ he said. He sounded weary. ‘I know this is probably the very worst time I could ring you, but we really are stuck. I mean really stuck. We desperately need someone to take a child this evening. As soon as possible in fact.’