The Silent Witness: Part 1 of 3

Copyright

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 © HarperCollinsPublishers 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 © May 2017 ISBN: 9780008142674

Version: 2017-04-21

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

About the Publisher

Dedication

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.

Acknowledgements

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.

Chapter 1

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.’

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.

I bundled Mike out into the fairy-light spangled night, which was cloudless and chilly, then ran around, first pulling out my wrapping box so I could wrap up all the spoils, then grabbing cleaning spray and dusters, and heading off up the stairs with Tyler to make the required assault on our unexpected charge’s place of safety.

‘Business as usual, then,’ Tyler said, grinning as he unwound the cord on the vacuum cleaner.

I couldn’t imagine anything about Bella’s circumstance that merited anything other than heartbreak, but this was not the time for that. Place of safety, place of calm. I smiled back at Tyler. ‘Yes, business as usual, love,’ I agreed.

Chapter 2

I stared at my laptop screen, engrossed. While Mike was still out, and Tyler was ensconced in front of the telly, a second, more informative email had come through from John. And with coffee made, and the practical side of things finished, I had sat down to read it, first taking in the fact that it was so much longer than the first, and then, line by line, as it began to sink in, the truly desperate nature of this child’s situation.

There was also a good reason for Bella’s emergency relocation, it turned out. After having been taken from the family home, and interviewed (fruitlessly), she’d initially been billeted with another foster family. They were a middle-aged couple who often took emergency placements, and the intention had been for her to stay with them at least till New Year, when the various agencies and departments who made decisions in such weighty matters were back open for business. At that point, the holidays over, the intention was to move her to a longer-term foster home while the police built their case against her mother. But nature had no concern for the smooth running of social services, and it so happened that the couple had a very pregnant daughter who lived some 150 miles away.

That shouldn’t have been a problem in itself. The baby wasn’t apparently due till late January, so there was no reason for the couple not to have Bella short term. However, a few hours back, the couple’s daughter had gone into early labour, and with complications that meant the couple had no choice (as if they’d want one) but to jump in the car and make the journey to be with her. Which left Bella out on a limb, since there was no guarantee they’d be back any time soon, which was where social services, and then John, and then Mike and I came in.

I sent up a silent prayer for happy news – perhaps a Christmas Day delivery? And for a baby who was delivered safe and well.

Then my thoughts naturally moved to the girl we were receiving. John had managed to speak at greater length with Bella’s social worker’s line manager, and was able to give me a fuller account of the events that had led to Bella being in care.

It seemed her mother, Laura Daniels, and her stepfather, Adam Cummings, had always had a volatile relationship. Together since Bella was three or four (with the stepdad acting very much as Bella’s father, apparently), they were already known to social services and had been for some years, following numerous complaints to police and social services, mostly with regard to their frequent noisy rows. Screaming episodes, fighting in the garden, bouts of drunken brawling; incidents like these had seen them visited by those in officialdom on numerous occasions. It had apparently been a regular occurrence.

Yet on every occasion, it seemed, there was little in the way of follow-up. Which was not to say anything should have been done (all too easy to think you know better with the benefit of hindsight) but there was obviously a pattern: the mother always trying to calm the situation down and the stepfather, once questioned, always taking full responsibility, saying he had a drink problem which he was anxious to address.

I had heard it all before. Who hadn’t? The cycle of drinking, drying out and then, down the line, the almost inevitable relapse was one that, sadly, was familiar to many. Yet it seemed there was a genuine desire to stop drinking in Adam Cummings, which was presumably why his luckless partner kept sticking by him. Which she clearly had, and, that being so, social services had taken a back seat, and their input had become minimal; at the time of this potentially lethal bout of violence they were down to twice-yearly visits. And all had been well. Well, up until a week ago, that was.

I wondered what had changed. What had finally broken her.

The one positive (in a situation where it looked like there was a distinct lack of positives) was that, by all accounts, Adam Cummings had never once laid a hand on Bella. That was also borne out by the observations of both the neighbours and successive social workers; Bella had always been found to be well looked after, well spoken, well turned out and clearly loved by both parents. Mum had always been apparently reasonably hands-on at Bella’s primary school, too. And from discussions with the wider family, which apparently included the maternal grandparents (no mention of any family on his side), it was evident that Adam only ever lashed out when under the influence, and as Bella had apparently confirmed herself, never towards her. There was also a footnote – at the time of writing, which had been in early autumn, Adam had apparently been going to AA meetings regularly.

Ah, but Christmas. Bringer of joy, but also bringer-on of family tensions. And now a man lay in ITU and a woman in a prison cell. And in the midst of it all was their child, now all alone.

I heard the door open and close then. Time to ponder some more later. In the meantime there were presents to wrap. Hopefully.

My husband had done pretty well. ‘Ah, brilliant,’ I said repeatedly, as he produced gifts one by one from the supermarket carrier bag, like a conjuror pulling a rabbit from a hat. ‘I’m sure she’ll love that. And that. Oh, and that one, for definite.’

‘And definitely these,’ Tyler contributed, having wrenched himself from the TV to lend his considered opinion of Mike’s choice of music CDs.

CDs were still something of a staple in our fostering lives, as we still had two elderly CD players; one in what was now Tyler’s room – he didn’t use it but wouldn’t part with it – and the other in the spare, fostering, bedroom. Yes, very old-school, and often the subject of amusement among the young (‘CD player? Isn’t that, like, an antique?’ or, in one memorable case, ‘What is that?’) but while music was universal, the modern kit on which to play it was often not – not for some of the kids who had passed through our doors down the years; some barely had shoes, let alone iPods and iPhones. We also – old school again – still had two DVD players.

‘Not sure about that, though,’ Tyler sniffed, catching the fluffy pink rabbit Mike now did, in fact, produce from the bag and throw at him.

‘It’s to put on her bed, stoopid,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to learn how girls operate, mate. Stuff on beds. That’s their thing. Totally pointless, but completely indispensable. Am I not right, oh noble Cushion Queen? Isn’t that exactly what girls do?’

I laughed. ‘It’s exactly what girls do,’ I said.

As well as the CDs and the fluffy bunny, and some appropriately pink festive toiletries, there was also a dressing gown – also pink and fluffy – a pair of butterfly-strewn pyjamas, a set of various hair bobbles and clips, and what I’d thought was the latest Harry Potter book – The Order of the Phoenix – which, according to a laughing Tyler, wasn’t very ‘latest’ these days, but was a bargain, apparently, and would definitely double up as a doorstop if she’d already read it.

I reached for the wrapping paper, and handed scissors and ribbon to Tyler. ‘I’ll wrap, you garnish,’ I said, which always made him giggle. ‘Remember the way I showed you how to curl the ribbon?’

‘Course,’ he said. (In fact he was something of a natural.) ‘But I swear to God, don’t ever tell any of my mates I do stuff like this. Especially Denver. I’d never live it down.’

Denver was Tyler’s best friend – had been for a few years now. He was a lovely boy and, from the start, he had been so good for Ty, particularly during the early days when he so missed his younger brother, who was still with his father and (to my mind) wicked stepmother. Ty and Denver had a bond now that I’d stake my life would prove unbreakable. And despite their endless quest to create some kind of hard-man image in public, they were both very similar in nature: kind-hearted and loving kids.