Let Me Go: Part 2 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 2020

FIRST EDITION

© Casey Watson 2020

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

Cover image © Nicole Wells/Arcangel Images (posed by model)

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

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

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Source ISBN: 9780008375577

Ebook Edition © May 2020 ISBN: 9780008375614

Version: 2020-03-20

Contents

1  Cover

2  Title Page

3  Copyright

4  Contents

5  Chapter 9

6 Chapter 10

7 Chapter 11

8 Chapter 12

9 Chapter 13

10 Chapter 14

11 Chapter 15

12  Chapter 16

13  Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

14  About the Publisher

LandmarksCoverFrontmatter

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Chapter 9

I don’t know if I’m getting a bit long in the tooth and jaded, or whether Tessa’s use of the term ‘merry-go-round’ had seeped into my consciousness, but within moments of assessing the seriousness of Harley’s wounds, I had something of an unlikely epiphany. There was a lot of blood, yes, but a little blood goes a very long way, as anyone who’s had a nosebleed will tell you.

Though Harley looked pale, as if she might well pass out from the blood loss, under a brighter light, now Mike had put the dining-room one on as well, I could see that the wounds weren’t actually that bad. Bad, yes, in the sense that she’d do something like that to herself, obviously, but, in terms of losing blood – as in at a rate that might put her life in imminent danger – what she’d done to herself wasn’t that serious after all. Yes, there were lots of puncture marks, and in multiple places, but each was just that – a puncture mark, from a sharp but slim instrument. Already I could see blood coagulating around the ones on her wrists, and on her thighs it wasn’t so much flowing now as oozing; as long as a wound isn’t too big, the body is very efficient in stemming blood flow when it needs to.

But the epiphany wasn’t about that. It was about the bigger picture. The fact that she’d come downstairs so quietly and calmly – almost as if she wanted to present herself to us; expecting a familiar train of events to be set in place. And, now I took that picture in, I saw everything differently. She’d hurt herself, no doubt about it (and it must have hurt a lot to stab herself repeatedly with a compass) but it also appeared, now I was taking a more measured view, that she’d smeared a lot of the blood around for maximum effect. In short, she hadn’t been trying to kill herself, she’d been trying to create a drama. To stir us into action? If so, this was surely a classic cry for help.

If so, good. But the question was, how best to answer it? She was clearly expecting a big hoo-hah, and for us to rush her to A&E. Which we would have to do anyway – I wasn’t about to take any chances, not least with the risk of infection. But if we took away the hoo-hah, the panic, the anxiety and the fuss, would we perhaps break what was a long-established feedback loop and in so doing, perhaps find a way into her mind?

I had no idea if my strategy was the right one (I’d meant every word I’d said about blithely assuming failed suicide attempts were meant to fail) but I was willing to take a punt on it. Mike was hovering nearby and I could tell what he was thinking, even without looking at him. He was thinking here we go again, another night with barely any sleep. Because there was every chance, given that Harley wasn’t expiring in front of us, that we’d be low priority, and perhaps stuck in A&E for several hours.

So where I had previously been sitting forwards opposite Harley, inspecting her wounds, I now sat back in my chair. ‘You know what, love?’ I said to Mike. ‘I don’t think we need worry too much about this. I mean, we’ll need to get these seen to, cleaned and dressed,’ I added, half to him and half to Harley, ‘but there’s no sense us both going, especially as you have work so early in the morning.’ I was shaking my head and raising my eyebrows as I spoke, hoping he’d catch on without her seeing.

‘But—’ he began.

‘Seriously, love, I’ll take her. It’s only ten minutes away, after all. You’ll be fine with me, won’t you, sweetie?’ I added, looking again at Harley. ‘In fact, tell you what, Mike, if you could go up and fetch my long raincoat from the wardrobe, we can pop that over Harley so she doesn’t catch a chill. Oh, and some socks and her trainers.’

Mike had by this time moved around so he could see my face and I could tell that he was getting with the programme.

‘No problem,’ he said, heading out of the room and up the stairs, while Harley could only look on, bemused – or so it looked like – by our apparent indifference to the bloody mess she was in. It was the first time I think I’d seen her looking slightly confused by what was happening. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing was yet to be revealed, but my instinct was definitely the former.

Mike was back in moments and I set about putting socks and trainers on Harley, who made no move to help but no move to escape her fate either.

‘There,’ I said when I was done. ‘Let’s get you out into the car, sweetie, shall we? Take your time – don’t want to set you off bleeding all over again. Oh, and Mike, can you record my programme for me, d’you think? See you in not too long, I hope, but don’t wait up, okay?’ I planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘Oh, and remind Ty his jeans are still in the tumble dryer.’

Harley spoke not a single word while we made the short drive to hospital, just sat in the front of the car with me, stiff and upright – a bit like a crash test dummy – though my hunch was that her brain was whirring, wondering what had brought on this marked change in approach from me. But it wasn’t until we’d gone into A&E, been booked in (the wait time, amazingly, was only ten minutes and I nearly punched the air) and taken a seat in the waiting area that she finally spoke.

‘What will they do to me?’ she asked, glancing nervously around and pulling the raincoat tight around her. I hadn’t seen her self-conscious in this kind of setting yet. Sullen, yes, uncooperative, yes, but never like this. I had no idea what it meant – perhaps nothing; her psyche was a complete mystery – but I definitely sniffed a change in her.

‘Like I said before, I think the cuts are largely superficial,’ I said brightly, ‘but they will still want to be sure that they’re properly cleaned and covered so they don’t become infected.’

‘I won’t need stitches, then?’ she asked.

‘Stitches?’ I gave her a look of incredulity that wasn’t far from the truth. ‘Oh, good lord, no!’

Her expression now was unmistakable. She looked disappointed. Disappointed! And it seemed she genuinely was. ‘But they all told me I would.’

‘Who told you?’

‘On my group chat.’

I filed that one away. ‘But how would they know?’

‘Because I posted photos.’

I was genuinely stunned now. Wide, wide awake. This was something I hadn’t figured on with our solitary hermit house guest. I posted photos. Just like that. ‘Are you telling me you’ve posted pictures of your injuries on Facebook?’

I was about to go off on one now – not least to myself – about that being the sort of thing that made the internet such a dangerous place for young people, especially troubled teenagers like Harley. But it was very much a stable gate and bolted horses situation, so I stopped myself. And quite apart from anything else, Harley had a half-smile on her face. ‘Facebook? That’s for old people! No one uses Facebook,’ she told me.

Typical! I thought, even as I processed what she was saying. I’d only just got used to using Facebook and now it was deemed only for ‘old people’. Were the circumstances different, I might have responded with a wry smile.

‘Well, whatever you put it on, you really shouldn’t have,’ I told her. ‘Even with my elderly brain, I know that self-harm is a private matter and shouldn’t be glamorised in photographs for the world to see.’

‘There’s a massive difference, Casey, between self-harm and attempted suicide,’ she retorted. ‘Don’t you know that with your elderly brain?’

I really wasn’t sure what to make of her tone, or her comment. Because did she really expect me to believe that she had genuinely tried to kill herself this evening? Her one constant since she had arrived had been that she was determined to do just that, but I was beginning to feel the same as everyone else who’d had dealings with her. That she had got into this bizarre mental place where trying-but-not-trying had become something like a compulsion for her in itself. I just wished I could find my way into that place with her so I could work out what to do to try and break the cycle.

What I could work out, however, was that my hunch seemed to be correct – Harley was sorely pissed off that her attempt at whatever hadn’t gone quite as dramatically as she thought it would and she didn’t like the fact that I was being so blasé about it.

Thankfully, I didn’t need to answer, however, as her name was called and we were led by a nurse down a shiny, white corridor, following the coloured strip on the floor that weaved its way around the whole area. I didn’t catch the nurse’s name, but she seemed my kind of woman, because there was no preamble – she set straight to the task in hand.

‘Let’s have a look, then,’ she said, drawing a curtain around the bed in the cubicle. ‘Pyjama trousers and top off, please. You can leave your underwear on and pop this gown around yourself if you wish. Are you alright to hop up on the bed for me?’

I noted that Harley was indeed wearing underwear beneath her pyjamas – as if anticipating that she’d be coming out tonight? Another piece in the jigsaw. Or was it? Like everything with this child it seemed impossible to know. Harley didn’t answer her, just silently did as she’d been asked, only wincing slightly as she peeled off the bottoms, where the blood had stuck them to her thighs and tummy.

The nurse seemed not to notice, or, if she did, she seemed unmoved. She was brisk almost to the point of seeming uncaring. But I sensed it was deliberate. Perhaps experience had taught her that being overly sympathetic to serial self-harming A&E attendees only helped reinforce their behaviours. What a complicated business it all was, I mused. I’d seen more than most of self-harmers in my time in fostering and I never felt any less perplexed and saddened by it.

The nurse, though, just seemed keen to get on. Since Harley hadn’t answered her first question, she spoke over her, to me. ‘So, what did she use to do this, then?’

‘A compass apparently,’ I said.

‘Hmm, and not the north, east, south, west kind, I see.’ She examined the cuts closely and then started unwrapping some antiseptic wipes. Now she did address Harley. ‘No getting away from it,’ she told her. ‘This is going to sting. But then if you do this kind of thing often, I’m thinking you’ll be used to a bit of pain, won’t you? Anyway, I’ll be as gentle as I can, okay?’

Harley remained tight-lipped while the nurse started to clean her wounds, though now perhaps more of necessity. Though when the nurse declared she’d finished and gave Harley a short lecture about aftercare, all she got in response was a curt nod. Had this been a different child I might have nudged her to thank the nurse for what she’d done, but this being Harley, there seemed little to be achieved by doing so. A sullen ‘thank you’ is worse than no thank you at the best of times and it wasn’t as if I was training a forgetful toddler. Still, it went against the grain – this was still the same child who’d been so polite and articulate when we’d first met her. To be so stony-faced when being helped must have been an act – an act of will. The question was: why did she adopt this persona? Was she actively wanting to be badly thought of? I’d looked after plenty of kids who lashed out when offered help, but she didn’t fit that mould. I didn’t get her at all.

‘Well, then,’ I said, a little too brightly, ‘that wasn’t too bad, was it? And no need for stitches either, just like I said. Come on, then, let’s get that coat on and done up, and then you’ll be decent and we can get back home.’

I thanked the nurse for her time and she gave me an understanding look, then it was straight back to the car and in pretty record time. We’d been lucky – we’d not even been gone forty-five minutes. Perhaps Mike might still be up – I hoped so.

‘Let’s hurry home, love,’ I said as she climbed gingerly into the car. I was still conscious of not making a big thing of what she’d done. I wasn’t sure why, quite, but I sensed it was derailing her a little, this not having the night panning out as she’d perhaps anticipated. Perhaps it was making her think. ‘If I’m lucky,’ I added, ‘I might still get to watch a bit of TV with Mike.’

Harley slammed the passenger door as she settled into the seat. ‘That’s twice you’ve said home,’ she crossly. ‘It’s not my home, I don’t have a home.’

So she was rattled. And was this a route into a proper conversation? ‘I’m sorry, love,’ I said as I started the engine and began reversing out of the parking space. ‘I know it’s hard for you, and it’s just what I’m used to saying, but, you know, our home really is your home all the while you’re with us.’ I smiled across at her. ‘At least, your temporary home. But of course I know that you must miss your own home.’

‘I told you,’ she said, ‘I don’t have a home.’

‘But you do have a mum, love,’ I said, deciding to plough on. I had to take any opportunity I could get, after all.

She didn’t reply to this, so I decided to keep going. ‘Speaking of Mum,’ I said, ‘have you been staying in touch with her on the phone?’

I could see Harley’s chin just out of the corner of my eye. ‘Of course,’ she said, as if I was an idiot not to already know this. ‘Every day,’ she added. ‘We FaceTime. I don’t know why I bother, though, because we always end up arguing. What kind of an excuse is oh, I can’t keep you safe?’

This was more than I’d ever had from her on the subject of her mother. I pressed on. ‘Well, I suppose, in her situation, that’s what any mum would feel like if she loved her child and felt she couldn’t stop her hurting herself. She must feel helpless, sweetie. Can you see that?’

Harley snorted. ‘Oh, she’s helpless alright, but not the way you think. Look, never mind,’ she said, dismissively. ‘I don’t expect you to understand. And I don’t want to talk about her right now, if that’s okay.’

Polite again. And it was okay, because I’d fixed on the words ‘right now’. Because it might mean she was prepared to talk about Mum at some other time, mightn’t it? I clung to that small signal that we might have made a bit of progress. And was happier still to see that Mike had stayed up. As if he wouldn’t have, given that I’d texted to say we were done and on our way. Still, I was pleased, because I was feeling oddly distant from my family. It had only been for such a short time but it had felt as if I was in jail. Stuck in all day on my own, Mike off at work, and then Tyler off out most evenings and Harley’s welfare dominating both my time and my thoughts.

So I was happy that she headed straight up to her room, for me as much as anything. Keen as I was to try and get to the heart of her, I was tired. ‘I’ll leave out some milk and biscuits,’ I called after her as she disappeared up the stairs.

‘Not till you’ve had a sit down and a coffee,’ Mike said firmly. ‘All good?’

‘All good. Much ado about nothing. Well, not nothing,’ I corrected myself, ‘but it did all feel very staged. I’m hoping our response – or lack of it – might have given her pause for thought. Though having said that, I hope it won’t inspire her to try something more serious. Oh, I don’t know. I really, really do not know what to make of her.’

‘So stop trying,’ he said. ‘Let it go. You can’t help her if she doesn’t want your help. Here, take your coffee. Let’s wind down with a bit of TV, shall we? Put her out of our minds for a bit. Concentrate on our own family for a change. Speaking of which, I had lovely chat with Kieron while you were gone.’ He then proceeded to tell me all about what little Dee Dee had been up to and how excited she was about having her baby. ‘Honestly,’ he chuckled, ‘I really think she thinks they’re having it for her! They’re going to need eyes in the backs of their heads!’

He planted a kiss on my forehead, then. ‘Seriously, love, we really must try to keep this one in perspective. If she won’t be helped, she can’t be helped and there’s nothing to be done about it. Try to detach a bit, okay? We only took her on in a very specific circumstances – to keep her safe, as far as we’re able, for just twenty-eight days. And what’s left now? We’re halfway, aren’t we? And, I mean, how hard can it be, right?’

Which was, of course, my line. Which I answered in my head. In theory, it shouldn’t be that hard at all.

But theories were exactly that. Just theories.

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