There’s nothing normal in what most foster carers do. And that’s understandable. Because there’s little that’s ‘normal’ in many of the situations that mean kids need to be fostered in the first place. Even in the most loving, committed, fully functional families, it’s invariably a sudden crisis – the antithesis of normality – that leads to a child having to be looked after by the state, even if only for the shortest of periods. A parental car accident, perhaps, where there’s no friend or relative to take the child in, or a sudden serious illness that means hospitalisation. Though much more frequently (in Mike’s and my experience, anyway) it was one of the side-effects of a breakdown of some kind or other; be it the breakdown of the family unit, a breakdown in relations between child and step-parent or, as in the case of so many of the kids we fostered, a simple breakdown in any fragile, optimistic, hopeful progress made by parents locked into a world of substance abuse.
So the events that happened next, though certainly a first for me, were in hindsight just another reminder (as if one were even needed) that our fostering always has the potential to take us into very abnormal, and often challenging, situations.
Right at that moment, however, I patted the hump in the bed again, oblivious to what was coming, and simply went down to answer the door.
I had a good feeling about Phil Thoresby straight away. In his mid-thirties, or so I guessed, he looked professional and smart. Although his shirt sleeves were rolled to just below his elbows – as to be expected on such a hot day – it was a pristine white shirt, worn with smart black trousers, which, along with the leather messenger bag over his shoulder, lent an air of authority and confidence to his warm smile and firm handshake.
He’d also come prepared, having had the foresight to bring a ‘play worker’ with him, a similarly aged woman who introduced herself as Cathy. Not that I’d heard of a play worker before, so while Cathy took the bold step of going straight up to Paulie’s bedroom (which I was more than happy to sanction, since they were apparently already acquainted) I asked Phil if hers was a newly created role in social services.
‘No, not at all,’ Phil said, as I ushered him to a seat at my dining table and put down the large refuse sack of Paulie’s stuff that he’d brought with him. ‘They’ve always had them – well, all the while I’ve worked for them, anyway. Ah, but, you might not have needed them, I suppose. You usually foster older children, don’t you?’
‘That would explain it,’ I said, feeling a little silly. ‘But, listen, while they’re still upstairs, can I ask you about something?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Fire away.’
‘It’s about the family rabbit,’ I said.
‘Ah.’
‘John Fulshaw emailed me about it yesterday, and I assume you probably know more about it than I do,’ I added. ‘And it’s just that Paulie was talking about it himself, just before you arrived. Anyway, it’s true, then, is it? He did kill it?’
Phil had already pulled the messenger bag from over his shoulder and now delved into it, pulling out the obligatory A4 manila file, which I could see had little in it. Well, as yet.
‘I’m afraid it seems that way, Casey.’
‘Only seems?’
‘Well, pretty much. I mean as in, yes, the rabbit is dead and, yes, Paulie was out in the garden directly before the pet was found. But it’s also true that everything other than that is a little bit “he said, she said” – you know, circumstantial evidence rather than “caught red-handed” stuff. Both he and the rabbit were found by the stepdad, who demanded to know what had happened, and by all accounts – and this is the one thing everyone seems to agree on – Paulie didn’t waste a lot of time in coming clean and confessing to what he’d done.’
‘He’s just said as much to me. That he killed it – and told everyone about it – so that “everything would be okay. Except it’s not.” Those were his exact words, and I can’t for the life of me work out what they mean. I thought you might be able to?’
He looked thoughtful. ‘Well, only in so much as perhaps he thought they’d be more likely to forgive him. You know, more likely than if he tried to deny it, anyway. And it was a pretty elderly rabbit … I don’t know. Perhaps he got rough with it? Maybe in a temper about something? They don’t have the strongest hearts, do they, rabbits?’
I agreed that they didn’t. ‘But everyone’s pretty sure he definitely did it? As in killed it intentionally?’
‘Well, given that’s what he’s told all of us, well, yes, I suppose he did.’ He sighed. ‘But I guess all of this is going to come out in the wash at some point, isn’t it? So though I’m keener to believe he didn’t kill it – not intentionally, anyway – it’s really not the main concern now, anyway. The main problem is the family breakdown and what’s going to happen to him next. Believe me, I saw no softening of human hearts back there earlier.’
Since all was quiet upstairs, and there was no rush for them to leave (Cathy was likely to feature significantly in Paulie’s life in the coming weeks if no resolution could be found, after all), I made a pot of coffee and, while I did so, Phil filled me in on what else he could.
It seemed Paulie’s mother Jenny had had quite a few different men in and out of her life since losing her husband. The children were always reluctant to get along with any of them, always wary that if they got close, they might wake up one day and they’d be gone, something that was particularly true of her daughters. It was especially hard with the girls because, lacking a biological father, they had themselves become something of a handful.
And it seemed the family were already very well known to social services, after all. ‘Family support has been in place for about a year,’ Phil explained. ‘But up to now mainly to help with the girls – get them through school without exclusions, and so on. It’s only very recently that little Paulie’s come to our attention, and that seems to have coincided with his real dad, Adi – John’s told you about him? – making waves about having his son go live with him.’
A tickle started up on the back of my neck. ‘Really? But I thought he had major mental health issues?’
‘Yes and no. He’s adamant that he’s fine now and on medication that controls his violent episodes, but of course the danger is that when he doesn’t take his meds – which apparently does happen – then he wouldn’t be fit to take care of Paulie, would he? Which leaves us at something of an impasse – well, more a mess, really – because we’re now doubtful whether mum and stepdad are going to be able to give him the upbringing he deserves, even if they could be persuaded to have him back and accept more support. Of course, as it stands, they’ve washed their hands of him, say they can no longer cope, and have a real fear – not without grounds – that he’ll harm the baby. He’s recently threatened to choke him, did you know that?’
I shook my head. ‘And Dad’s not an option because he’s also potentially dangerous …’
‘Exactly,’ Phil agreed. ‘Terribly sad situation all round, isn’t it?’
It was indeed. A child so young, and so vulnerable, apparently killing the family pet, just so it would ‘make everything okay’. Although in what way he thought it might, I couldn’t fathom. His dad was mentally unstable, and his mum and stepfather – well, partner – were busy pushing him out of their lives like he was a broken toy. No wonder little Paulie was so angry and messed up.
As if on cue, Cathy and Paulie came down to join us at precisely that moment, the latter pink-cheeked and red-eyed but seemingly feeling much happier, and keen to replicate a magic trick Cathy had just taught him, involving a handkerchief and a disappearing coin. ‘Look, mister,’ he said to Phil, having apparently forgotten he was the hated grand inquisitor, ‘the coin will vanish, an’ I swear it’s real magic, not bullshit or anything!’
‘Paulie,’ I said on autopilot, ‘please, love – without the swearing!’ before getting up to make Cathy a cup of tea.
It was just about then that my mobile phone rang (I had to write everything down afterwards, and I remember writing: 1. My mobile phone went), which I picked up from the table and took into the kitchen with me.
The display told me it was Mike – probably calling for a Paulie update in his lunch-break – and I was just giving him exactly that, telling him what Phil had told me, about Cathy coming, about Paulie’s magic trick, when a commotion, in the form of Paulie suddenly shrieking at the top of his tiny lungs, started up in the other room.
‘Christ! Love, I’ll have to call you back,’ I told Mike, cutting him off and throwing the phone down. I ran back into the dining room and on through into the living room, where Paulie was yelling ‘Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!’ and jumping up and down.
I had no idea what was going on, but quickly took in the elements of the scene – which involved Paulie wriggling free of Cathy, who was frantically trying to restrain him, while Phil peered anxiously out of the window towards the road.
And then I did a double take, as I realised what was really happening. There was a man – a very big man – standing not only in my front garden, but actually in the flower bed directly in front of the window. And, as if to ram the point home, he now pounded heavily on the glass.
‘Oh shit!’ I said, before I could stop myself. ‘Phil, is that –’
He nodded briskly. ‘Yes, it is. Stay here. I think I’d better to go out and talk to him.’
‘I want my daddy!’ Paulie was screeching. ‘I want my daddy!’
‘Phil, are you sure you should?’ Cathy asked him. ‘I mean, look at him!’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Come on – what’s he going to do in front of all of us, in broad daylight?’
‘I’m not sure you should,’ I said. ‘I agree with Cathy. Why don’t we just call the police?’
‘Do that anyway,’ said Phil, already heading towards the hall. ‘I think on balance it might be better if we can talk him down before they get here …’
‘Daddy, Daddy!’ Paulie was still screeching, endlessly. ‘I want my daddy! Let me go! Let me go!’
Presumably seeing that Phil was coming out, the man had now moved away from the window and, before Phil could even get to it, there was now a loud rat-a-tat-tatting on the front door.
‘What if he barges his way in?’ I said, panicked now. Was the side door locked? I couldn’t remember. ‘Hang on tight to Paulie,’ I said to Cathy, rushing to check if it was, trying to recall if I’d left the key in it and, if not, where I’d put it, and seeing the front door slam behind Phil as I did so.
Thank God for that, at least, I thought, dashing to secure the other door. Then it occurred to me that our courageous social worker had now effectively locked himself out there. And with a mad man? I was starting to feel very scared. I’d not seen much of the man but I’d certainly seen all I needed to. He was here to get his son back and he seemed to mean business. Did mean business, I realised as I glanced through the kitchen window, which also looked out over our small front garden. The body language of the two men was unmistakeable.
I grabbed the phone again, going back in just as Cathy was manhandling the still writhing five-year-old back into the dining room. ‘Tell them his name is Adrian Selby,’ she told me, as I punched out the three digits. ‘Who he is. Why he’s come.’
‘Get off me, you fucking bitch!’ Paulie yelled as he bucked and kicked against her. ‘My daddy wants me! He’s come to get me! Let me go or he’ll kill you!’ And at such a volume that I returned to the front room to make the call, for fear of not being able to make myself understood.
Similar levels of aggression were very much in evidence out the front. It was like witnessing a real-life hooligan movie. ‘Get my fucking son out here now,’ Paulie’s father was screaming at Phil, ‘or I’ll rip your fucking throat out, you fucking nancy boy!’
To my horror – because real-life violence is nothing like a movie – he then shoved both his hands, flat-palmed, into Phil’s chest, almost knocking him off his feet. He kept his balance, however – just – and held his own arms out in front of him, connecting with Adi’s shoulders and trying to keep him at the proverbial arm’s length. ‘Adi, listen,’ he said calmly, ‘this isn’t helping your case. Paulie will see all this and he’ll be scared. Is that really what you want?’
By this time Cathy had shut the doors between the living room and dining room so that, in fact, Paulie was seeing nothing – well, as yet. Although what the cost to her might be was anyone’s guess, because he was screaming like a banshee and presumably still attacking her.
But if I was horrified already, I was about to be more horrified still, as Adi lifted him arms, batted Phil’s from his shoulders then drew a fist back and smashed it into the side of Phil’s face. And this time he did fall down. Like a stone.
‘Shit!’ I said, wondering quite what the hell to do next, as I watched Paulie’s father calmly step over the moaning social worker, intent, presumably, on resuming battering down our front door. Did I go out and try to face him down? Was Phil badly hurt? God, where were the police when you needed them?
In fairness, this had all taken the space of ten minutes. They’d be here soon, I told myself, as Phil rolled over and started getting up onto all fours. He glanced across and up at me, and I frantically gestured to him to get away. To go round the side, where I could let him in – well, if I was quick about it – so that we could leave everything, including Paulie’s father, in the hands of the police.
But I wasn’t sure I was making sense, and Adi was back in my line of vision again, though now he suddenly turned away and seemed to look up the road. At last, I thought, thank God! But then my eyes widened in shock. It wasn’t a police car. It was our car that was coming down the road.