think I’d sat so stiffly to attention since I’d last been to a lecture on fostering protocols. Though this time it wasn’t so I didn’t drift off to sleep. On the contrary, I’d rarely been so riveted.
The little girl, Darby Sykes, had indeed come to them via a known paedophile – one who’d been browsing through his usual diet of hardcore child pornography when he thought he recognised a child that he knew. That the images would have been disturbing wasn’t in question – physical abuse of small children was the kind of material he mostly went for, but in this case, realising he knew the child lit some flame of disquiet in him. Identifying the actual victim meant he couldn’t switch off the part of his brain that was required to pipe down in order for him to enjoy what he was doing.
And what he’d been doing, John explained, in a quiet, measured voice, was watching little six-year-old Darby, on film, on his laptop, initially dressed up, and made up, but soon almost fully naked, and acting out various scenarios with a variety of sex toys. Above each moving picture was apparently a banner. It read ‘Our Little Princess’.
The known paedophile, John continued, had been sickened. He smiled grimly, once he’d told us that, as if to say I know – even paedophiles as depraved as this one had their limits. ‘He was apparently really sickened,’ John went on. ‘Which he must have been, mustn’t he? Because he reported it to the police even knowing the probable consequences – that, when they seized his computer, which they obviously would do, he’d be in big trouble himself. They live on the same estate,’ he continued. Then spread his palms wide. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about, really, does it?’
‘I feel sick too,’ Mike said, echoing my own sentiments. ‘Six? You say she’s six?’ He shook his head. ‘And her parents are filming her for paedophiles? I honestly just can’t imagine anything more terrible.’
John sipped his coffee. ‘Yes, six, and an only child, thank God. Which is not to say the couple haven’t …’
‘Jesus,’ said Mike. ‘It’s so sick.’
‘But she’s safe now. The police acted swiftly, thank goodness. She’s safe with us now.’
‘Since when?’ I asked.
‘Since two hours ago.’
‘At the office?’
He nodded. ‘But look – listen, both – don’t say yes if you don’t think …’
‘How could we possibly say no, John? God!’ I said. ‘What kind of a state must she be in?’ I tried to imagine what kind of mental turmoil the child was in. Had she been held prisoner in her own home? Forced to ‘perform’ under threat? Would she be glad to have escaped? Desperate? Hysterical? Or, on the other hand – and the thought crept unavoidably into my brain – was she more distressed at being taken away from all she knew? Was what she’d been forced to do her version of normal?
Mike and I exchanged glances. I knew his thought processes would be similar. A few years previously we’d fostered siblings who’d been born into a family that were at the centre of a terrifyingly huge paedophile ring. The older one, Ashton, was his grandfather’s son – one of several children he’d sired with his own daughters. Most chillingly, however, was that, groomed virtually from birth, these two terrified innocents had been distressed, no doubt about it, but not about the sexual abuse, which for them was just another way of showing love – no, they were distressed at being taken from their ever-loving granddad.
Hearing the shouts and whoops of my own grandchildren coming from the other room, my heart felt suddenly leaden. ‘Then go and fetch her,’ I told John, returning Mike’s affirmative nod. ‘Bring her here. Of course we’ll have her. That’s settled.’
John’s frown lines smoothed out slightly. A box had been ticked. A problem shared and halved. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and I knew he really meant it. ‘I knew I could depend on you two. And, of course, I’ll go back and organise for her to be brought to you right away. But you need to be aware of what you are taking on. Seriously. I know you’ve a lot of experience of this sort of thing –’ He spread his palms. ‘Would that it were otherwise, eh? But this appears to be a severely damaged little girl. And in all kinds of ways. It’s in a different league, honestly –’
Mike laughed grimly. ‘You said it, mate. Sheesh. You’re telling me.’
‘Horrific,’ John agreed.
‘And the parents,’ I said, thinking suddenly about the monsters who’d done this evil. ‘What’s happened to them now?’
‘Arrested,’ John said. ‘Not sure what’s happening next there. But if you’re absolutely sure you’re happy to take little Darby, even if just in the short term, I’ll go back and sort things. She’s already been allocated a social worker – though I’ve not met her myself yet – and she’s the one who’ll bring Darby over to you. Say an hour or so?’ He glanced back towards the kitchen, sniffing the air. ‘Give you time to have your dinner at least.’
Dinner, understandably, was the last thing on my mind. And, unsurprisingly, I had entirely lost my appetite. We ate anyway, because, aside from everything else, the rest of the family were all starving – all bar Tyler, who pitched up not long after John had left us, and in doing so reminding me why we did what we did. I hugged him extra hard, as if he were a living, breathing talisman against the evil that was going to come and visit, in the shape of the reality it forced into our minds.
We told Riley the bare minimum, and a white lie to Kieron – he found any kind of child abuse extremely distressing, so we simply said her parents had been arrested for unrelated offences, which, having no other family, had left her with nowhere to go over Christmas.
We also took the decision to end the family gathering early. Again, the kids were used to such things, and, with Christmas still to come, the little ones weren’t bothered either. We just explained to Levi and Jackson that we were taking in a little girl over Christmas and, so she wouldn’t be too traumatised, we needed a slightly quieter household when she arrived. Which was probably true anyway. John had told us that she’d been inconsolable. There’d been much clinging and screaming and sobbing apparently. It would be a pretty intense job for the poor social worker.
Levi, who’d just turned nine, was excited. A sociable little chap and a typical eldest, he was always in his element when there was a new young friend to take charge of, and wouldn’t leave without a promise that he’d be meeting her soon, which I was only too happy to make for him. Once she’d settled, I told him, what she’d need would be the same as all kids need. Comfort and routine and to be enveloped in love. ‘I’ll give her lots of hugs, Nana,’ he solemnly promised me.
First of all, however, she’d need a bedroom. So, as soon as we’d waved everyone off (in my case, with a pang of regret, as I watched the cars disappear down the road, Mike and Tyler in one of them, taking Kieron, Lauren and a rudely awoken Dee Dee) I hotfooted it upstairs to the bedroom.
Which wasn’t so much bedroom as junk room just lately. Since little Paulie had left it had slowly reassigned itself, almost without me realising it was happening. Knowing we’d not be needing it for a good while, we’d both found it all too easy to say ‘I’ll just pop this here’ and ‘It can stay there for the moment,’ and to such an extent that there was very little floor space – particularly since Mike had one of his major garage
