The good news, however, was that John hadn’t been idle. Indeed, he’d been one step ahead of us already and had tracked down two of Justin’s former social workers.
‘One’s retired,’ he said, ‘and one’s now at a different authority. But both have agreed to meet me and discuss more of his background. I am on the case, Casey,’ – he laughed as he said this – ‘I really am. I’ll be back to you as soon as I can, promise.’
Feeling cheered by John’s news I then trotted upstairs, armed with my collection of germ-busting sprays. There was no smell, however odd, that I, cleaner extraordinaire, couldn’t get to the bottom of and completely expunge, and this one would be no exception.
My investigations bore fruit pretty quickly. The smell seemed to be coming from the big built-in cupboard in the corner; when I opened it, the stench increased tenfold. I began rootling around among the various shelves and boxes, and eventually came upon a supermarket carrier bag, full of something soft and squashy, and tightly tied at the top. When I finally managed to wrestle it open, my suspicions were confirmed. The stench was so strong, it literally exploded in my face. Gagging now, I peered in and looked at the contents: around ten pairs of dirty, smelly socks. But these were dirty, smelly socks way beyond any usual definition of such articles – and I thought that as someone who’s been a mum to a teenage boy and no stranger to nasty, noxious niffs. They were stiff, too, so had obviously been there a while; they almost crackled as I pulled them from the carrier.
It was then when I saw something that immediately swept away all my previously light-hearted thoughts about boys and their attention to personal hygiene. No, these socks weren’t just dirty, they were, all of them, bloody. The toe parts of all of them were liberally covered in the stuff, dried on and almost black in colour.
I got up from the floor and sat down on the bed, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. It was clear now just what the source of the foul smell was, clearer also why he’d so carefully squirrelled them away. Presumably till he could find some secret moment at some point, when he could wash them himself, away from my eyes.
I put the bag down, and started to search the room further. Which wasn’t something I’d ever dream of doing with my own kids. Not something I’d do, period, in normal circumstances, with anyone. But this was serious. This was necessary, because some instinct drove me on. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I knew there would be something hidden somewhere. I just knew there was something else to find.
I was on autopilot now and went methodically through his room, inch by inch, searching carefully in every nook and cranny. And after the best part of an hour spent pretty much ransacking Justin’s bedroom, I finally made my first find. I’d lifted up the mattress by now, to get a better look at the bed base, when I noticed a tiny tear in the mattress itself. It was very small, but also straight and clean and precise – it was clear it hadn’t happened accidently. Very gingerly, I pushed a finger inside.
My fingertip found it – somewhat suddenly and painfully. I had caught it on the end of something sharp. Not wishing to slice off the top of my finger, I very carefully winkled it out. It was the blade from a craft knife. One that had come out of the set we had bought for him, I imagined.
Once again, instinct kicked in and drove me on. Brushing aside my initial feelings of dread at what I might find next, I began my second search with renewed vigour. My attention to detail wasn’t disappointed. Within half an hour I had a decidedly grim haul, all laid out on the bedroom floor around me: a variety of knives and blades of all kinds, with which he’d obviously been cutting himself. There were some scissors, which I recognised, that I thought I’d mislaid – I’d even enlisted Justin’s help in trying to find them, I remembered – and two or three disposable razor blades, with the plastic blade holders melted off, which meant he must also have found a lighter or matches. Plus there was a small vegetable knife, which I hadn’t ever seen before, and a Stanley knife, which I guessed he might have taken from our tool box.
It was a gruesome display, and I sat there and surveyed it with both horror and a great sense of sadness. What would drive any boy to do such a thing?
This couldn’t have been new. Someone, surely, must have known this. This was how much Justin was hurting.
Chapter 6
‘I just can’t help it,’ Justin said. ‘I know I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t help it.’
It was the following morning, and Justin and I were sitting in his bedroom, where, after much soul searching, I’d finally confronted him.
‘I know, sweetheart, I know,’ I said. ‘But we can’t have you hurting yourself like this, can we? It must really hurt you, and not only that, if I don’t know about it, I can’t help you to keep those cuts clean. They might have got infected, and could have turned really nasty, and then where would we be, my love, eh?’
I’d been feeling wretched since I’d made my grim discovery. I’d lain awake and tossed and turned all night, berating myself that I’d not been aware of his self-harming before. Surely, or so my mind went, with my long experience of damaged children, I should have noticed something that would have given him away? How had alarm bells not rung when I’d lost the scissors, for example?
I’d told Mike about how I’d even had Justin helping me to look for them, and how angry I was at myself that it hadn’t occurred to me then. And how had I completely failed to see anything? Notice his feet? Now I’d found what I had, it was clear that they must have been in shreds. And this child wasn’t just a visitor – he lived with us. I felt so guilty and angry at myself. How did he manage to keep something like that hidden from us so well?
‘Because he’s a very private person, Case,’ Mike had pointed out to me. ‘You know that. Keeps himself to himself. When exactly do you think you might have seen something? He’s either fully dressed, or in pyjamas, and he’s never without his slippers –’
‘And now we know why!’
‘Come on, Case. Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s not as if he’s a tot that you’d have to help to wash and dress, is it?’
Mike had been right, of course, but I still felt this huge sense of guilt. From now on I must be so much more vigilant. I looked at Justin’s anguished face now, and wondered if I should put my arms around him. It was difficult to judge whether to risk it or not. I didn’t want him to clam up now he looked like he was talking to me at last, and the physical contact might just make him do that.
He was in his pyjamas now – and the ubiquitous slippers – lying on his bed, watching cartoons. Or at least he had been, before I’d come in to confront him with my findings.
‘Come on, love. Let me take a look at those feet of yours,’ I coaxed instead. ‘Let me get them cleaned up for you, at least.’
I kept my expression neutral as Justin slowly pulled off his slippers, though it was as hard a thing to do as I’d had to in a long time. His feet were, as I’d expected, in a terrible mess. You could see this was something he’d been doing for a long time. The nail beds looked infected and the skin around them looked horrible. He obviously dug into them regularly, causing copious bleeding. There were scabs and livid patches all over them. It pained me to think about how much this must have hurt, and again I mentally kicked myself for not realising.
I could have gone to the bathroom at that point, gathered some supplies and got the job done, but something told me that if I did so I might miss my moment. I got a very strong feeling that he wanted to talk. Just didn’t know how to start. He was staring at his feet now, as if seeing them with