Risk of Harm Read online

  I dinnae lose it.

  I give Bekki’s Shrek a coorie and shake my head, like I’m that disbelieving the bitch has the brass neck.

  Fwah moves back to the table and leans over his computer screen. ‘The mother is a paranoid schizophrenic, I believe?’

  Mair sits back with a put-on sad face. ‘Yes, Bekki’s mother, Shannon-Rose Johnson, suffers from paranoid schizophrenia. Before her arrest for murder, she had poor adherence to medication, which, coupled with substance abuse, resulted in frequent episodes of psychosis. While experiencing such an episode on the 25th of June this year, she fatally stabbed her partner, Dean McGillivray, with a kitchen knife. She has pled guilty to murder and is currently awaiting sentencing in a secure psychiatric unit.’

  Fwah: ‘And these tragic circumstances resulted in Shannon-Rose’s PRRs in respect of her two-year-old daughter Bekki being removed and granted to the Local Authority?’

  ‘In the immediate aftermath of Shannon-Rose’s arrest, Bekki was taken to stay with her grandparents, Jed and Lorraine Johnson. In such cases there is always a presumption in favour of PRRs being allocated to the child’s biological family, with or without a formal adoption. But in the case of Bekki Johnson it was, sadly, clear from the outset that this would not be in her best interests.’

  Mandy goes, ‘Was it hell,’ and Carly goes, ‘Wait a wee minute.’

  I goes, ‘Shut it yous.’

  Sheriff eyeballs us.

  Jed wanted the whole lot of us coming down but I wasnae having it. One look at Jed, at his bust nose and scars and the manky tattoos up his neck, one look at Ryan flashing his fake Rolex and gold chains, like he’d a big sign on him saying ‘Drug Dealer’, and the sheriff would be all Christ on a cheesy biscuit and checking security. Goodbye Bekki. Even if Jed and Travis didnae lose their shit.

  So no Jed, no Ryan, no Travis. Just me, Carly and Connor, and Mandy.

  It was maybe a mistake bringing Mandy but. My big sis. We’ve both of us got a cleavage on us you could smother a fucking wean in, but at least mine’s under cover, eh? Mands is putting it all out there and she’s wearing a bra two sizes too wee – her daft budget version of a Wonderbra – and she’s doing a Les Dawson, got her hand down her top wammling like a fucking ferret.

  Aye, thanks a lot doll, why don’t you give the court the whole floor show while you’re at it? She tells folk she was a modern dancer when she was a lassie, but she was just one of they fat bints used to jiggle their bits in the back room at the Anchor Bar.

  Mr Lyall told us how to act when we got here.

  No eating or drinking.

  No swearing.

  No shouting out.

  ‘You have to show the sheriff that you’re the kind of people a child would be secure – safe and happy with,’ says Mr Lyall, looking down his long neb, like I wouldnae know what secure means. ‘You need to let her see you as a nice, loving family. Maybe you come from a bad area, maybe you have problems, but you love each other. You’re reasonable people. You know how to behave. All right?’

  Like the only way we’ll come across as decent human beings is if we’re faking it.

  I put an arm round wee Connor. ‘It’s okay, love.’

  Connor gives me evils.

  I squeeze his shoulders. ‘It’s okay. It’s okay, son.’ I squeeze him and he wrinkles up his face but he doesnae look like he’s greeting, he looks like he’s doing a jobbie. Connor’s got my brains but he’s a wee diddy so he is. Fucking handless. The other week Ryan’s like that: ‘Connor. I wish you all the best and every success in your chosen career, aye? But you are a dowfie wee fuckwit.’ And he’s pointing a finger like the man Sugar. ‘You’re fired.’

  And that’s Connor’s arse out the business.

  Ryan says the polis went and stopped them up the High Street and Connor’s all ‘We’ve no got nothing on us, Big Man, so we havenae,’ and he turns round and eyeballs the bin where Ryan’s just dropped his chib.

  The boy’s a wee diddy.

  I give him a nip.

  And another.

  And there we go. It’s a wee shame so it is, the effect it’s all having on Connor.

  Fwah: ‘Not in her best interests to remain with her biological family? Could you explain why this was felt to be the case?’

  Mair: ‘Following an assessment of the household, Social Work concluded that kinship care was not appropriate for Bekki and we applied for an Emergency Child Protection Order to remove her from Mr and Mrs Johnson’s home.’

  Fwah: ‘And why was this done?’

  Mair takes a big sad breath. ‘On my initial visit to Jed and Lorraine Johnson’s home, I found the family situation to be chaotic. The Johnsons have five children: Shannon-Rose, Ryan, Travis, Carly and Connor. They share their home with three of these children – Travis, Carly and Connor, plus Travis’s girlfriend Mackenzie, and Travis and Mackenzie’s baby Corrigan. Their eldest son Ryan and his girlfriend Shannon… this is another Shannon, obviously, not Shannon-Rose… they and Shannon’s two children from previous relationships live across the street, but they were all there at the time of my visit. The house was in a poor state of repair, with several internal doors missing or off their hinges, and holes in the plasterboard of the walls and, in one place, the ceiling… It was also very dirty, with no attempt to clean seeming to have been made for some time. The air was foetid and thick with the smell of chip fat and cigarette smoke – the family are all smokers, with the exception of youngest son Connor, and Mr and Mrs Johnson permit smoking throughout the house. There were dirty nappies in the living room, one of which a Rottweiler puppy was chewing. There was a used condom on the carpet by the side of the sofa. I was subjected to threats and verbal abuse from several family members from the moment I entered the house. They also verbally and physically abused each other in my presence. Jed Johnson told his son Travis to –’ She makes like she’s consulting her notes ‘– “Go off and take your face for a shite, you wee fucker” and attempted to strike him on the back of the head. Travis Johnson took evasive action, called Jed Johnson a “fucking old alky bastard”, and pushed him against the door frame.’

  Mandy’s pissing herself laughing, and she’s no the only one.

  Sheriff goes, ‘Please, ladies and gentlemen.’

  Fwah: ‘I see. And had the situation improved on your subsequent visits?’

  Subsequent visits?

  ‘Unfortunately not.’

  The brass neck of her!

  ‘And as to the child, on that initial visit?’

  ‘Bekki at first could not be located. I found her myself in the back garden, where she had been left unsupervised. She was curled up in the corner between the shed and the wall of the house. It was raining. The back garden seemed to be a dumping ground for a variety of items that would present a hazard to a child, including two old fridges, a mattress with its springs exposed, and a car engine. The concrete was covered in dog and possibly human excrement. Bekki was dirty. Urine was leaking from her nappy. There were cuts and bruises on her arms, legs and back.’

  With the hand that isnae on Connor, I grab Mandy’s arm.

  ‘I was subjected to continued threats of violence from Mr Johnson and his eldest son Ryan. Ryan Johnson then physically assaulted me. I left the premises, called the police, and applied immediately for an Emergency Child Protection Order. Bekki was removed from the house later that day.’

  Fwah: ‘And what happened subsequently?’

  Mair: ‘A series of meetings – arranged by the Social Work Department of Glasgow City Council in conjunction with other stakeholders – and LAC reviews and children’s hearings were held to determine what the next steps would be. Lady Semple, the reports and minutes from all the meetings and hearings that have considered the child have also been supplied to you. Although Mr and Mrs Johnson were informed of the dates and times of the meetings and hearings they were entitled to attend, they only attended one, and on that occasion unfortunately had to be ejected from the room for disrupting proce
edings and making threats against myself and others. This is all detailed in the report.’

  Fwah: ‘Thank you, Ms Mair. That’s all very clear.’

  The bitch.

  Mr Lyall gets up and goes, ‘Ms Mair. You must, in your daily round, see a lot of households living in less than ideal conditions. In poverty and deprivation.’

  ‘Well, yes –’

  ‘And would you say that this alone would be sufficient cause for removal of a child from his or her family?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Of course not. Otherwise half the sink estates in the city would have to be emptied of their children, I suppose?’

  ‘This wasn’t just poverty, this was – the conditions were insanitary. Dangerous. The household was clearly one in which relationships were characterized by aggression and casual violence. Bekki was obviously being neglected and probably physically abused.’

  ‘In which case, presumably Corrigan Johnson has also been removed?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Little Corrigan Johnson. The son of Travis Johnson and his girlfriend Mackenzie Smith.’

  Ya dancer! Get it up ye!

  ‘No. He’s on the At Risk register, but I understand he’s still living there. That’s out of my control.’

  ‘I see. Thank you. I think that’s all for the moment.’

  Mair bolts out the pen like there’s a Rotty hanging off her arse.

  Fwah: ‘Dr David Reid, please.’

  Oh here we go. Trust-Me-I’m-a-Fucking-Doctor Reid. Old bugger with a comb-over and a big red alky’s nose.

  He goes on about Jed being an alky, a chain smoker and maybe a junkie. Then he starts in on me. ‘Lorraine Johnson is also a very heavy smoker. Her lung function is poor. Her BMI is thirty, placing her in the obese category. Insulin concentrations in her blood were found to be elevated, indicating that she is pre-diabetic. She has problems with mobility, and has difficulty rising from a chair.’

  Fwah: ‘In your opinion, Dr Reid, would these medical problems impact on the ability of Mr and Mrs Johnson to care for a two-year-old child?’

  ‘Most definitely, yes.’

  I coorie Shrek.

  I breathe.

  I count in my head, like Connor said.

  One. Two. Three.

  I jump up and point at Reid.

  ‘Difficulty rising from a chair, is it? Aye?’

  ‘Mrs Johnson, please sit down.’

  ‘I. Am. Not. Fucking obese. Excuse my language, My Lady. Okay I’m heavy, but that’s down to a wee bit podging – comfort eating, you know? – after Shannon-Rose got put in the jail and Bekki got taken off us. I’m a fff – a wreck so I am, thanks to the fff – system doing heehaw to stop Shannon-Rose killing Dean and then turning round and taking her bairn off of us. Aye we’re all chain smoking, and Jed’s back on the bevvy – because of that bitch!’ I point at Mair.

  ‘Mrs Johnson,’ goes the sheriff, ‘if you do not sit down and be quiet you will be ejected from this court. You will have your chance to speak in due course.’

  I sit.

  Mr Lyall’s giving me evils.

  I take a hud of Connor’s hand. He tries to pull it away but I dig in my nails.

  Next up: Trust-Me-I’m-a-Fucking-Doctor Fernandez. Big red lips on her and a wee short skirt like she’s away to shake her fanny up a Drumchapel close. Doctor my arse.

  Fwah: ‘Dr Fernandez, I understand you accompanied Ms Mair on a subsequent visit to the Johnson home to carry out a psychological assessment of Jed and Lorraine Johnson.’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘Gobshite!’ yells Carly. ‘She never came near! She never!’

  I goes, ‘Shoosh.’

  ‘Please, Miss Johnson.’

  Fwah: ‘In your report, you state that in your opinion Mr Johnson may be suffering from a number of undiagnosed conditions, including early-onset dementia, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, and substance dependence.’

  ‘My interview with Mr Johnson was necessarily cursory, but from his answers and behaviour generally, those would definitely be among a number of possibilities. I would also estimate him to have an IQ below the normal range.’

  ‘And Mrs Johnson?’

  ‘Again, the interview was brief, but she displayed some signs of a mood disorder and showed depressive symptoms. And also low IQ, possibly to the point of learning disability.’

  ‘And in your opinion, would there be any issues with this couple being the primary carers of a two-year-old child?’

  ‘Such a responsibility would present a significant challenge, in my opinion, to both Mr and Mrs Johnson.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Mr Lyall gets up. ‘What form did these “interviews” take? Were they structured interviews? The Bipolar Spectrum Diagnostic Scale? The Hamilton Rating Scale for Depression? Some other recognised scale?’

  ‘No… They were informal interviews, given the circumstances, but –’

  ‘Are you a medically qualified psychiatrist?’

  ‘My degrees are in clinical psychology. I’m qualified to make such an assessment.’

  ‘And yet you did not use any of the accepted standardised interviews for diagnosing the conditions with which you have labelled Jed and Lorraine Johnson on the basis – let us be clear here – of a brief chat, in stressful and, dare I say, very trying circumstances for the Johnsons? Dr Fernandez? You did not follow even the most basic standard protocol for such diagnoses, is that correct?’

  The bitch goes, ‘In the circumstances, that was not possible.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s all.’

  Like Carly says, she never came near. She’s never even met me and Jed, never mind ‘interviewed’ us. And Mair never showed her face neither after that first visit. All that about three subsequent visits is a pack of lies but we cannae prove it. I asked Sonia McLeckie to gonnae give us a wee deek at her CCTV footage to try and maybe prove neither of those bitches had been at the house after Mair that first time, but Sonia McLeckie told me to fuck off.

  The lawyers and the sheriff go on some more and then Mr Lyall’s eyeballing me and going, ‘Mrs Johnson, please?’

  Jesus Chutney.

  I feel like I’m gonnae piss myself, and my heart’s going like the clappers. What if I go and piss myself? What if I go and bowf? Like a right traikie cow?

  Mandy goes, ‘Gie them hell, Lorraine-hen.’

  Connor goes, ‘Maw, dinnae swear, aye?’

  ‘Do it for Bekki, hen,’ goes Mandy.

  Aye, do it for Bekki. Get a grip, Lorraine.

  I get out from the row of seats and pull my jacket down over my arse where it’s ridden up. I’m in my funeral suit. Fucking appropriate, I’m telling myself. Fucking appropriate.

  It’s gonnae be someone’s funeral if we dinnae get Bekki back.

  You can do this, Lorraine.

  You can do this for Bekki.

  With a hud of my statement in one hand and Bekki’s Shrek in the other, I pull in my stomach and get my fucking arse in that sheep pen.

  Chapter 4

  Ruth stood at the gate looking up the path to the cottage, trying to see it with Deirdre Jack’s eyes. Deirdre would be here in forty-five minutes. She was only maybe a decade or so older than Ruth – early to mid fifties – but Ruth was always conscious of a great gulf between them, like the gulf that had separated her from the teachers at school, a great moral gulf that she had no hope of ever crossing.

  No.

  No.

  Ruth had been a quiet little mouse of a girl at school. A sweet little mouse who scuttled about the classroom doing good deeds, like helping the slow ones with their reading, and slipping her pocket money and toys into poor children’s desks. Sweet little Ruth had been conscious of no such gulf because none had existed. And adult Ruth was completely at ease with Deirdre. They had a lot in common.

  But it didn’t help that Deirdre looked like a Botticelli angel. She had a long delicate face, a full bottom lip and pale, wistful eyes
. Short, neat, greyish-gold hair that curled a little on her forehead.

  A Botticelli angel in crumpled linen and Fairtrade cotton scarves.

  Hopefully she would like the idea of a cottage in the middle of nowhere, just a mile from the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond, with half an acre of garden and a paddock crying out for a pony. Hopefully she would like the rather unkempt garden, with its long grass and lichen-covered apple trees, its tangle of hawthorn and wild roses, dotted now with glossy red hips. Ruth would have to remember to say that they left it wild to be ecofriendly.

  And she would have to prime Alec so he didn’t guffaw at this and say something like, ‘It’s called wilful neglect.’

  Alec, of course, wasn’t in the least overawed by Deirdre. Deirdre was an idealist-by-proxy, he’d decided, having discovered – by simply asking straight out – that she didn’t have any adopted children herself. Her excuse, as Alec called it, was that one of her own children had Asperger’s. He said Deirdre was the type who banged on about the state of society but assiduously avoided her neighbours; who bewailed the fate of the rainforest but hadn’t a clue where her garden furniture came from; who shook her head over the lack of adoptive parents but had never for one moment contemplated becoming one herself.

  Okay, so maybe he was right, and maybe there was no reason for Ruth to be at all worried, but she couldn’t help it.

  Deirdre scared the shit out of her.

  And she was so tired, her brain dangerously sluggish. She’d lain awake most of last night while Alec had slept like a baby next to her and high winds had howled round the cottage, groaned in the chimney, whispered in her head:

  They’re going to find out. They’re going to find out.

  But why should they?