All your fault, p.2
All Your Fault, page 2
“Well, it’s not right to make me move away from my friends, either.” Her eyes were wide with panic, her cheeks flushed red. “What about school? What about my life?”
“Teigan. You need to calm down. You’d still stay at the same school. I would drive you in instead of you having to walk. I just think it’s time to start thinking about moving out of the city into a nicer house.”
Teigan waved away my platitudes and started pacing. “You just want to move away because this is where your cases are, and all the families hate you,” she cried. “You don’t care what I want. I don’t want to be the weird kid whose mum drives them into school every day like they’re still in primary school. No one will want to hang out with me.”
“Teigan —” I countered, but she cut me off.
“And even if they did want to hang out with me, they won’t be able to, because I’ll have to get picked up straight after school like a kid.”
“Teigan,” I tried again, “we can talk about this later. Right now, I have to get to work.”
“You always have to get to work.” Her eyes were brimming with tears now, her voice thick with choked emotion. “You’re always worried about letting your care kids down, but what about me? You care about them more than me.”
I froze, stunned at the accusation. The look of hurt on my daughter’s face mirrored my own. Images from Emma’s case bombarded me — her sad smile, the terrible conditions of the house, the bruises on her face, the self-inflicted cuts on her arms and thighs. The difficult conversations with her mum, followed by the tense debates with Hilary about what to do. The fear I imagined in Emma’s eyes when her mum had attacked her that day.
Teigan’s accusations had faded into background noise. My mind had wandered elsewhere, a fog of stress and memories I didn’t want to remember. The newsreader’s haunting words: “Emma Beale, tragically let down by those who were meant to protect her.”
Was I letting down my own daughter, too? My heart raced, my thoughts swirled. The more I tried to focus, the less I could hold on.
Then, there was nothing.
Chapter 2
It wasn’t until I pulled up at the traffic lights outside the football stadium that I realised I’d left the house. My brow furrowed as I tried to recount the events of the previous half hour. I glanced at the clock on the dashboard of my old Peugeot. Nearly an hour had passed since the fight. Where had the time gone? I tapped my foot gently on the clutch as I waited for the lights to change. The warning message was up outside the stadium again. The Canaries were playing at home on Saturday. Great, so the city would be in gridlock. As I stared at the pop-up sign, Teigan’s accusation circled in my cloudy mind.
You’re always worried about letting your care kids down, but what about me? You care about them more than me.
Was it true? I couldn’t bear to hear her talk about Emma — I couldn”t listen to it anymore. I had blocked it all out … and then? My heart fluttered as my mind fumbled for what had happened next.
As the lights turned to green, I floored the accelerator and tried to process the facts. I was stressed. She was grumpy. We’d argued. Then she left for school? Or did I leave first? I hoped she’d locked up the house — the last thing I wanted was to return to a burgled home. I joined the queue for the next round of traffic lights, feeling somewhat jealous of the people in suits walking down the hill to work. To be able to walk to work, what a luxury. The sun was shining through the light, fluffy clouds — a surprisingly nice day for April. City workers would be milling around Norwich Market at lunchtime, sipping coffees and nibbling on pastries as they sat on the steps outside City Hall. I envied their nine-to-five days with a clear hour lunch break. My car still smelt of tuna after I’d scoffed my salad between home visits the previous day.
Teigan must have left first. She had probably stormed out, leaving me to deal with the cat. Did I feed him? Yes. I remember him rubbing up my leg in gratitude. Or was that the day before? I shook my head in exasperation. The days weren’t even distinguishable anymore. It was happening more and more. Ever since that case, two years ago. The brothers. It was like the trauma of it all had destroyed a part of me, leaving my memory prone to slips, especially under stress. Last week I’d walked to the shop after a hard day and not only had no idea what I’d gone to buy, but also no recollection of leaving the house. Still, I wasn’t that bad off. The stress of social work had done worse to others.
A rare discovery pulled me from my self-loathing — an actual parking space. Maybe this was the start of some good luck. I pulled in and thought about texting Teigan. I hated arguing with her, and I hated leaving things unresolved even more. I rummaged around in my bag for my phone, my fingers fumbling various objects — notebooks, reading glasses, ID badge, purse. But no phone.
Dammit. I’d left it at home again. I’d have to text her on my work phone, which I hoped was in my locker. Hilary wouldn’t appreciate it if I lost another one. I sighed and released the door handle. It was time to take on the day ahead.
The open plan office was filled to capacity, with a sea of exhausted staff counting down the days to Friday. There was the usual hustle-bustle of the office, the phones ringing constantly with various echoes of “Norfolk Children’s Services, how can I help you?” around the room. Already, I could hear fragments of conversations involving Emma.
“I know, another child death. We’ll be in Special Measures at this rate.”
“Thing is, that case should have gone to Court Proceedings months ago — it was inevitable.”
“I’m looking for positions in Suffolk, mate. Guarantee we’ll be privatised soon, especially after this Emma Beale case hitting the news.”
I hung my head low. Everybody in the room knew that I was the case accountable social worker for Emma. I prayed that everybody would read my body language and pretend they couldn’t see me. Social workers are meant to be good at reading body language, after all.
“Suzanne, hi. How are you doing?”
I looked up. It was Lauren — sweet, lovely, Family Support Worker Lauren. She was in her early twenties. A blonde, pretty thing with sky-blue eyes. She must have heard the news — along with everybody else — as she spoke in that ever-so-slightly patronising tone, cocking her head to the side in a way which said, “Poor you.”
“Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks. You?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Want a cup of tea? I’ll make it for you.” Lauren gently squeezed my shoulder and ushered off to put the kettle on. She had only been with the team for a few months, but she had quickly established herself as the tea girl. Whenever someone had a difficult meeting, or had just come back from a home visit to a family everybody knew was trouble — she would be straight on the tea.
I plonked myself down on the only available desk — the one by the smelly loos. Bloody hot desking. Still, at least I got a desk. I took a deep breath and tried to remind myself to stay positive. I was here to do a job, and I was doing it to the best of my ability. I heard my mother’s voice in my head, her favourite saying from when I was a little girl. “Keep looking up to the sun, my little petal. That’s how you bloom.” It had been nearly twenty years since I’d heard my mother’s voice for real.
“Here you go, Suzanne.”
I looked up and found myself being offered a cup of tea in a “Keep Calm and Carry On” mug, as well as two bourbon biscuits. “Oh, thank you. I’ll leave the biscuits, though.”
“Oh no, take them — the sugar will do you good.”
I smiled weakly, knowing I wouldn’t touch them. “Thank you.”
“Finally — there you are,” came Hilary’s familiar voice. “They’ve been waiting for you. The review panel started at nine. What took you so long?”
It was a good question. “Sorry. I had to sort something out for Teigan before she went to school. Then, you know, traffic.”
“Well, get down there now. I’ve already spoken with them, and it’s your turn. Remember, it wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known this would happen. Stay strong.”
I nodded. I’d never felt further from strong in my life.
Three of them sat side by side on the opposite end of the table, like some sort of magistrate’s court or a group of particularly harsh interviewers. I drummed my fingers on my knee, trying to tap the nerves from my body. It was so cold in the room despite it being relatively warm outside — it was always either freezing cold or tropically hot in the Carrow House offices.
The silver-haired man in the middle spoke first. “So, you’ve been the case accountable social worker for Emma Beale for eighteen months — is that correct, Mrs Walker?”
“It’s Ms Walker. And, yes. Eighteen months.”
“Can you give us a rough overview of the case during that time, Ms Walker?” He appeared to be the most senior member on the panel and evidently wasn’t Norfolk-born and bred. Judging by his accent, he had probably come in from London.
“Yes. After the initial assessment I concluded that a child protection conference should be held for Emma. The result was that she was indeed made subject to Section 47, Child Protection Arrangements, under the Children Act 1989.” I took a breath and reminded myself not to talk so fast.
“And the reviews were held within timescales?”
“Yes. The review conferences were every six months, and the core group meetings were held every six weeks.”
“Well,” the blonde woman interjected, “they weren’t always in timescale, by the looks of the chronology here. More often than not, they were held seven or eight weeks apart. At one point last summer, there was a ten-week gap between core groups.”
I pressed my nails into the palm of my hand and steadied my nerves. Everyone knew meetings slipped out of timescale sometimes — it was the nature of the job. “Yes, I believe that was due to the summer holidays, with teachers and other term time professionals such as the school counsellor not being able to attend.”
“Hm. You still could have held a small core group with the family and health staff.”
“Well,” I faltered. “With all due respect, there was no midwife or early year’s practitioner in this case, and we all know GPs never attend core groups, so it would literally just have been myself and the family.”
The blonde woman scowled at me. “This is no time to be sarcastic, Ms Walker. A child is dead. A child you were responsible for.”
I shrank back into my seat, lowering my gaze as I was hit by the sudden desire to be sick.
The silver-haired man took his opportunity to speak. “I see here that several calls from young Emma were logged on Tuesday, the morning of her death. One at twenty past nine to the office, asking for you; another at eleven; and a further four calls made between eleven and twelve to your work mobile. Is that correct?”
His eyes lingered on me, daring me to challenge him. But I couldn’t. I swallowed the bile that was rising in my throat. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“So why, may I ask, did all these calls go unanswered? The business support officer who took the first two calls referenced in her note that Emma sounded distressed. Surely that should have put her at the top of your priority list?”
Guilt flooded through me. Of course they’d known about the phone calls — I’d been naïve to think it wouldn’t come up. Did Hilary know? She hadn’t mentioned it. I sat perfectly still in my chair, the lump in my throat preventing me from speaking.
“Ms Walker?” the blonde woman leaned forward, cupping her hands together. “Please answer his question.”
I dug my nail back into my palm with such pressure that it broke through the skin. The sting of the cut sent a moment’s relief through me.
“It was a busy morning, and Emma had a tendency to call a lot.” I winced at the defensiveness in my voice.
“Such is the nature of social work, Ms Walker. But that doesn’t answer the question. Why didn’t you return any of Emma’s calls, despite knowing that she was distressed?”
I couldn’t maintain eye contact with the panel any longer, the sinking feeling of dread pulling my head down. Oh God, what had I done? If I had answered those calls — would Emma still be here? Part of me just wanted to own up to my failures and throw in the towel, but another small part of me knew I had to defend myself. My mind travelled back to the day before yesterday, which already felt like a lifetime ago. I’d been on duty that day and had just found out I needed to attend a review child protection conference.
“The Greenwoods? I’ve never even heard of this family,” I’d said to Hilary, flustered by the unwelcome news.
“Yes, well, they’re on our unallocated cases list. Terri went to the initial conference six months ago, someone went out on a visit a couple of months ago when they were on duty — Sandra, I think it was — but no one’s been in since.” Hilary shrugged her shoulders at my horrified expression.
“Well, this is what happens when you have an unallocated case list. It’s crisis-management only. I don’t recall hearing any volunteers for taking on more cases.”
“Is the report done?” I asked, hoping for at least one bit of good news.
“Unfortunately not. That’s your job this morning.”
“For goodness’ sake, it’s meant to be shared with the family and chair forty-eight hours before.”
“Yes, well, you best crack on. Maybe we can share it at least two hours before.”
At that moment the business support officer had brought over the first telephone message from Emma. I’d glanced at it, had gone to call her, but then realised it could be a long conversation. I decided to prioritise the report for the Greenwoods, then get back to Emma later.
“By the time the second message came through, I was busy sending the report off to the chair and dealing with a mum who had come into the office in desperate need of food bank vouchers,” I relayed to the review panel in front of me. “When my mobile went, I was in the car on my way to the conference.”
“And what about after the conference had finished? Why didn’t you call her then?” The blonde woman was staring at me, her eyes like a hawk’s.
My stomach clenched. “The conference didn’t finish until half past four. I had several calls by then regarding other on-duty responsibilities. I got on with those instead. I planned to pick up Emma’s messages first thing the next day.”
“Only you couldn’t, could you? Because she was already dead by then.” The blonde woman shook her head in disgust. “She made a cry for help which went unanswered, and now it’s too late.”
I sat there, stunned, as the tears welled up within me. The blunt truth stared me in the face. I could have done something if I’d answered those calls, if I had been there. I could have saved her. Emma Beale was dead because of me.
Chapter 3
The papers quivered in my hands. I shuffled through the pages of my speech for the eighth time. Did I touch on all the important points? Did I remember everything? Oh God, why couldn’t we cancel this today? I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
The woman doing my make-up for my television debut was tutting at the state of my eyebrows, pulling strange devices out of the drawers to attack the situation. Was she seriously stressed about a few eyebrow hairs out of place? Talk about First World problems. I glanced around the studio, trying not to move my head too much. I had already been told to keep still twice by the uptight make-up artist. The ceilings were high — not surprising considering we were essentially in a large warehouse off the Dereham Road. They were patterned with artificial lights, the type that would give you a migraine if you stared at them for too long. The make-up woman tugged my head back down so it was level with the mirror again. There were little LED lights dotted around it, with various brushes and powders scattered on the dressing table. All I could smell were perfume, hairspray, and the dusty heat from various electronic beauty devices. It was worlds away from the dingy offices of Carrow House, which only ever smelt of burnt coffee and the dodgy loo aroma.
I was doing everything I could to push Emma from my thoughts. I couldn’t bear it. The review panel had been horrific. Now that Emma’s case had hit the news, it would be paraded in my face for weeks to come. My failure, which had cost Emma Beale her life. I forced my mind away from her, landing instead on the morning’s events with Teigan. I fumbled with my work phone, which I’d been keeping on my lap just in case of emergencies, and started to type out a text.
Hi, Teigan, it’s me on the work phone. Left my phone at home. Really sorry about this morning. I’ve been under a lot of stress with work. Hope school is okay. See you later. Love you XX
I hit “Send” and felt the relief start to sink in. Teigan was a good girl, despite the occasional teenage rampage. She knew work was stressful and would understand. Maybe she’d even text back saying that she loved me, too. I stared at the screen like a young girl waiting for a reply from her crush. The phone vibrated, and my heart lurched. But it wasn’t the reply I wanted. It wasn’t even a reply.
Message failed to send.
I hit the send button again and scowled at the phone as the same automated message popped up. “Do you have problems with the signal in here?” I asked the make-up artist.
“Sometimes.”
I sighed. I’d have to try it again later.
“Suzanne, there you are, darling.” The flamboyant voice belonged to Annie, the publicist for the charity with which Norfolk Children’s Services had insisted we contract. She tottered over in her burgundy heels and pencil skirt, glamorous as always. Her hair had that envious style of looking effortlessly stunning, as if she had rolled out of bed, tousled it a little, and yet somehow every hair had fallen into place.
“Oh, hey, Annie. Sorry, I’ve been in beauty for ages.” I pulled a face emphasising my boredom and clocked the make-up artist’s disapproval. “But she’s doing a great job,” I added with haste.
“You’ll look fabulous. It’s worth it. Audiences respond better to attractive people, it’s been proven,” said Annie. The make-up artist nodded her head in agreement.
