Chapter 3 - 07/01/1995
“Dylan, I understand that this is your therapy and you need to be in control, but just saying no to every question or staying silent when asked to contribute isn’t helping you. Do you want to get better?” Dr Wrenshaw blinked and held her breath, as lightly as she could, but the next answer could make or break where this was going to end. “Better at what?” 13-year-old Dylan innocently returned, knowing where this was heading. It always went this way by session 3 with a new therapist. “I’ll take that as a ‘not yet’” Dr Wrenshaw looked over the pad held up in front of her. She’d been attempting to break through this wall. She’d read all the notes, she knew that the boy sat in front of her was a serial new client. So many kids like this came through her doors. “Let’s try this – why are you here? Why come at all?” Dylan had smirked a little at that. “Nice, that’s a new one doc. I am here because it is this, or homework club. I still have to do homework, but I don’t have to sit with the others and do homework”. “Can you tell me why you don’t want to do homework with others? Could being with other children like you not be beneficial?” Dylan’s face flushed and he snarled out “They aren’t like me though, are they? They are all short-term placements. I’m the permanent resident. What’s the point in getting to know them or being around them? They all leave anyw-“ Shit, Dylan thought. I’ve let her see it. Shit, shit, shit. Alex Wrenshaw had been doing this job long enough to know to keep her face neutral, do not let him know you saw that chink. Steer away now before he clams up. “I understand. Is there anything else you prefer to do on your own?” Steer but don’t leap too far. Gently Alex, gently. “No” Dylan returned to his usual response, determined to be in charge of this again. It was his therapy, after all. This new bitch had just said so. “OK. Time’s up. I’ll see you next week” Alex put down her pad and uncrossed her legs, careful to seem casual but professional, an interesting mix with a boy like Dylan. Too professional and he thinks you’re against him, too casual and he has no respect for anything related to you. Intellectually, she knew he was just a child but a boy like Dylan, abused from birth and then bounced back to general care so many times, it was hard not to recognise that he was more worldly-wise than most of her adult patients. “It’s my birthday today” Dylan said, barely loud enough to be heard. “Fancy giving me a little present?” He went to grab at the doctor as she strode towards the door but his hand missed her arse by centimetres. “Firstly, no it isn’t. Your birthday isn’t for another few months. Secondly, I will see you next week” Too casual then. Alex was determined not to give up on him, no matter how easy he made it to justify. Once he had left, she had paced her office, mulling over their interactions, trying to piece together how to get through to him. Maybe she couldn’t? Is it possible that some children are just too broken too soon to “fix”? She had desperately pushed the thought away, knowing that she would have to confront the query at some point but not now. Not with Dylan. He’d known very little stability, other than a children’s home he couldn’t ever truly escape. In his experience, other kids came and went. Staff got new jobs or left to start their own families, but he always remained. His room had been refurbished twice in the time he had been there, but every time he was bounced back from another failed foster placement, he ended up in the same room. Sometimes he’d have to sleep somewhere else for a few days but once the temporary lodger had been removed, back Dylan went to the smallest room in the home, the one where his name was etched into the windowsill. Every time it was sanded, polished and repainted, it wouldn’t be more than 24 hours before he would scratch it back – Dylan Thomas West. The home had included this detail in their most recent report to the Young Person’s Mental Health Services based out of Dorchester General hospital. Social Services were determined to get Dylan some consistent support, help him to break through the layers of trauma that had built up over the years. Dylan had been finding new and ever-more effective ways to reject that help. Alex was interested in the why of this. The many professionals that had come before Alex had been exploring the way Dylan responded to the world, trying to create a treatment plan that would work for him but didn’t tax the service beyond its limited budgets. It was a fine line to walk, proven to be nearly impossible the older he got. The main question that arose was why would a child who was brought up in squalor, witnessing violence on a daily basis, being assaulted from birth, regularly used as a sexual plaything by his father and his friends, locked away for countless hours at a time in the dark, why would he not want to feel safe? The answer had been quite clear to most of the Multi-Disciplinary Team that had reviewed him 6 months after he was first placed at the home; because to him, he had been safe. He doesn’t understand that his version of life isn’t the expected norm. He is constantly pushing back against the adults in his life trying to change him because that felt unsafe. Child psychology was a relatively new field that really took off in the early 1970s in the UK, most of the older generation of the team were Freudian in their training, assuming everything came back to a sexual aspect. In this sense, this case was right up their ally. In others, they would have to dig deeper into the driving forces of a child’s reality. Budgets simply didn’t allow it, nor did their stubbornness. Therefore, for the past 9 years, Dylan had been moved from therapist to counsellor to psychologist and back again. Each one getting so far and either realising he was too complex a case for their limited experience or that even if the therapy would help, he was too resistant to achieve anything in the timeframes available. Eventually though, the threat of a looming General Election meant that the government were willing to spend just a little more in some places, including the support of Looked After Children, as defined by the Children’s Act 1989. The provisions in the act allowed for these children to have more regular health checks and a bigger personal budget for care and support. Enter Dr Alex Wrenshaw, Member of the Royal College of Paediatrics and Child Health, Member of the Royal College of Psychiatry, Registered with the General Meical Council as well as the Specialist Register (Child and adolescent Psychiatry), a Section 12(2) Mental Health Act and Approved clinician. She ticked all the right boxes to have the skills to help Dylan and his peers. What she lacked was the lived experience of the abuse. Dylan had, very early in his time in care, admitted to an art therapist that he missed his dad. To someone with a relatively normal childhood, the idea of missing an abusive parent is abhorrent. Unfortunately, the therapist had told Dylan this – that was the beginning of the resistance to any kind of help. This boy, barely primary school aged, was taken away from the life he knew and told he would be safe. To him, that meant be being back with the parents and his brothers. The longer that didn’t happen, the less he trusted his new guardians. This stranger telling him that he shouldn’t miss them, he had no idea how to deal with that. Alex had studied a lot of papers about the wiring of the brain that happens in the child’s early years, particularly in the first 18 months. Although his older brothers had also suffered abuse, it hadn’t been as frequent until the last child arrived. His mum had suffered significant injuries during childbirth, mainly because it had been a home birth with no supervision during pregnancy. She’d developed an infection that was treated for antibiotics but the long and the short was, she was no longer useful to Adrian West as something to fuck. He needed someone else. He tried out the local whores, the younger the better, but none of them satisfied him. He’d had a particularly boring encounter with a 15 year old in his car when he came home and slapped Dylan so hard he broke his left cheek bone. Reports from the boys and Tina had all recounted how Adrian had been visibly aroused, enjoying the screams of agony from the infant. From then on, the mans main source of sexual enjoyment had been his 3 sons. Peter was 6 and Jake 4, both used to being beaten at least weekly but they were past the stage of development that allowed them to accept this new abuse as normal without persuasion. Adrian had worked hard on this, largely relying on threats towards their mum to get them to cooperate. He didn’t need to try so much with Dylan, he did what he was told to avoid more pain. For this sweet, blonde-haired, blue-eyed child, this was how he was shown love. The police officers who had taken statements from neighbours and family members had been sickened at how many of them knew something wasn’t right but didn’t step up or speak up for the children. The local newspapers had a field day, blaming Tina West for letting this happen for so long and hailing her a hero for finally putting an end to the monster. Doubt had been cast over her guilt when a woman who lived at the back of the West’s property had said she heard the wood hit the man and then heard a woman scream, as if she had discovered the scene rather than been part of it. The prosecutors weren’t keen to push on this statement. Tina West had entered a guilty plea, the boys were rehoused and Adrian West was dead. Why drag this out any further? The neighbour was quickly dismissed as a drunk and a busy body, and the court case concluded within 3 months of the man’s death. This was one of a handful of cases where a submission of provocation was upheld, so she had been convicted of voluntary manslaughter for a prison term of 9 years and 4 months. The brothers hadn’t been allowed in the court to see their mum sentenced, they had been deemed too young to be there. Which meant that, when she hung herself 2 days later using her bed sheets, the last time they had ever seen her was always going to be the day their father had died. She’d left a note to the children. This was in Dylan’s notes and according to his current Social Worker, Hilary Richardson, he’d never read it. Peter and Jake had and, with the support of their Nan, had been able to attend Tina’s funeral and say a final goodbye. Dylan wasn’t there, another decision taken on his behalf, and since then he had refused any sort of contact with his family and declined to know more about the note. Alex picked up the note and began to read, feeling the tears start to well almost immediately. God, how unprofessional am I going to get? She chastised herself and then relented. No, this is a hard case and it is OK to feel it. She wrote a note on her pad – “book supervision”. She’d discuss it with her peer mentor, supervisor and trusted colleague Emery Matherson, at their next appointment. My babies, you deserved a better life that we gave you. I was never brave enough to protect you, not until the end. Now you can go forward in life without the weight of my failure. Your mum x Far from her hopes, her death had only added to the weight. People who take their own life are never there to witness the aftermath and are so far into the pit of darkness that they cannot see passed their own need to be free from it. Justification like this is so common and always wrong. The boys were anchorless in a new world, two living with their nan, the other on his own. Nothing good would come of Tina’s death. Especially when, 3 days after the funeral, Peter had left school early, squeezing through a railing on the edge of the playground, and ran to the police station where he confessed to killing Adrian West. He told the desk officer that he recounted the incident exactly as it happened and waited to be arrested. Instead, the constable had asked him to wait while he got his Sargeant. By the time they came back, Nan was already on her way and Mary Worthington had agreed with Sargent Boothe that taking this to CPS was a waste of time and the boy should be given grief support. Peter had screamed and screamed, desperate to be heard until he collapsed, sobbing into his Nan’s lap, exhausted by trying to make them listen. Alex rubbed her temples and glanced at the clock – 4:30pm! “Shit!” She grabbed her coat and bag and ran for the door. She was going to be late again. She couldn’t exactly say “sorry Miss Lisa, I forgot to pick up Sarah from ballet again because I was obsessing over a looked after kid”.
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Chapter 2 - 12/12/1994
The bell rang, heralding the end of the learning day. Almost instantly, the children began pouring out from the school, each rushing to their bus, the waiting parents or towards the gate to take the slow, meandering walk of the pre-teen. Once the initial rush had dispersed, a few huddles of kids could be seen, chattering away about the latest things that mattered to them – maths homework, who Rebecca Farrow had kissed at youth club, whether PE would be indoor or not tomorrow. The inconsequential topics of innocence, but altogether the most important things to those discussing them. Two figures stood together yet apart, clearly waiting for the same thing but without acknowledgement of their mutual mission. The taxi was always late. Neither Dylan West or his counterpart Martha Willis knew why they couldn’t just walk. It was only 20 minutes away and the other students from Colfox were allowed to. They were just told it was “protocol for their own safety”. So every day they stood, impatient and increasingly cold, waiting for their driver to arrive. For the awkward small talk with whomever the cab firm had sent that day, and the avoidance of eye contact with each other. Dylan was in year 8, just over a year older than Martha. She hadn’t been at West Allington as long as him, no one had. Since moving in just before the summer holidays, they had only had 1 interaction. Since then, a mutually agreed wall had been placed between them, neither willing to break the silence or broach the topic of that day in August. Martha had been placed into care when a neighbour reported her mum for being drunk in charge of the children. She’d actually been high for most of Martha’s childhood, but few people noticed or if they did, they hadn’t cared enough to do anything about it. Once social services were involved, it hadn’t take long to understand the extent of the neglect. Martha, at 11, was still in nappies at night. Anita Willis hadn’t understood why Martha couldn’t just be dry. Slapping her hadn’t changed anything. She’d been sure the wrist in the door trick her parents had used would get her into line, but it had made the whole thing worse. Anita did care for her only child, in her own way. She had never learned what caring parenting was and so passed down the same brand of cruel discipline, not knowing any better. That’s what she claimed in the interviews that followed. It didn’t sit right with Mary Worthington, now Head of Social Services for West Dorset. She had been passed the file as part of her monthly audit of cases handled by the department. The more she read the more she understood – Anita was saying all the things an abuser says to get away with it. Not all abusers do it out of malice, there are genuine cases of misguided behaviour, brought on by their own trauma. But that wasn’t happening here. Anita was a professional victim. The team had spoken to their neighbouring authorities, checking on the trail of the family. They had moved from town to town since Martha was born. Once someone noticed that Martha wasn’t clean or fed properly, or that Anita was off her face again, they’d pick up and move. The electronic records system was still a new edition to the department, and it took weeks to cross reference usually. By the time the team knew something was up, the mum and girl would be gone and under a different authority. Anita knew how to play the system to her advantage. Unusually for these cases, Anita came from money. There was no prostitution or theft to feed the drug habit. She had been well educated and handed a trust fund at 18, leaving her with enough money to live on for the rest of her life and then some. Moving from the Manchester area down to the South West and changing her name, she quietly retreated from her family, ensuring no eyes were watching her decisions. She’d gotten pregnant soon after the first move, smooth talked by a guy trying to get his hands on her fortune. One night, late in her term, he had been drunk and scoffing at Anita’s pregnant state, the whisky causing his lips to become loose so that he spilled his true intentions. Stood outside their bedroom on the first floor, he’d sneered at her “Once that thing is out, I am taking it and we are going to clean you out you ugly bitch”. He’d then leant forward, across the landing to grab her and, even at full term, she’d been more agile. He’d gone off balance and fell. When the ambulance arrived, they found a crying Anita, a self-inflicted black eye quickly swelling, and a man with a broken neck at the foot of the stairs. Accidental death had been the inquests verdict. He’d never been named on the birth certificate. As far as Martha knew, she had no father. She’d grown up with a series of ‘uncles’, all of whom used and dumped her mum once they realised that she may be drug addled but she was no fool. Chapter 1 - 02/03/1987
“Dylan, stop looking at me you fucking prick. Fuck off. That’s it, in the fucking shed” Adrian West continued to rant as he dragged his 4-year-old son by his matted, filthy, never-cut hair, out into the yard and threw him into the empty coal shed. Dylan didn’t scream or argue, he let his legs go with the direction of his father’s pull. Even at his tender age, he had long since learned that screaming did nothing more than bring more pain. “Jake – oi, Jake. Get out here” The older boy sprinted through the house to meet his father’s request as quickly as he could. There was no telling what punishment any perceived tardiness would result in, and all 3 of the West boys were determined to limit the opportunities to be beaten as much as possible. This enraged their father more, forcing him to find new infractions to, in his mind, justify the abuse he rained down on his children. He swiped at Jake as he arrived. “Get here quicker next time or you’ll join the little shit”. Jake waited to see what his dad wanted, would he forget again and send him away or was this one of those times? 10 is too young to understand as much about the dark side of humanity, to know that as children, they had no control over what happened to their bodies or who did it. Jake held his breath as his dad’s hand started to stroke the back of his head. He could smell his rancid, alcohol-soaked sweat and feel his hot breath on his skin as he got closer. One of those times then. So often, when punishing one of them, Adrian released his stress by using another to satisfy his paedophilic urges. He saw it as his right as their father. He kept them and they had to pay in both anguish and submittal. Quicker than it had arrived, the breath receded. His dads’ eyes spread wide in surprise as he crashed, lifeless to the floor. Jake and Dylan both let out muted yelps, not sure if this was a trick and they would get a fresh torture for reacting. But Adrian wasn’t moving, a pool of blood slowly growing from the back of his head where the wooden plank had struck. Both boys looked up to see their older brother staring down at them. A scream pierced the silent shock flooding the small garden, their mum appearing through the open door and launching herself at Peter. Instinctively, his hands dropped the wood and he turned to face her, stretching his arms wide to shield the younger two behind him. She pulled up short, surprised at his reaction. “Peter, my baby boy. You brave big brother. I did this, do you hear me? When they ask what happened, I did this. You are so brave” Tina West grabbed them all into a tight huddle, sobbing into them and muttering to them “I’m sorry I wasn’t braver, I am so sorry, he’s gone, it’s over”. Peter hadn’t meant to kill him; he’d grabbed the plank so it would stop. He’d not seen the large, rusted nail sticking out the end, the nail that had pierced his father’s skull and ended his pathetic, angry life. Dylan sank to the floor and cried. It was the first time he had since he had understood it wouldn’t help. His body was wracked with huge, silent cries of relief. It was over. The next few hours had passed in a haze of police, doctors, questions, warm food, and finally a bed. It wasn’t his bed, he knew that. It was clean, it had sheets and no damp patches. There was freshness where usually there was the wreak of urine, semen and sweat. Dylan had been led away by a kind lady who kept telling him he was safe now. He had quietly asked “Peter Jake come?” He’d yet to receive any kind of education or outside influence. He wasn’t a dull child but he’d never had a chance to learn to speak properly. His sentences came in short, uncertain groups, just the words that he needed and nothing more. Mary Worthington, Social Worker for the Local Authority, didn’t want to answer. She knew this child had already endured so much in his short, sad life and to tell him now that he was to be placed away from the only ones who had tried to protect him, the only ones who had shown him unconditional love – well that was just cruel. She’d already argued with her supervisor over it. “Are you serious? Nan will take 2 of them but not all 3, and you are OK with this? Do we really think she is the best place for any of them? We need to conduct a full investigation before anyone not already checked is allowed access. These boys are highly vulnerable” She had paused while she waited for the answer to come back down the phone line. The call had come through on the families phone while Mary had been gathering what few clothes and personal possessions any of the children claimed as theirs. “Yes, sir, I understand but.. no sir, Ok. I understand”. But she didn’t, not really. Why split them up? Surely the best thing for all of them was the continuity of being together. Their father was gone, their mother was going to prison. Dylan was too young for what was coming, the presence of the older boys would help. However, she was a Social Worker and the managing team had decided that Mrs Anderson, their maternal Grandmother, could be granted short term custody of Peter and Jake, but Dylan was to be placed elsewhere given her small property and his age. Mary knelt so she could talk to him on his level. He flinched and moved back, staring at her but clearly ready to run if it became necessary. “It’s OK Dylan, you will see Jake and Peter soon. And I am taking you somewhere warm and safe. But first, we are going in an ambulance. Does that sound like fun?” The paramedic saw them coming and opened the back doors, showing Dylan how the bed went up and down, where the oxygen tanks sat, smiling as the little boy looked around in awe. “Good” little Dylan sighed. Mary realised that for him that was like a howl of excitement, this small boy who had never really known what happiness was. The doctors at the hospital had taken their time and care, knowing from the brief they received from both the police and Mary that these children had been abused for their entire lives, never knowing body autonomy or consent. It was important to Mary that they be respected and given room to say no. None of them had, they just weren’t able to. Dylan hadn’t liked the tests, it was bright in the room and the floor was cold on his barefeet. He stayed quiet though, doing as he was told or looking at Mary to explain more when he didn’t understand. Dr Patel had taken Mary to one side to discuss the results. “Well, 20 years as a doctor and I am still seeing something new. This one though, this one isn’t fair. I have never seen such neglect. Dylan’s hair is infested with nits, he has untreated eczema on his feet, legs and in his arm pits. I’d guess he is washed less than once a month, if at all. His skin is flaking where it isn’t raw from the dirty clothes and, I suspect, poor sleeping conditions. His speech and development are far behind where I would expect – we will need some psych evaluations but I think they will agree. His malnourished and at least half the size of a 4 year old. From what we can determine, he was born at home and mum never registered his birth. His existence would have remained unknown if it wasn’t for this incident today. It explains why his brothers are in better shape. Don’t get me wrong, they have been enduring years of beatings, there’s evidence in their xrays of multiple fractures, mostly untreated. But they are cleaner, more presentable. If they weren’t, the schools would have picked them up by now surely. But Dylan, from what you have said, what his brothers relayed and from the little he can communicate, I am not sure he has ever left that house. We are going to start him on some broad spectrum antibiotics, treat the nits, get him some emollient for his skin and make sure he has some nutritional support. He’s unlikely to catch up with normal growth, but a proper diet will be a good start. I’ll put it all in my report. All I can say is – thank goodness today happened.” Mary had known he didn’t just mean so that they boys could be saved from that house. No one was sad that Adrian West was dead. Without a word every person on scene had silently agreed that justice had been done that day. Tina had been arrested for murder but no one took joy in taking her into custody. She too had been a victim of Adrian’s relentless cruelty, bruised and beaten enough so she knew her place but not so much that she couldn’t do what he expected – keep the house and make sure the boys were quiet and ready for him whenever he wanted them. With Tina at the station, Jake and Peter with their Nan and the rest of the team starting the investigation, Mary had been tasked with escorting Dylan to his interim placement – the West Allington Children’s Home. This was where they would make sure he received medical care, got on track with his hygiene and then hopefully move him to a family setting. Mary knew it could be weeks, more likely months, before Dylan was ready to even understand that family could be a safe option and in the meantime, the Home would take care of him. As best they could, anyway. Dylan lay in his warm, safe bed and cried. “SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” came the growl of a bigger boy from the dark. No matter who he was with, crying wasn’t OK. The thought etched itself into his inner knowledge. The judge looked at the accused in the dock. At 17, most would consider him almost a man, but his size, paleness and hunched posture evoked thoughts of a much younger boy, 12 at most. He seemed small and harmless, belying the truth of the act he had undertaken. Dylan West had pleaded guilty without a trace of remorse, to stabbing his date 51 times because she refused to believe he was a vampire. Judge Colins had been asked by the prosecution to accept that these actions came from malevolence. The defence spoke of the disturbed mind behind his actions. There was no doubt of his guilt, but what of his complicity? Did he truly believe himself to be an immortal, were his actions those of a young man whose grasp on reality was so loose that he responded with a blood lust not his own? The psychologist certainly thought so. The evaluations were quite clear – Mr West was one of the Broken. A child tormented by a world not willing to protect him, not able to provide the love and support needed to grow into a useful member of society.
“Dylan Thomas West, you have pleaded guilty to manslaughter, reduced from murder on account of your plea and your diminished responsibility given the circumstance. There is no question that your actions were cruel and excessive. The victim did nothing more than express an opinion that many in this room hold – you are not a vampire.” The judge paused to take in the response of the accused – Dylan had recoiled at his final words. He looked enraged, insulted. “Given your own beliefs on the matter, as well as taking into account the report prepared by the court appointed psychologist, it is my opinion that you should be sentenced to life in a psychiatric unit. You are a danger to society and, if I may say so, to yourself. While your actions were not premeditated, I see no reason to believe you would not act in the same way again and no further reason to believe that will change.” Judge Colins felt a wrench of sympathy for the young man as he was led away to start his sentence. To start? Dylan West had been living his sentence from the day of his birth – convicted of nothing more than existence, he was condemned to be one of the unwanted. It's not always clear why we talk about certain things and not others. Who decided discussing our food choices is OK but not the bowel movement that follows? When did we normalise hiding our mental health, while the complaints of back/neck/knee/[insert body part here] pain is completely acceptable?
I wonder, was there a moment of choice or are these social conventions grown out of a thousand choices, that culminate in a set of rules? Every day at the school gates, I see between 10 and 30 familiar adult faces. The other parents/carers/siblings dropping off their smaller people. Some are faces I have seen for over 10 years, some I barely recognise. It seems that I am meant to have a level of rapport with some, and be completely ready to ignore others. I wonder, in which group should I put the frazzled, stressed mum with the two tinies in pushchairs, trying to persuade her older child that it really is OK they forgot their library book? I could help, I want to help, but I'm not meant to interfere. Or am I? Will 'mum' be glad or affronted? Will I be labelled a busy-body who judges, or a kind, experienced mum who stepped in and took some of the strain? Maybe, just maybe, if we all take tiny steps towards breaking down the barriers forged and erected in 40 years of community erosion, our children will know they can step in, and know a stranger will help, when it is just a little too hard to continue alone. Pure tortureMy name, handed to me years ago
- Long before I grew into myself - Was given gladly and with love Chopped and extended several times The name remains at the core Kathryn, Katy, Kate, Katie The irony of their meaning, all deriving from the same root Pure of thought Torturous of spirit Never a truer name given to the woman in constant turmoil How can a Katie settle when her name Calls for her to be each of the two Torn between happiness and pain Like a birthing mother, expectant yet fearful Never the roseSo many flowers that exist could be
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AuthorKatie Tiplady-Startin is a walking thought - here she is to share herself ArchivesCategories |