Shame, Rebekah Jennings - © Copyright [best ereader for textbooks txt] 📗

Them

Kendra Keneilly knocked hard on the front door of 23 Jensen Grove. Looking over her shoulder she eyed her colleague Martine Griffith and wondered if the anxiety within her own small frame was visible on the outside. Martine smiled back at her, changing her androgynous face from hard strength to soft femininity. That smile was reserved for Kendra but it would be hidden upon entry to this house.

Kendra knocked again, noticing a tremor to her hand. The door opened sharply and she found herself taking a step backward as she studied the sweaty goliath.

“Yeah?” he grunted, annoyance radiating out.

“Are you Mr Grayden?” Kendra’s voice was strong and throaty, incongruent to her physical appearance and though she sounded confident she felt Martine flanking her and she was relieved.

Kendra introduced herself and Martine.”We work for the Department of Human Services Child Protection. Can we come in please?”

“Why?”

“We’ve received a report regarding your eldest daughter Sarah Grayden and we need to have a chat with you about that. If you are unhappy with the way you’ve been treated or any part of this process, you can make a complaint by contacting this number.” Kendra held out a complaints brochure and fingered the contact details. After watching Grayden’s eyes take in the information she moved the brochure toward his hand. He took it from her and stood back to allow them entry.

The smell pervaded Kendra’s skin, clothes and hair, her nostrils flaring in riot. Was that mould..., sweat..., shit...? She covered her mouth with her hand and tried not to retch.

She took a seat as close to the front edge of the couch as possible, Martine did the same. Debris littered the area. The smell seemed to clear a bit but she knew it was simply that her nostrils were becoming accustomed to it. The thought tested her gagging reflex again.

“Is your wife at home?”

Grayden got up from his seat and laboured down the hallway. Martine looked over at Kendra and stuck her pointer finger down her throat. Simultaneously Kendra squeezed her nose shut with her fingers and with her other hand waved it like a fan in front of her face. They quickly snapped to attention at the sound of Gayden’s voice.

“Rhonda.” Grayden bellowed toward a room off the hallway. “RHONDA!” He looked back at them using eye contact to agree with them that his wife was a stupid deaf bitch; he even shrugged his shoulders as though he had no control.

“WHAT?” A gravelly voice called back.

“Get out here, we have visitors.”

“Tell them to fuckoff, it’s too early.”

Kendra’s eyebrows raised as she looked first at Martine wide-eyed, then at Grayden. He shrugged his apologies again and yelled back, “It’s child protection.”

Moments later the door opened and Rhonda stepped out in a night gown, wriggling her large body into a torn, dirty dressing gown. She didn’t say hello just sat next to her husband her face a statue. Within moments, though, the statue was hijacked by a snarl.

“Who’s dobbed us in?”

Introductions aside, and after complaint policies explained, “Don’t you people ring first?”

“We’ve received a complaint in regards to your eldest daughter Sarah. As you can appreciate the person who made the report is protected and we are not allowed to disclose their name.”
“That bitch next door neighbour again?” Rhonda made to stand, pointing in the direction of their lounge room wall.

“We need to ask you a few questions regarding some alleged incidents of a sexual nature involving yourself, Mr Grayden and Sarah. The police have been informed about these same allegations and we are working with them. The information we obtain today will be shared with the police and they may choose also to seek an interview with you both to explore the allegations further,” Martine was direct, clear and precise in her delivery.

“Now, it’s been alleged that Mr Grayden has been visiting Sarah’s room most nights when he gets home from the pub after you’ve gone to bed Mrs Grayden and that during those visits, you, Mr Grayden have digitally penetrated Sarah, attempted sexual penetration and attempted to have her give you fellatio. What do you have to say about that?”

“Lies. That girl is constantly lying.” Rhonda stated firmly.

“Mr Grayden?”

“Same. Rhonda’s right. Lies.”

“Why do you think Sarah would lie about such a thing?”

“Don’t know.” Grayden snarled. “Because she’s a bloody trouble maker. Probably because she’s been grounded recently.”

Me

“Sarah Grayden. Come to the office please.” I looked at Mrs Howell, my English teacher, who waved me from the room.

“Wonder what that’s about?” Jacinta whispered.
I shrugged, poking my bottom lip out for emphasis and left quickly.

Entering the school office I noticed two police officers sitting off to the left. I quickly looked away, watching the floor until I got to Martha at the desk.

“You called me?” I whispered.

“There’s some police officers here to speak to you.” Martha’s eyes looked over my shoulder.

At that same moment the two female officers approached. I looked off past them through the glass doors and saw no students, then behind to see an empty hallway. I was relieved. How embarrassing.

“You can take that interview room to your right.” Martha stated pointing to assist.

Sitting in the interview room, door closed I studied the coppers and they studied me. One was very pretty, she was a blonde Sandra Bullock from the movie Speed. The other was plainer, plain Jane. Smiling, Sandra Bullock introduced them both, I missed their names though, sitting right in front of them and I couldn’t remember what she’d said. Wouldn’t ask though, too embarrassing.

“Sarah we have some questions to ask you about your family?”

Fear decorated my face, like that song... can’t remember the name. I didn’t answer but it was there on my face, implying 'go ahead' or was it 'leave me alone'.

“Somebody has reported to us that you spoke to them about your father. They said they’d keep it a secret but they knew you were at risk so they contacted us, in your best interest of course. Does that mean anything to you?”

I nodded, heart racing. They wouldn’t believe me, there was no way.

“Okay, we’re here to help you, alright.” Sandra Bullock looked me in the eye, smiling.

"Can you tell us what you told your friend?”

“Well,” I took a deep breath and studied my hands, cradled in my lap, “I told my friend Jacinta that my dad has been doing sexual things to me.” I didn’t look up. I felt heat saturating my face, every pore. I knew they’d think I was full of shit.

“Okay,” plain Jane nodded. “We would like to take a statement from you about what’s happened. Can you tell us about that in your own words?”

I nodded.

I heard voices outside the door, my face was pained, reddened, my embarrassment on display. I thought about mum. I didn’t want to hurt her and I didn’t know what was going to happen to her, to me.

I already knew that everyone preferred Jack, my older brother, and I thought by telling my friend, somehow it would get easier, or dad might stop, and so might Jack, but they’d all blame me. For anything bad that happened to the family, I’d be to blame.

I told them everything and answered their questions. I thought I might get to go back to class, to my best friend Jacinta but the coppers left me in the interview room for ages; I was starving and watching the clock on the wall. The lunch bell rang out and still I had to wait.

After some time they came back. My stomach rumbled and I hoped it wasn’t loud enough for them to hear. Sandra Bullock told me that I wouldn’t be able to go home and that I couldn’t go back to class today either.

They’d made arrangements for me to go stay with another family for a while. They explained that my parents have told a different story, it didn’t match mine. I knew they would. I couldn’t go home if dad stayed at the house and at the moment he was lying and staying.

I shook my head and some tears escaped my eyes. I turned away so they wouldn’t see. My parents didn’t care. I didn’t want to go to someone else’s house. I hated being around other people, why couldn’t I go to a friends or something.

Pictures filled me. Memories of the time when I’d been babysat by some strange woman who offered me yoghurt, which I’d never tried before. Jack and I weren’t used to being looked after by another person and we were scared to talk to the lady. Jack wouldn’t even go to the toilet in the house. He went in their backyard behind an old door that was resting against a fence. I thought of him squatting there and doing a big poo.

I felt powerless now; I didn’t want to go to a stranger’s house. What about my things? I couldn’t ask. I was too scared and knew I’d look stupid. The coppers led me outside during the lunch break. I had a chance to collect my books and bag, which I was glad about but I wasn’t happy with all the kids in the whole school looking at me and at the police, they’d all be wondering what I’d done.

It reminded me of the time I’d been caught shop lifting and the police walked me out to the divvy van, people looking at me from all different directions.

¬¬¬¬You

You were nervous. You’d gone through such a long process of questions, interviews, medical tests, case studies, identification checks, police checks and finally it had come to fruition. You’d been contacted by your agency to foster your first child.

You thought you were doomed in the first interview when they started asking questions about your views on race, religion, homosexuality and a whole bunch of other stuff.

You knew your husband didn’t like gays for one thing but you were able to jump in quickly on that answer to relieve the workers of their worries. For you it didn’t really matter if the child was gay, straight, white, black or whatever. If the kid’s was really ugly then you might not forge the same connection with them or if they behaved a certain way you didn’t like but that’s why you said you’d only take short term placements to begin with.

You and your husband both wanted to help out, you more than he, but still. Plus when you told him you’d be getting a reimbursement for your troubles, in the three hundred ballpark per fortnight, he was quite happy to oblige.

You’d got the call today; your first child would be dropped off soon. She wasn’t the child you thought she’d be. You were hoping for a small child but instead you’d be getting a teenager. You weren’t sure whether it was that that was causing your anxiety.

At least she was under sixteen, which meant you’d qualify for the family tax benefit. You’d be getting quite a sum of money for this girl. You didn’t know much about her, not her school, not her medical background, not yet anyway.

In fact, you knew nothing