Mary and Denise read the same books. Denise shows no interest in adult books or newspapers (this may be a blessing!) but this means that Mary’s reading is advanced for her age. Denise’s handwriting has not progressed beyond the year of her abduction. Mary’s reading ability is way ahead of her peers, not that she has ever met any peers.
We had another attempt at a family therapy session with Denise and her parents yesterday. Denise was uncommunicative and struck her father when he kissed the top of her head when leaving. Medication has only taken the edge off her anger and volatility. Mr and Mrs Norton are distraught and have repeatedly asked when will we be able to ‘fix’ Denise. They think we can magically restore her to normal and that they will then be able to take her home. They are keen, as are we, that we separate mother and child. They want to see their daughter unencumbered with Mary. In consultation with her parents, we have all agreed to tell Denise that Conor Geary is dead and there is no way she will ever see him again. Security at this site is high and the manhunt for the psychopath who has destroyed at least one life is under way. Sightings have been reported and clairvoyants are cashing in, but there have been no solid leads.
Denise did not respond when we told her he was dead and could never harm her. She does not trust any of us.
Both Jean and I have tried to open conversations about him, but we are met with screams which upset her and the child. I don’t know how we can ever broach the subject of what he might have done to her. My honest belief is that Denise is so damaged and has been brutalized for so long that any kind of normal life will be extremely unlikely.
She talks to Jean sometimes when they go out to walk around the grounds. She has allowed Jean to take Mary’s other hand when they are walking. So, in a way, Jean has made more progress than I. Denise wants to know what each flower is called and teaches little Mary the names and spellings. Jean reports that Mary constantly asks for Toby. Denise has told Jean that Toby is a toy bear. Denise’s parents have confirmed that when Denise was abducted from their garden in 1966, she was in possession of a teddy bear that she called Toby.
Denise has physically attacked me only once in the last week. The child was crying, so I instinctively reached out to console her. Denise charged at me like a pit bull and bit at my arm, while never letting go of the child. Again, we had to end the session early and Jean led them back to their quarters.
On the positive side, Denise and Mary have physically improved. They have both gained weight. Denise eats everything put before her and Mary copies everything Denise does. Denise is a striking-looking young woman, apart from the missing teeth, but she has the mind of a child. They both enjoy bath time and cry when they have to get out. But they look better. Denise’s hair has been cut short to stop her pulling it out, but she still tries, several times a day, and Mary copies her.
They are completely isolated here. Jean and I are both of the opinion that it is still too soon to introduce Denise to other people.
As for us, we are a bit sick of living on campus. There are four nurses and one other female paediatrician who attend Denise and Mary in our unit, but Jean and I need a break soon. It is exhausting to put so much effort into one case with so little reward.
The thing is, there is hope for the little one, if we can get both her and her mother to allow some gradual separation. We will keep trying. But this is the most gruelling case I have ever worked on and it’s the same for Jean. If we don’t make a breakthrough with Denise soon, she might break us all.
Toby was my bear, and my mother’s bear. My mother pulled her hair out too when she was distressed.
22
Peter, 1974
Hours passed, and she slept, I think. I pulled apart some bread and smeared some butter on it for my lunch. I took the rest of the food and put it under the chair beside my camp bed.
When my watch said five o’clock, I shouted at her to wake up. She had to make my dinner. Bacon, mashed potato and peas.
She lifted her head and said, ‘There’s something wrong with the baby. I can feel it.’
‘I don’t care, make my dinner.’
She struggled to stand up and her face was red and sweaty. Her legs were shaking.
‘You hurt me. I think you hurt the baby.’
‘Dad told me I could.’ Dad hadn’t said anything about a baby. She could have been making up the whole baby thing. She was a thief anyway. I was cross about the chocolate.
She started to talk again but kept stopping to take deep breaths. ‘He used to make potatoes for me, years ago … I only get them now every few months … I can’t remember the last time I had a carrot.’
She squealed again and held her belly. ‘It’s not time yet. He said I had about six weeks, but when was that? It’s hard to keep track of the days here.’
I didn’t know what she was talking about. But I felt mean about kicking her so much.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
She looked at me and she was crying and smiling at the same time.
‘It’s not your fault, baby. You live with a monster. How could you be normal? What kind of man would tell you that it’s okay to kick and punch a pregnant woman?’
‘Dad is not a monster! He’s the best!’
‘But he keeps you locked up. You have no friends, you don’t go to school. Have you even met other children?’
‘No, and I never met a woman, and I’m glad.’
‘But what about when you go to the shops? Or if you got sick? Haven’t you ever seen a nurse?’
