Girl Alone: Part 2 of 3: Joss came home from school to discover her father’s suicide. Angry and hurting, she’s out of control.. Cathy Glass
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happened and stops blaming herself, she’ll be less angry and her behaviour should start to improve.’
I greatly valued Jill’s opinion, so I was pleased to hear this, but what happened next showed Joss still had a very long way to go.
Chapter Eleven
It was Friday morning, and at 9.30 a.m. I received the now familiar telephone call from the secretary at Joss’s school, informing me that Joss hadn’t arrived and that when she did she would be given an hour’s detention at the end of the day. I apologized for her lateness, confirmed that she’d left for school on time and thanked the secretary for letting me know. If a child who usually arrived at school on time suddenly went missing I would be very worried, but Joss arriving late for school was a regular occurrence, so I knew from previous experience that it wouldn’t be long before the school secretary telephoned again to say Joss had arrived. Sure enough, fifteen minutes later the telephone rang – however, it wasn’t the secretary, but a man with an accent whose voice I didn’t recognize. ‘Is that Mrs Glass?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ I assumed it was a telesales canvasser, but what he said next scared me rigid.
‘I have your daughter, Mrs Glass.’
‘What? What do you mean?’ My heart began drumming loudly in my chest.
‘I have your daughter, Joss, here with me. You need to come and collect her. She is a very naughty girl.’
‘Who are you? What are you talking about? Where is Joss? Put her on at once, please.’
There was a muffled sound as the handset was passed over and then Joss’s voice came on, subdued and without her usual bravado. ‘Cathy, please come and get me – he’s scaring me.’
‘Where are you? Who is he? What’s going on?’ My concerns grew.
‘He’s making me stay here with him until you come. He wants to see you.’
‘Where are you?’
‘The paper shop on the corner of South Road.’
‘The newsagents there?’
‘Yes.’
I knew where it was, although I’d never been in. It wasn’t the newsagents below the flat where Chelsea lived, but one close to Joss’s school.
‘And he won’t let you leave?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
Joss didn’t answer.
‘I’ll call the police,’ I said.
‘No! Don’t do that! Please, Cathy,’ Joss pleaded. ‘I’m in enough trouble already. Don’t get the police involved.’
‘What’s going on, Joss? He can’t keep you there against your will. It’s illegal. Are you hurt?’
‘No. Just come and collect me, please. I’m in his sitting room at the back of the shop.’
‘And you can’t tell me what’s happened?’
‘He wants to tell you when you come for me.’
‘Put him back on, please.’
His voice came on the line again. ‘Mrs Glass, I was going to call the police, but your daughter begged me not to, so I insisted I call you instead. She’s done wrong and I’m not just going to let her get away with it. Are you coming or shall I call the police?’
‘I’m coming,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
‘Very well. My wife will sit with her while I return to the shop. I will see you soon. Goodbye.’ The line went dead.
I had my shoes on and was out of the door and in the car in an instant, still thinking I should call the police. Joss had pleaded with me not to and she’d said she wasn’t hurt, but then perhaps he was standing over her with a knife and forcing her to say that? I’d been fostering for long enough to know that anything was possible, and that unbelievable and horrific events did occur. I was sick with fear and drove faster than I should have done. All teenagers can be volatile and reckless at times, but when it’s your own child whom you know well, you have a fair idea of what they are capable of – good and bad. Joss was another matter entirely, and try as I had I still didn’t have a clue what she was capable of. All manner of thoughts crossed my mind, including that the man might be a dangerous psychopath who was planning to hold me hostage too.
I parked in the side street next to the shop, got out and walked swiftly round to the front door, my stomach churning. A large handwritten notice in the shop window stated: Only two school children allowed in together. I opened the door and a bell clanged from inside, and then again as the door closed behind me. A woman customer left the shop and another was looking at a stand containing a display of greeting cards. With my mouth dry and my heart pounding, I went up to the counter at the far end of the shop. A smartly dressed middle-aged Asian man was standing behind the counter, looking at me as I approached. I realized then that I hadn’t asked the man who’d telephoned for his name. ‘Are you the person who telephoned me about Joss?’ I asked. ‘I’m Mrs Glass.’
‘Yes, I am,’ he said sternly. ‘This way, please.’ He lifted the counter top to allow me to pass through. ‘Your daughter is in here,’ he said, lowering the counter again behind me.
I followed him down a short, dimly lit hall, which led into a small, cramped sitting room. The curtains were closed and the room was lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling. Cardboard boxes were stacked around the edges and the room smelt musty, so I guessed it was usually only used for storage. Joss sat in one of two old-fashioned armchairs, the only furniture, and a middle-aged woman dressed in a sari, whom I took to be the man’s wife, sat opposite her. She stood as we entered, said something to her husband in another language and then went into the shop, closing the door behind her.
Joss stood. ‘Can I go now?’ she asked the man.
‘Not yet. I need to talk to your mother first.’ He turned to me. ‘Do you know how much stock I lose every week from stealing? It’s robbing me of my livelihood. I struggle to support my family as it is. It is not easy, owning a shop. I work all the hours God sends me and then I have the little I earn taken away from me by people like your daughter.’
I now had a good idea what this was all about.
‘I telephone the school and tell them that their pupils are stealing,’ he continued. ‘I’ve even been in to see the headmistress, but nothing happens. She tells me she can’t be held responsible for what their pupils do once they’ve left the school premises. If I call the police, they come eventually, take a statement, and then I see the same kids in here again the next day, and they’re laughing at me. They think stealing from under my nose is a joke. I blame the parents. I have two children of my own and they would never steal. I have brought them up properly. They are trustworthy and polite teenagers. If they are naughty, they know what’s coming. I have taught them respect and honesty, Mrs Glass. Something you need to teach your daughter.’
I remained silent, for I could see he wasn’t finished yet.
‘I’ve even had expensive CCTV fitted in my shop,’ he continued. ‘But the kids get around that by standing in a group and shielding the one stealing from the camera, hence the notice outside about only two being allowed in the shop. What a sad state of affairs that children can’t be trusted to come in and buy a few sweets! I’ve had my suspicions about your daughter for some time – she comes in here a lot – but now I have the proof. She’s not as clever as she thinks. The camera will show her putting a magazine into her bag and trying to leave the shop without paying for it. That’s when I stopped her.’
Joss, who’d remained sitting silently and staring