Easy As Falling Off A Bike pt 1232.

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The Daily Dormouse.
(aka Bike)
Part 1232
by Angharad

Copyright © 2011 Angharad
All Rights Reserved.
  
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We had time for a quick discussion before Nora arrived. She looked quite crisp considering the fact that she’d have to had to leave fairly early to get down from Wantage for ten, given the rush hour traffic.

I offered her a coffee which she accepted. “How is Trish?” she asked.

“She’s okay, I asked her psychiatrist to check her out and Stephanie seems to think she’s okay at the moment.”

“Good–for now at least, these things can come back to bite you though.”

“Yes, I appreciate that–but then with real life, it also has a habit of nipping you on the bum when you’re not looking.”

“Come on in and meet Dr Cauldwell, Trish’s shrink.”

“Oh–she’s still here?”

“Yes, she hasn’t long finished with Trish.”

Carrying the tray of coffees, I led Nora into the dining room where Stephanie was seated at the table writing in a file. “Won’t be a sec,” she said and finished the line she was writing. “A client who I’ll be seeing later, just thought of something she said.”

“Nora, this is Dr Stephanie Cauldwell, Stephanie, this is Nora Cunningham.” They said their hellos and after dishing out the coffee and laying out a plate of biscuits, we got down to business.

“I take it this conversation is in confidence?” said Nora.

“Unless there’s something said which I feel needs to be taken to the appropriate authority, which I’m duty bound to do,” replied Stephanie.

“I’m just here representing Trish,” I added and they both smiled as if I was a useless but necessary decoration.

At one point I almost got bored as they chatted in sociological jargon but I managed to keep awake and listened. It transpired that the home knew nothing of Ben Bowditch’s attacks on weaker children until after Trish had left, when he found another victim–this time, a biological girl who’d been abused by her father.

How anyone could do that to a child both astonished and disgusted me and when the details began to be discussed I felt quite angry and then nauseous. Apparently, this girl was so distressed at Bowditch’s assaults that she tried to kill herself but was discovered just in time and after recovering spilled the beans.

There was an inquiry and Bowditch was to be moved to a secure home for rehab; meanwhile he was kept locked in his room which was on the second floor of the home. He apparently managed to open a window and tried to shin down a drainpipe to escape, however, gravity intervened and he fell about twenty five feet. He was taken to hospital but he died a week later never having regained consciousness.

When I heard this, part of me wanted to jump up and down and shout hurrah but on a moment’s reflection I realised that no one gained anything from it, except his victims would know he couldn’t touch them again.

Sadly we all know that abusers have often been abused themselves, though why some should go on and do it and others don’t is curious and I don’t think anyone knows why that should be, other than exercising some form of moral control.

We’ve all heard stories of adults who take themselves off for help when they start having inappropriate feelings or thoughts about children, yet there are also a significant number who obviously enjoy those thoughts and act inappropriately on them and children get damaged.

Even the twisted minds of paedophiles must realise that it’s against the law with severe penalties if they’re caught, and they usually are eventually, yet they continue their unsavoury habits. It seems to be something humans have done for a very long time and I don’t understand it.

Apart from being revolted by the very thought of it, when some of these stories arise in the press, it just makes me wonder what must these people be thinking? Why would a grown man do something disgusting with a baby? The argument that the children enjoy it can’t be used because clearly, depending upon the act, the consequences for the victim might be catastrophic. Usually when I see these sorts of stories, I skip them because I can’t cope with reading them–I get too upset or angry and then start baying for vengeance–which isn’t appropriate.

I presume these perpetrators, who are frequently men but not exclusively, must get off on the power, like rapists of older victims and are quite possibly impotent without knowing the victim is hurting.

I listened to the two professionals throwing information back and fore before I excused myself and went to the loo, then went to look for Trish. She was doing something on the computer. The others weren’t about, so I sat beside her and said, “Bowditch can never harm you again,” and put my hand on her shoulder.

“I know,” she replied blithely.

“How can you know that?” I asked feeling my concern was not being recognised.

“Found it on the internet, he fell out of a window.”

“Yes, so we’ll never know why he did it?”

“Because he could, I’m glad he’s dead.”

“Yes, but that means you can never get any retribution or justice.”

“I don’t care–I don’t need to ever think about him again.”

“Okay, I’ll leave you to it.” I rose to leave her and only got as far as the door when she began sobbing.

“What’s the matter, darling?” I asked putting my arm round her.

“I hate him, I hate him–I hope he goes to hell–he will won’t he, Mummy?”

I calmed her down, reassured her and then went to see the experts. They were still talking and comparing notes.

“She knows.” I said and they both looked at me.

“Who knows?”

“Trish knows the Bowditch kid is dead–she found it on the internet.”

“How old is she?” asked Nora.

“Six–going on sixteen in some areas,” suggested Stephanie.

“How did she find that?”

“I presume she shoved his name in a search engine and up came the local rag or the Daily Wail.”

“Even so, I don’t think I was reading newspapers at six, except the comic strips in them,” Nora reflected.

“Trish is a little precocious,” I suggested.

“Yeah, just a little,” joked Stephanie.

“But I wouldn’t understand words like, inquiry or inquest at that age, so how much does she?” Nora wasn’t convinced of Trish’s abilities. “I know she’s clever, but surely not that clever?”

“How about telling you that she hacked into the police computer after laying a trail all over the world so they couldn’t trace her.”

“Now you’re pulling my leg,” laughed Nora.

“I’m not, I saw her do it.”

“But most teenagers couldn’t do that?”

“I couldn’t and I’m in my twenties,” I admitted.

“I wish I was your age again,” Nora said wistfully while glancing at me.

“I don’t,” said Stephanie firmly, “I was doing a registrar’s job in Hackney, it was horrible and so was my consultant. I’d never want to revisit those times unless I could do something about it. I’m sure he had a problem with women in general and women doctors in particular. I wonder how he’d get on with women priests?”

“He wasn’t gay, was he?” asked Nora.

“Gay isn’t a word I’d use to describe him, crabby old git, might be.”

“Perhaps he was a repressed transsexual who secretly wanted to be you?” I threw in just to show I was still awake.

“Nah, crabby old git, is my diagnosis. Right, ladies, I have patients to see so I shall take my leave.” Stephanie rose from the table, packed up her files and pulled on her coat.

“So what happens now?” I asked naively.

“Nothing–unless Trish needs extra help, perhaps I’ll see her weekly for a few weeks just to make sure it hasn’t stirred anything up. I’ll get my secretary to phone you, Cathy.”

“Okay.” I saw her out and had literally returned to the room when Nora said she must go too. I saw her off and then sat down in the dining room. I wasn’t sure what we’d achieved other than knowing Trish’s bogeyman was gone forever. I suppose that was a result, but one which left me feeling it was anything but satisfactory.

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