Wednesday's Child by Shane Dunphy

family, I thought, there will be better days.
     
    I could not have been more wrong.
     

4
     
    I was the first to arrive at the McCoy house the next morning, and I parked up the road a bit and finished writing my report on the previous day’s events while I waited. Shortly, I saw Noreen, a social worker who had worked on the case before, pull in and I got out and went over to her car.
     
    ‘What happened?’ she asked, abandoning any preamble.
     
    I told her.
     
    ‘Shit. I thought he was clean. We put a lot of effort into this guy.’
     
    I shrugged. What did she want me to say?
     
    ‘Where’s Betty?’
     
    ‘On her way I presume.’ I felt myself begin to bristle. This was not my fault. I had not placed the alcohol in Max McCoy’s hand, and I had not created the policy that said that a social worker needed to sign off on a Voluntary Care Order. I had not appointed Noreen to the case, either.
     
    I pushed the rising anger aside. I was tired and contrary. It was likely that Noreen had either had to cancel or postpone something else to be there, and she probably wanted this finished as soon as possible so that she could get on with her day. Social workershave extremely heavy caseloads, and Noreen was no exception. I saw Betty’s car turn into the road.
     
    Max McCoy opened the door, looking as if he had spent the previous night on survival manoeuvres with the SAS . He stood aside to allow us into his hallway. He had obviously been cleaning, for the smell of disinfectant and polish lingered in a rather unpleasant cocktail in the air. But it was better than the smell of vomit. He silently walked into the living room, leaving us standing in the hall. After some seconds of looking uncomfortably at one another, Noreen followed him, and we trailed after her. He was sitting on the same couch I had found him on the day before, staring into space, his stubbled chin cradled in his hand, his hair sticking up at odd angles. He had rings under his eyes and I could smell his breath from the doorway. It was foul, but the alcohol in it was only a memory.
     
    ‘Let’s get this over with,’ he said.
     
    Noreen sat on the arm of one of the chairs and began to riffle through her bag.
     
    ‘Your children are fine, Max,’ Betty said, going over and sitting down beside him. ‘I dropped in on Dympna on the way over this morning. She brought them to school and they’re in good form. They’re asking after you and looking forward to coming home.’
     
    He heaved a deep sigh.
     
    ‘Thank you, Betty.’
     
    Noreen produced the Care Order and handed it to him.
     
    ‘This is a similar Order to the previous one you signed. Do you need me to explain any of it to you again?’
     
    ‘No.’
     
    I handed him my pen, and he looked at me right in the eye. I was almost bowled over by the depth of misery I saw in him. I saw loss, shame, anger, bitterness and a terrible awareness that this was a battle he would never, ever be able to win. I saw, in that second, the story of Max McCoy from his own perspective. I saw his own abandonment, his own deep-rooted fear. I saw the little boy he had once been who had never received the love and support he deserved and needed. I saw an infant who had cried in the darkness and cried and cried, but no one ever came. I saw how handing his own children over to the authorities for a second time was driving another nail into the coffin that was his life. I wanted to reach out then and tell him to stop, to shout at him not to sign the paper; we would find some way to work it out. But I knew that this was not my place, and that the child he had once been was dead and gone. There were three other children who needed to be helped, and by signing this Order he
was
helping them, terrible though the cost was.
     
    He signed the paper and pushed it across the table to Noreen, who countersigned it.
     
    ‘What now?’ he asked, looking around at us.
     
    ‘Well, that’s kind of up to you, Max,’ I said,