Free Wednesday's Child by Shane Dunphy

pitch of her voice prompting me to place a hand on her arm. I knew why she was angry: she had invested a lot in this family, but by venting at the children she would only aggravate an already difficult situation. Besides, she would be shooting the messenger.
     
    ‘A bit. But he’s been down a lot too.’ Cordelia seemed to have decided to come clean. ‘Sometimes I think he’ll hurt himself. I’ve tried to get him to talk, but he won’t always talk, even to me. I’ve been worried. We’ve been worried.’
     
    She put her arm around Victor, who in turn embraced Ibar, who looked at him as if he were mad and shrugged off the overture. I tried to think what to do. Max would probably show up in an hour orso, but in what condition? It struck me that his regular absences were, more than likely, times he had gone on a bender. His arrival would probably be an intoxicated one. I knew from experience and from my training that trying to talk to or reason with a man in the throes of drunkenness was an utter waste of time and energy. Of course Max may have just gone into town and missed the bus, but that was unlikely. The crux of the matter was that we had three minors in our care who, to all intents and purposes, had been abandoned. There was only one thing to do.
     
    ‘Betty, would you ring the office and tell them what’s happened?’
     
    ‘Will do.’
     
    ‘Do either of you two have a key?’
     
    ‘No,’ Cordelia said.
     
    ‘I can get in,’ Victor said quietly.
     
    He raised his head and I realised that my initial diagnosis of him was all wrong. He was not intellectually disabled, or even slow. I saw a keen intellect, and suddenly a smile illuminated his face and he was no longer the slack-jawed pre-adolescent who had been with us all afternoon.
     
    ‘When he doesn’t come home, I get in through the back, and then I let Cordy and Ibar in. If I didn’t do that, we’d be stuck outside until he gets back.’
     
    ‘Can you show me?’ I asked.
     
    ‘Yes.’
     
    He led me around the side of the house. The grass was unkempt and the back yard was overgrown withmoss and was treacherous. He pointed at a small top window that led into what must have been the kitchen.
     
    ‘There.’
     
    ‘You can get in there?’
     
    ‘Yes.’
     
    ‘Okay then. Here.’
     
    I made a step by cupping my hands together. He put his foot into it and I lifted him up so that he could grip the rim of the window. It opened easily – the latch was obviously broken. He gave me that mischievous smile again and then he was through, wriggling into the narrow space as if he were a snake. I waited a second and then the back door was opened. He motioned for me to come in.
     
    Inside the house was gloomy in the early evening light. The kitchen was neat and tidy, though sparsely furnished. The linoleum was faded but appeared to have been recently washed. Victor was moving ahead of me through the shadows. I followed him, and found him standing in the door of the living room. I saw what he was looking at and, without thinking, placed my hand on his shoulder. He didn’t flinch this time.
     
    A man I took to be Max McCoy was sprawled half on, half off the couch. The curtains had been drawn, so the room was in darkness, but I could see the almost empty bottle of cheap vodka on the floor near his hand and the puddle of vomit congealinginto the carpet. The stench in the room was appalling and I had to take shallow breaths for fear of gagging.
     
    ‘He does this sometimes,’ Victor said, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘I think he does it because he’s sad. I think he gets lonely for Mummy. I do, and I don’t even remember her all that well.’
     
    ‘Has he been doing it a lot, Victor? Have you and Cordelia and Ibar been left to look after yourselves a lot?’
     
    ‘Cordy looks after us. She looks after Daddy most of the time too. Daddy says we’d be lost without her.’
     
    ‘Mmm. Well, Cordelia needs to be looked after as