Crying in the Dark by Shane Dunphy

before nine in the morning, and I didn’t know if Loretta would be in. I had called to Dunleavy House only a couple of times since taking up the job, and so had no idea of my colleagues’ routines. A pile of just-opened post sat at my elbow, all of it reports and documentation on my three Cases: articles of information which were missing from the files Ben had given me. I sorted them into chronological order and put them in their relevant folders. It took me ten minutes, and then I sat there, wondering what the hell else I could do. Administration has never been my strong suit, but I felt that I should be doing something. I had come in early to write up a report on the previous day’s experiences with Mina and the Walshes, which proved to be a short job. I finally accepted that there wasn’t really anything else for me to do, and went to get a coffee.
    Benjamin was seated in the kitchen when I went in, reading
The Irish Times,
drinking a cup of green tea and eating a muffin.
    ‘There you are,’ he said as I went to the coffee machine. ‘How has it been going?’
    I sat opposite him and ran a hand through my hair, sighing deeply.
    ‘Slower than I’d like, if I’m honest.’
    ‘They’re three difficult cases. You have them because you have the necessary skills. You’ll get there.’
    ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’
    ‘What do you make of the Byrnes?’
    ‘Have you met them?’
    ‘I meet all the children who get referred to us.’
    ‘Then you’ll know that they are a complete mess.’
    ‘I knew you’d like them,’ he smiled, sipping his tea and popping a piece of muffin into his mouth.
    ‘I’ll admit that I’m fascinated.’ I paused, my mind suddenly full of questions I wanted to ask Ben. ‘Do you think it’s accurate to say that they’re feral children? I mean, the term “feral” in this context really means
unsocialized.’
    Socialization, as I mentioned earlier, is the process of learning how to behave in a society through
living within
that society. It involves all the things we learn from our parents: language, how to eat using a knife and fork, toilet training; as well as the patterns of behaviour we pick up from the wider community: moral codes, religion and fashion trends, to mention but a few.
    ‘They
have
language of a kind,’ I continued. ‘I think that it’s fairer to say that what they really lack are social skills.’
    ‘What about the fact that they run about on all fours?’
    ‘Not all the time. They walk upright far more often. Part of me has been wondering if they affect the animalistic behaviour to scare people. The snarls, the clawing, that whole pattern seems to me to be more a defence mechanism. Who’s going to want to fuck with two wolf-children?’
    ‘I’d go for that if it didn’t seem so ingrained,’ Benjamin said. ‘You can’t just decide to play at being a were-wolf or a monkey or whatever it is they’re meant to be, and within a couple of months be able to catch wild birds with your bare hands. It’s an interesting theory, and I think it may have
become
a defensive behaviour, but my bet is that there’s something much deeper at work.’
    ‘Any suggestions as to how to isolate it, so that we can begin to form relationships with them, because, as of a couple of days ago, things have not improved one iota?’
    ‘What have you been trying?’
    ‘Well, based on the knowledge that they’ve been confined in a shed for long periods of time and seem to get very edgy and claustrophobic when cooped up indoors, I’ve been working with them outside. They’re certainly happier outdoors – the problem is that Rivendell has fairly big grounds, and once they get outside they’re off like wildfire, usually ending up perched in a tree. Their two key-workers have been attending the sessions, seeing as how they’re the ones who are constants in the children’s lives, and they’ve both worked really hard, but they’re getting frustrated. I spent the last