If only I had heard his cries, seen his bruises, if I could have held him in my arms - who can read of the prolonged torture and death of Baby P and not weep inside? It is almost impossible to read the details of his treatment at the hands of his mother and the men who shared her house. The details are so unspeakable that most of us can only look at them side-on, minds half-shut.

The abuse went on for months. There must have been noise. The squalor must have been evident. Social workers had become convinced in their belief that the mother was inadequate, but not abusive. But what about the neighbours? They weren't sitting in “groupthink” case conferences. What about the baby's natural father? We are told that the last time the father saw his baby, he noticed that the boy had a fingernail missing and that he was screaming to stay with him. Why did he just walk away?

The living hell of Britain's underclass has forced its way into our consciousness several times in the past few weeks. Despite the floodlight of policies trained permanently on this group, despite the serious inroads made into alleviating material poverty, certain postcodes contain a devastating poverty of mind and spirit.

There are “homes” where children never know who will be there, for how long, or whether there will be any dinner - the only certainty is that the TV will be on. There are “families” which are no more than a shifting cast of characters linked together by expediency, venality and intense yet shallow emotions. These people do not know how to live. And they are without shame. Baby P's mother has shown no remorse, despite admitting harming the child. She has also apparently claimed that she will be “out by Christmas”. She could be right. The maximum sentence she could receive is 14 years. But sentences, like social services, no longer say what they mean.

We have always had an underclass. We have never tried so hard before to help people out of it. Yet our efforts have backfired. The authorities are so acutely aware that fecklessness and depravity flow from one generation to the next that they can become defeatist. The view that the underclass can't help themselves creates a self-fulfilling prophecy. The knowledge that they start off at a disadvantage can cloud the judgment to the point that, in the dreadful case of Victoria Climbié, who died within walking distance of Baby P's street, social workers were reluctant to challenge the girl's condition partly because they feared it might be culturally insensitive.

Reluctance to blame those at the bottom also has pernicious effects on those who are struggling up. I recently bumped into a man I know who grew up in care. He has managed, against the odds, to hold down a job and raise children. But his history means that the authorities keep him in their sights. When he fought to get his son statemented for special needs, he was accused of poor parenting. Yet he sees his feckless neighbours enjoying subsidised rent, benefit cheques and health visits, from a State that seems to condone their behaviour. He says he has given up calling the council at night to complain about the noise they make - because nothing is ever done.

This is why neighbours in the most needy areas do not call the police or social services when children are at risk. They fear drawing attention to themselves. And they do not trust the “professionals” to do the right thing. Distrust is exacerbated by the jargon of social workers. The language of “intervention” is designed to obscure the truth, and to impress upon the “client” that the professional is the one with the fancy qualifications.

In my bleaker moments I feel that the welfare state has pulled off a truly brilliant stunt: not only has it managed to institutionalise shamelessness among people who might once have been forced to take heed of social taboos. It has also sowed widespread fear of professionals in most of the people who could still uphold taboos - taboos such as refusing to accept as normal the cycle of women having a baby, moving on, having another with another man, and moving on again, with no apparent expectation to care for anyone.

It doesn't have to be like this. In Chicago and Oklahoma, impressive work is being done with teenage mothers to try to break this cycle. Two things seem to work. The first is making benefits temporary, so that agencies have to get people to stand on their own two feet, not expect them to become lifetime dependants. The second is nurturing: mentoring women to learn to parent, to cook, to gain a stronger sense of themselves. Paying them to attend relationship classes, if necessary. But not talking down to them.

Sure Start began with a similar intention. The early versions were focused on nurturing families with pre-school children and teaching child development. But those aims have been subverted. Sure Start has become a giant network of daycare centres whose primary purpose is to look after kids up to 14 so that their mothers can work. It has lost its focus on the underclass, their fractured relationships and their babies.

One group is doing what Sure Start intended. A Welsh charity called Save the Family takes in people who are about to be made homeless. It gives them an intensive programme in life skills. It provides childcare while parents take its courses - but not as daycare while they shop. The charity maintains its relationships with some people for many years, but deliberately avoids institutionalising them. Their stay on site is only temporary. And this is vital. Even a heroin addict whose first two children were taken into care is now coping well with her third.

This is my answer to the defeatists. People who are savvy about milking the benefits system are capable of taking responsibility. Poverty and immorality need not go together. And we must stop institutionalising shamelessness. That is deadly.

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