Doubting Thomas

by Adam Grinter

  Maria and I kept quiet in the hope she would embellish her story.

  “When you talked to him you often got the impression he wasn’t listening to you. He was comfortable with his own company, which is unusual for these kids. He had no real friends, but he always tried.”

  “Sounds like me.” I tried to inject some humour.

  “No.” Sharon shut me down immediately. “John was...” She searched for the right word. “Serious. No, not serious.” She struggled again, “sincere. Yeah, that’s more like it. He genuinely wanted friends, he genuinely cared about things but the kids didn’t seem to care about him.”

  “Sad.” Maria summarised.

  “Yeah, it was hard to watch sometimes but John never seemed to mind. He just got on with his own things.”

  Maria and I smiled sympathetically.

  “Do you know where he is now?” I asked trying to get back to the practical.

  She sipped her tea and thought hard. “He left here and went into a house round the corner.” Almost there I thought. “Last I heard he’d gone South.”

  So near and yet so far, again.

  We took the address of the half-way house he’d gone to, she told us she didn’t know any more than that. We thanked Sharon for the tea and left to continue the chase.

  “So close.” Maria said as we walked back to the car.

  “Getting closer.” I corrected.

  1 Peter

  He was almost eighteen, he would have to leave the sanctuary of the home very soon. His Mum told him he would be fine, he would thrive in the big wide world. Things would be different, things would be better, he would be happy.

  Things had changed in the home over the last six months. New staff and a new child had transformed his world.

  Peter had come from a foster home because of the problems he’d caused. Drinking, fighting, arguing. The foster family had had enough of him so sent him to the home. Peter complained he wasn’t faulty, you couldn’t just get a refund on him. But that seemed to be what they’d done. Now he was left broken on the shelf, Peter laughed at his own metaphor.

  Peter was younger than John by six months, but he was older in his outlook on life. Peter had life experience, John remained his naive, innocent self.

  “John, you’re so young.” Peter teased him.

  For the first time in John’s life there was no malice in the insult. At first, he didn’t know how to react. He was used to ignoring the bad words the kids used and listening to his Mum instead. Now he enjoyed the prodding, Peter said it all with a smile on his face and a glint in his eyes. There was no fear or hatred behind his words. His Mother had told him Peter didn’t mean his words. She had explained this was sometimes how people talked to each other. This was how you knew they were your friend.

  John had never had a friend and so at first found the interaction with Peter stilted and difficult. He wanted a friend, he needed one, but children could be so cruel.

  Peter showed him things he’d never seen. He took him out to Penrith town centre, John had never ventured far from the home and the sights and sounds had flooded his senses. The smells of burgers, fish and chips, stale beer and sweaty bodies were over-powering but he loved the input. He craved more.

  Over the weeks Peter brought John out of his shell, he started to interact with more and more people in the home. In return John mellowed Peter, his outlook grew calmer and he didn’t seem so angry any more.

  The new staff member, Sharon, was also friendly to John. Whereas the usual staff had been contaminated by the children and considered John weird, strange or touched. She wasn’t bound by their history and their conclusions on him. Sharon talked to him and reached out to him in a way nobody had tried for the previous ten years.

  Peter and Sharon came to the home as John was about to leave. He complained to his Mum about the unfairness of finding these people now and he would have to leave them to be on his own again.

  He enjoyed being with his Mum but now he had a human connection and it was a different sensation. He liked talking to Peter, he loved helping Sharon in the kitchen. John had found his voice and his place in the world and now it was about to be taken away from him.

  His Mum told him good people were difficult to find, he should cherish his time with them. So, he did.

  For his eighteenth birthday Peter had arranged for them both to go into town and have a few drinks. Because Peter wasn’t old enough, he’d told the staff they were going to the cinema and having something to eat. The staff were just happy John was starting to act normally and so they encouraged them to have a good night.

  Sharon sent them on their way with a wink, knowing full well what Peter had planned but trusting them.

  John didn’t quite get the nuance of what was going on in the house but played along as if he did. Peter understood and revelled in the fact he was trusted to look after John on his momentous night.

  Eighteenth birthday’s only come around once and Peter wanted John to enjoy his to the full. He wanted him to experience things he never had before.

  They started in the local bar where Peter flashed his fake ID, a left-over from his wild days. He bought them both a pint. Peter gulped at his, enjoying the taste as it filled his mouth. John had never touched alcohol before. This was one of the new sensations he had yearned for and Peter wanted to share with him.

  He wanted to be cool like Peter and throw his first mouthful down. He wanted to show he was now an adult. His self-confidence to do that was not there so he took a sip instead. The taste hit him immediately; it was bitter, it was sweet, it was sharp, it was fizzy, it was unlike anything he had tasted before. It was disgusting.

  He swallowed and the taste remained, it had coated his taste buds. His nose was filled with the smell of the beer which increased the loathing John felt towards this vile liquid.

  His Mum had quietened over the previous months as his relationship with Peter and Sharon had grown, but now She was back. She was laughing. For the first time in his life he felt anger towards Her. She realised immediately and pulled back.

  ‘Sorry, baby. I’m not laughing at you.’ She whispered in his mind. ‘But everyone hates it at first.’

  John tried another sip, in the hope his Mum was right. She was wrong, the second go round was just as vile as the first.

  John closed his eyes, stuck out his tongue and shook his head as if the breeze he created would blow away the horrible taste lingering there. It didn’t.

  Peter laughed this time. The arm he put round John’s shoulder as he did it told John this was what friends did. John joined in with the laugh as well, playing his part.

  “Don’t worry mate, we’ll find your drink.” Peter told him.

  Over the next half hour John tried a couple of different drinks and found them all as unpleasant as the first beer.

  “You’ve got to pick one mate.” Peter instructed him. “I can’t have you not drinking on your eighteenth. You’ve just got to, it’s the law or something.”

  Peter laughed again. He had polished off his pint and drunk John’s first. While they were testing, he had finished a third. His cheeks had a rosy glow and his eyes looked slightly heavy.

  John thought for a moment and tried to think which one was the least-worst option. He couldn’t decide, they were all foul so he randomly pointed at one of the half full glasses that scattered the table.

  “Vodka and orange it is then.” Peter announced decisively.

  They left the pub and wandered into the town centre. The night lights were bright against the dark sky and the noises were louder than Penrith during the day. Music spilled from pub doorways. Loud voices, angry and happy cascaded behind it.

  The smells were similar; food, beer and sweaty bodies. The feel of the town had changed though. In the daylight parents and children wandered the streets looking for things to buy, talking pleasantly about what they needed, their plans. Now there was a menace, the families had been replaced by young adults who seemed to have no plans outsid
e of drinking as much as they could in as short a time as possible.

  John felt uncomfortable, he wanted to be back in the comfort of the home. Peter dragged him on relentlessly.

  “Come on mate.” Peter kept saying.

  They popped into a few pubs, never staying for a drink. Peter would pull John through the door, look around for a few seconds. “No, not here.” He would inform John. Then they would leave.

  John didn’t know what they were looking for. He trusted Peter, so he allowed himself to be led.

  At the fifth bar, Peter found what he was looking for.

  “This is it mate. This is the one.” John was still none the wiser.

  Peter dodged expertly through the small crowd, dragging John in his wake. They stood at the bar and Peter told John to look for a table.

  The bar was crowded but not full. Most of the tables were occupied but in a dark corner John found an empty one with two uncomfortable stools pushed underneath. The corner was cramped and poorly lit. John was happy with it though, as he would be with his friend.

  Peter arrived minutes later with a pint for himself and a vodka orange for John. Peter had taken another gulp before he had even sat down, his eyes never leaving the other end of the room. John held his glass, without drinking and waited for Peter to explain why they were here. He didn’t need to wait long. Peter started talking the moment he sat down.

  “Over there mate.” Peter gestured where he had been looking. John peered across the bar. “Those girls.” John saw a table with four girls sat round it, all holding colourful drinks, and all dressed for a Saturday night in town.

  “Yeah.” John agreed.

  “Stacey Travers and her mates.” Peter informed John.

  “OK.” John didn’t know who Stacey Travers was.

  “They’re always up for it on a Saturday night.” Peter informed him.

  “Oh.” John didn’t know what ‘up for it’ meant.

  “Drink up mate. We’re in there.” Peter downed his remaining half pint in two big swigs.

  John didn’t want to let his friend down so knew he would continue to play his part, whatever that was, without complaint. He looked at his glass and hoped he wouldn’t gag on the bitter liquid inside.

  John had felt no heat in his hand. The glass was still cold to his touch, the ice cubes still floated on top of the liquid. The spirit that had mixed with the fruit juice had transformed under his caress and had turned into water. He raised the glass to his lips, took a deep breath and started to pour the concoction down his throat.

  The bitterness had gone. It just tasted like weak orange juice. Mum had been right, nobody likes it at first. Maybe I’m getting the hang of this drinking thing, he thought. Mum was silent again.

  Peter got up and weaved his way towards the table full of girls. John followed behind. As they neared the table Peter grabbed a stool, subtly gesturing for John to do the same. He found one and grabbed it, following Peter’s lead.

  Peter muscled into a gap between two of the girls forcing them to move their chairs slightly to accommodate him. John stood behind him.

  “Move over girls.” Peter told the table. “This is my friend John. It’s his birthday today.”

  The girls oohed and aahed pleasantly whilst two of them made room for John to get his stool in beside them.

  Peter introduced John to the table. John missed two of the names but caught that he was sat between Stacey and Gemma.

  “Drinks?” Peter asked the table. All four girls nodded, Peter got up and went to the bar leaving John alone with four strangers.

  “So how old are you?” One of the unremembered names asked him.

  “Uhm, eighteen.” John was not used to this many people looking at him and he hoped Peter would return quickly.

  The oohs and aahs returned.

  “Why haven’t we seen you with Peter before?” Stacey asked.

  “I don’t go out much.” John answered truthfully.

  “How do you know him?” Gemma chipped in. She was naturally blonde, delightfully chubby and the mischievous smile on her lips betrayed the bubbly personality she struggled to contain.

  “We live in the same house.”

  “You live in the home with him?” Stacey asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s it like?” Unremembered one.

  “Good, it’s good.” What else could he say.

  “How long you been there?” Unremembered two.

  “All my life.”

  The oohs and aahs that this elicited were a mixture of sympathy and sadness. John struggled to read the nuance but he looked suitably sad and sympathetic.

  “Poor baby.” Gemma said as she stroked his arm. A look passed around the table, a decision had been made, a stake had been claimed. John missed all of the subtleties of it, but he enjoyed the tickle of Gemma’s nails on his flesh.

  Peter returned with the drinks and he took the focus of the conversation away from John. John was pleased to no longer have four sets of eyes on him, so he relaxed. Gemma’s fingers continued to run up and down John’s arm.

  As the night wore on drinks were bought and consumed. John stuck to his choice, they all tasted like watered down orange juice. He felt no different now than he had at the beginning of the evening, although he could see the rest of the group were enjoying the effects of the alcohol they were imbibing.

  Gemma leant into John’s side, put her head on his neck and put her arm around his back. Peter reached behind Stacey and tapped him on the shoulder. John looked at him, Peter had a massive grin on his lips and kept raising his eyebrows, signalling John knew not what. John smiled back hoping this was the right reaction. Peter looked pleased so John thought it was.

  Gemma stirred and whispered in John’s ear. “Shall we go somewhere quiet?”

  It was noisy in the bar, so John readily agreed. They got up and Gemma picked her bag up from under the chair she’d been sat in. A look passed between the girls on the table, again John didn’t understand.

  The cold night air of the High Street hit them as soon as they stepped onto the pavement. Gemma wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to keep warm.

  ‘Give her your jumper.’ His Mum’s voice told him.

  ‘But I’ll be cold.’ John whinged at Her in his head.

  ‘Give her your jumper.’ Mum’s voice was sterner, this was not a request.

  John took off his jumper and offered it to Gemma, she took it eagerly. John helped her into it, shivering all the while.

  “This way.” Gemma smiled at him.

  They turned up the street and headed for the lights at the end. They passed a kebab shop when a crowd spilled out of a bar in front of them. The group blocked the pavement. John and Gemma tried to push gently through the throng.

  “Gem. Gemma.” A voice called as they reached the clear side.

  Gemma turned, muttering, “Oh, no.”

  A man disengaged from the group and approached Gemma.

  “Who’s this?” He slurred, gesturing at John.

  “Leave it Dave, go home, you’re drunk.” Gemma said firmly.

  “Who the fuck is this?” Dave demanded as he stepped up to John’s face.

  John tried to reach Gemma, but Dave blocked his path.

  “It doesn’t matter Dave. Go home.” Gemma pleaded. “John, I’m really sorry.” She apologised over Dave’s shoulder.

  Dave turned to face Gemma. “So, he’s a John. That’s appropriate.” Dave’s hands flew out and pushed Gemma backwards. The speed and surprise of the attack stunned both John and Gemma. She stumbled and fell onto the cold pavement. The thud as her head hit the concrete was audible across the street as heads turned in their direction from the bus stop opposite.

  ‘Go to her. Hold her.’ His Mother instructed. He didn’t need to be told, he was already scrambling past Dave and kneeling by her side.

  John gently lifted her head from the cold pavement and rested it on his thighs as he wiped the hair from her face.

&n
bsp; “Get up John.” Dave goaded, ignoring Gemma now.

  John ignored Dave and continued to cradle Gemma’s head.

  “Get up, or are you too chicken?” Dave was bouncing around trying to look like a prize fighter and trying to intimidate John. John barely heard his words and didn’t even look in his direction. He was used to ignoring taunts and insults thrown his way.

  Dave was furious at the lack of reaction he was provoking so threw a punch at John’s head. The blow caught him on the temple and should have floored him. John barely felt it. All his attention was focused on the stricken girl in front of him. More punches rained down hitting John’s arms, back and head. None had any effect.

  The flashing lights of the police and ambulance were on the scene quickly. As with all towns on a busy weekend the emergency services knew young people and alcohol are a volatile mix. As a result they were never very far away.

  John was oblivious to their arrival and continued to hold Gemma tight to himself.

  The police grabbed Dave and he was subdued and handcuffed in very quick succession.

  “He started it.” Dave yelled to anyone who would listen throwing his free leg in John’s direction trying to deflect the blame from himself. “He hit me first.” Dave lied.

  John was still ignoring him as he concentrated on the injured girl in his arms.

  “Arrest him, not me.” Dave continued to shout, gesturing towards John with any body part he could free long enough to point accusingly at John.

  The paramedics were prising Gemma out of John’s arms as the police grabbed him and wrenched his hands behind his back, handcuffing him and throwing him in the back of a waiting police van.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The half-way house was a dead-end. John had stayed there for six months and then one day he’d left and not come back. He’d walked out with a bag full of his clothes. Nobody had seen him since. He’d left no forwarding address, no mobile phone number, nothing.

  Maria had been right, and I’d been wrong; so close.

  #

  We sat in the hotel bar that night wondering what the best course of action should be. We were six and a half years behind him, with no leads on where he was at this moment in time.