A Boy Without Hope

by Casey Watson

  ‘Fine!’ Miller huffed at him. ‘Whatever!’

  ***

  ‘You really need to get some schooling sorted out for him, Mum,’ Tyler said as I followed him back across the landing to his own room. ‘He’s a menace, he really is. And too clever by half. And he doesn’t know the half of what he’s dealing with, trust me. And why the hell is he still hanging around here all the time anyway? Why isn’t he in school? It’s not like he’s special needs or anything, is it? Or did he just get excluded from everywhere?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I told him.

  ‘But they shouldn’t put all this on us. It’s not fair.’

  ‘I know, love,’ I said. ‘And I’ll be on to Libby pronto.’ Much good that would do, I thought but didn’t say. ‘Look, you get back to your revision, eh? I’ll have Dad have some stern words with him later.’ I grinned. ‘No point me doing it when I don’t know what half of them mean, is it?’

  His shoulders lowered slightly. ‘True dat,’ he said. ‘But Dad really needs to give him hell.’

  ‘And he will,’ I said. ‘Promise.’

  So, crisis over. At least I hoped so.

  Except perhaps not. Or, at least, another one brewing. ‘Tyler,’ I said, ‘did you see the stuff he was writing? You know, on that pad? What’s that when it’s at home?’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be code. Code from the dark web, most probably. He’s in some sort of hacker group from when he had his own laptop. I think he’s trying to get back in but he can’t till he gets it back from his previous foster family. Seriously, Mum, he’s up to all sorts. Or would be, I’ll bet, given half a chance.’

  I still only understood about one word in six, but if Tyler thought Miller was up to ‘all sorts’ then he probably was. And though I didn’t know exactly what made that mad, bad or dangerous, I had heard of the dark web, and didn’t like the sound of it – and I definitely didn’t want it entering our house. Wasn’t the dark web what terrorists used to plan attacks, and paedophiles to organise their evil gangs?

  I went downstairs and called Jenny, Miller’s previous foster carer, to find out about the laptop I hadn’t heard about.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ she said immediately. ‘And I’m loath to give it back. Though I suppose I must. I’ll drop it round to Libby for you, shall I?’

  ‘But why do you still have it? I’d have thought it would be welded to his side, day and night.’

  ‘Because we confiscated it,’ she told me. ‘When he smashed the screen on ours.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Bit of a long story,’ Jenny said. ‘From back at the start, when he would actually leave the house with us. But the short version is that he’d been watching a movie on his own laptop and the power went. We were camping at the time and didn’t have access to anywhere to plug it in, so we allowed him to continue watching it on ours. We were outside the tents with some friends who had met up with us, at the time – Miller, of course, had stayed inside. And when I went to check on him, I saw that he was actually looking at bloody porn! Can you believe it? Anyway, when I tried to drag it away from him, he got angry and threw it across the tent, smashing it into a gas bottle.’

  I was happy she’d only told me the short version as I don’t think I could have taken all the gory details just at that moment, but I did make a mental note to check the search history on my own and Tyler’s computers.

  And to redouble my efforts to get a commitment to provide us with more support. With all the budget cuts, I knew I’d have a fight on my hands, but I was in the mood to fire off a few stern emails. And sterner than usual, given what I’d just found out. People needed reminding just how much I was out on a limb, and, given how Miller preferred to spend his time – and with whom – on the internet, how pressing was the need to get him back into education. And if they couldn’t offer any education in its normal setting, then I needed, badly needed, an alternative. Something that would get Miller out of the house for a couple of hours every day. Something to inspire him to get up and get dressed.

  Something more concrete than Libby’s empty promises – certainly of more substance than her ‘Yes, ELAC have something sorted’ had turned out to be. Which, as far as I could tell, was nothing more than the promise of a possibility to get Miller into a ‘new project’ they’d bought into – whatever that meant – and which so far had amounted to nothing. Well, bar what seemed like the social service term of the moment – the oft-repeated ‘just give us a few days’.

  I was just trying to put all that into ‘acceptable’ wording, when the door opened and the means of my salvation came in. Not in the form of an email, but my husband.

  Mike didn’t mince words. One of the reasons I loved him. ‘Go on, Case,’ he said, ‘get your coat and your car keys, and have a few hours shopping, or whatever it is you do in town.’

  I could have kissed him, and probably would have, but for a meek little Miller-shaped voice from behind me. ‘Would it be alright if I come to town with you, Casey?’

  We both gaped. I didn’t know whether to be pleased or frustrated. On the one hand I felt like I had just been given the keys to my jail cell, but on the other, I couldn’t shake the feeling that taking Miller with me just might help me with the key to him. If he didn’t do a runner on me, that was.

  Because that was obviously a clear and present danger. Miller’s long history of absconding might not have been an issue up to now (quite the opposite – he was stuck to home like glue) but perhaps he’d been operating a watch and wait policy. Who knew what went through his mind? I certainly didn’t. But if, for whatever reason, he’d decided to make today his bid for freedom, there would be little chance of me stopping him once we were out and about. And if he did decide to scarper, precious little I could do about it either. Just the grim prospect of calling up the cavalry and all the hassle that would ensue. Reporting it to the police, to the emergency duty team, becoming part of the search party, and all the resources and time and energy that would involve.

  None of which I relished, but it was a chance I’d have to take. After all, I wasn’t, and couldn’t be, his jailor – either legally or emotionally. Plus I wanted to get to know him – something I felt I’d hardly done at all, despite us spending so much time cooped up together. It was as if we were just co-existing; separated by an invisible film. One that crackled with resistance every time I tried to push past it with a friendly greeting or an affectionate gesture.

  ‘Course you can, love,’ I trilled, to Mike’s obvious surprise. ‘That would be lovely. Go comb your hair and grab your hoodie. Five minutes, okay?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I need eight,’ he corrected, before turning around and running back upstairs.

  Another crackle. And, to my shame, I was tempted to mutter ‘six’. As in ‘six of the best’. The traditional teacher’s threat. One that, back in my day, invariably worked. I held my tongue, though. Definitely not in today’s protocol.

  Chapter 9

  What’s that story about the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dam? Knowing that if he pulls it out there will be a torrent and then a flood? I don’t know what had happened, exactly – was it the action of leaving the house? Or getting in the car? I had no idea which, but one thing was clear. It was almost as if a switch had flipped inside Miller, and turned him into a completely different child.

  ‘Do you think Donald Trump is a good president, Casey? Do they have a phone shop in your town? And have they got a game shop? Or are we just going to do boring things when we get there? I hate shopping. I like phone shopping and game shopping, but I hate shopping-­shopping. Just so you know.’

  This just in the few seconds it took to reverse off the drive. More words that I’d heard him say at one time in a long while. And on it went. Was there a climbing wall, like in the last place he’d gone to? How long would the journey take? Would he be allowed any sweets? ‘And, as well,’ he continued, ‘do you know what horse power this engine has? It’s important, for, like, when
you are loading it up with passengers and suitcases and everything. And, as well, did you know that the size of your feet when you’re a baby determines how tall you’re going to be as an adult? Casey? Answer me. Did you? Did you know that?’

  It was such a torrent of words that I even checked the rear-view mirror, just in case Miller had run off and persuaded a completely different child to take his place.

  I managed to meet his eye, even if only briefly. ‘Goodness me,’ I said. ‘One question at a time, please, Miller. And maybe it should wait till we get into town, eh? There are lots of new road works and I don’t want to end up in the wrong lane or something. Okay? And could you stop yanking my seat back while you’re talking, please?’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. But it did nothing to stem the astonishing tide. This was more unsolicited conversation than I’d heard from him since he’d been with us, in fact, and I was truly stumped by what had brought it about. ‘What do you think about that North Korean leader?’ he asked brightly. ‘I reckon Trump will off him. His followers all have the same haircuts, you know. Shall I tell you the history of the Korean divide? Casey, do they have a game shop in town? I bet they do. Towns always do. I bet they have lots of phone shops as well. Which do you think is best, the Galaxy or the iPhone?’

  By the time I’d wound my tortuous way through the road works and into the town-centre car park, I felt almost like my head was exploding. And before long, with no sign of his non-stop chatter abating, I began to wonder if there wasn’t more to this uncharacteristic animation than I’d first supposed. Yes, it was great that he was chatting to me, but was that all there was to it? He seemed to leap from one bizarre train of thought to another, and though my professional head wondered if this, too, was a sign of autism, my instinct, increasingly, was that I was being wound up. That he was babbling on at me with the express intention of irritating me. To the point, given I was trying to negotiate Saturday afternoon town-centre traffic, that I would tell him to shut up?

  It was an effort of will (why did this kid keep bringing out the worst in me?) to stick to the former. ‘Right!’ I said cheerfully, once we were safely in our parking space and I’d opened the door to let him out. ‘Shoot. Ask me anything you want.’

  Miller yanked his hoodie down over his skinny hips. He seemed all out of questions. ‘Donald Trump, was it?’ I prompted, as I shut and locked the car.

  Silence. I pointed towards the pedestrian exit and he stomped along beside me. ‘Are we going to the phone shop first?’ he finally asked.

  ‘The phone shop? No, love. We’re not. I don’t need to go to the phone shop.’

  ‘The game shop, then? The game shop and then the phone shop.’

  I stopped by the fire door. ‘Miller, I’ve come into town to pick up a few bits that I need. Then maybe to get a coffee – and you can have an ice cream, if you like – and only then, if there’s time, we might go in the game shop. Whether that happens or not will very much depend on you.’

  He stood and pouted, his gaze darting around me rather than at me. ‘Not going, then. Not till you promise about the game shop.’

  ‘That’s not a promise I’m prepared to make, Miller. That’s not how it works. You asked to come, and I’ve brought you, but I’m here to do my shopping. So your choice is to accompany me without moaning and groaning, in which case, there will definitely be an ice cream in the mix, and, if there’s time, we will go to the game shop. Alternatively’ – at this point I pulled my phone out of my handbag – ‘I can ring Mike and have him come and pick you up now instead. Your call, love. I’m easy. But I have been cooped up for days now, and I am doing my shopping. Whether you stay with me or get taken home is entirely up to you.’

  ‘Fine!’ he huffed, pushing open the door to the stairwell. ‘I’ll do all the boring stuff. But it best not take all day!’

  Had I levelled up Miller’s imaginary scorecard? I hoped so. Though it nagged at me anyway, that sense of not quite being in control; of having to pit my wits against him to try and ‘win battles’. We were not supposed to be point scoring, like kids in a playground. I was his carer, and he was supposed to be earning points. Or would be, had we been able to sit down and create the chart to put them on together. Still, early days, I decided, as we emerged into the shopping mall. This was new territory – we were out, and that was something in itself. And in this new landscape – both in terms of the physical and the mental – all I could really do was go with the flow.

  Though ‘flow’ was a long way from being achieved. ‘What exactly are you going to buy in here?’ he asked, as we went into my favourite clothes shop. ‘Do you know? Because if you know what you want, it won’t take very long, will it. And then we’ll have time for the game shop.’

  I almost cracked a smile at the thought that those would be Mike’s thoughts and words exactly – well, if he dared voice them. Which, of course, he wouldn’t. One of the reasons our marriage endured was that, unless it was for some big manly electrical item, Mike didn’t come shopping with me any more. As far as he was concerned shopping was a chore, not a hobby. So I did have a smidge of sympathy for Miller. Or would have, had he not finished with, ‘Well?’

  ‘Miller, please!’ I said. ‘We had a deal, remember? And if you want me to keep my end of the bargain, then you have to be patient, and not badger me, okay? We will get to the game shop when, and if, we get there.’

  I was obviously long used to expecting the unexpected when fostering, but even I was astounded at what Miller did next. Which was to drop to the floor, lie down on his back and start cycling his legs madly, as if an enthusiastic participant at a legs, bums and tums class. Round they went, as if piston-powered, while his arms did their own thing – mostly flapping up and down as if miming a doggy paddle, right in the aisle between the jeans and dresses. Not so much ‘downward-facing dog’ as ‘stricken beetle’.

  I wasn’t stunned for long, despite his accompanying shrieking. For this was clearly no tantrum. Just a ploy to deflect me. Designed to ensure maximum embarrassment, and so ensure we beat a hasty retreat.

  So, rather than doing so, I ignored him, just as I would with a toddler, and began riffling through a pile of pastel jeans. Then, having selected a pair, I walked around him to a nearby mirror, where I held them against me, deciding whether they’d suit me.

  ‘Excuse me, madam.’ Another person appeared beside my reflection. ‘Is that young man over there’ – she gestured backwards – ‘with you?’

  It was obviously important that I brazen this one out. ‘He is,’ I confirmed, sotto voce. ‘He’s just amusing himself while I finish my shopping. He’s not bothering anyone, is he? He’ll be done soon.’

  ‘Um,’ the shop assistant said. And would doubtless have said more. Except Miller, red in the face, had scrambled to his feet, and now did his T-Rex impression for her. Then, having roared at her, he bolted from the store.

  I passed her the jeans. ‘See?’ I said. ‘Sorry. I have to go.’

  ***

  Perhaps oddly, I felt calm. And, to some extent, pleased. Finally, out in the world, we were getting somewhere. At least in as much as I was now able to start building a picture, and interacting with him in a way that might help open him up; help the precious process of my getting to understand him better.

  Given what I already knew about him, I wasn’t worried about him disappearing on me. Not least because there’s a big difference between twelve and, say, seven. But mostly because it was something he’d never before done. Coming back was his thing, every time. So it needed no play-acting to emerge slowly and nonchalantly from the shop, and cast around as if I didn’t much care either way. And there he was, across the street, leaning, apparently indifferently, against a bin. But I wasn’t fooled. He’d had his eyes trained on the shop front since he’d left it; I knew because, by virtue of my (lack of) height and the throng of people all around me, I’d spotted him before he’d spotted me.

  He straightened up, yanked the hoodie down again and glowered acros
s the road at me. ‘Ha!’ he shouted. ‘You’re an idiot! Get me a game or I’m not coming back in the car!’

  I crossed the road, but as I did so he sprinted a few yards down the street.

  ‘New game or I’m gone,’ he said.

  I walked towards him. Again, he sprinted off a few yards.

  I carried on walking. ‘We didn’t say anything about buying a game, Miller,’ I told him. ‘And do you really think that this kind of behaviour will get you anything?’

  ‘Well, I’ll stop if you say you’ll get me one.’

  ‘That’s not how it works, Miller. You’ve made sure that I can’t do what I needed to do now, so, I’m sorry, love, but that means no trip to the game shop today. And no game either – you’re going to have to make up for this behaviour before I consider buying you a treat now.’

  ‘Bitch,’ came the response, as he ran further up the street.

  ‘And all the while you keep doing this, you’re just making it worse,’ I called out.

  ‘Don’t care!’ he yelled back. And off he went again.

  And again. And again. And again. And mindful of whichever American politician coined the ‘three strikes and you’re out’ rule, I stopped following Miller down the high street, got my phone out and called Mike. ‘What kept you?’ he asked, chuckling, when he answered the phone. ‘You need me to come get him for you?’

  Yes, indeed I did. But since it was going to be at least a fifteen- or twenty-minute wait, I followed my hunch that Miller (unsure how to play it now, clearly) would go precisely nowhere, and popped into the big bookshop outside which I’d told Mike to meet me.

  And I’d been right. When I emerged with a couple of greetings cards ten minutes later, he was exactly where I’d left him, leaning disconsolately against the chemist’s window and, though he was quick to turn away when he noticed I’d spotted him, he had clearly been waiting for me to come out.