by Casey Watson
‘The social worker is on her way,’ I reassured her. ‘And don’t worry – we can leave her to deal with that side of things. I’m sure that between us we’ll be able to get him to see reason, bless him. At least I hope so. The last thing she’ll want is to have to drag him off against his will.’
The neighbour’s expression changed a little. ‘Poor lad,’ she mused. ‘He’s a handful, I know. But it isn’t right, is it?’
I shook my head, aware that I must be a bit circumspect. ‘It’s not good, for sure.’
‘But you know,’ she said, beckoning again that I should follow her into a different room, ‘it’s not his fault. It really isn’t. Sometimes I see them together and I could weep for him, I really could. It’s so obvious to everyone how different she treats them bairns. Blatant, it is. But it’s always been that way – they probably told you all about it – since all that business with the little one …’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Well, I don’t care what the circumstances were, it’s not right, it isn’t – anyone can see that. Anyway, cup of tea, love? Might as well.’
My antennae twitching, I followed the woman into her small and pristine kitchen, and was just about to ask what she meant by ‘all that business with the little one’ when the poor lad himself exploded indoors through the back door, closely followed by a ‘Heinz 57 varieties’ kind of wiry-haired dog.
The dog leapt upon me with great enthusiasm – nothing remotely Alsatian-ish about it – but Jenson, understandably, stopped dead in his tracks. As well he might. I was obviously the last person he expected to see. But he gathered himself up defiantly. ‘You’re wasting your time,’ he told me, scowling. ‘I’m waiting for me mum and then I’m goin’ home and you can’t stop me.’ He looked at his neighbour, then, presumably for corroboration.
But she was rescued from having to answer by a ring on her doorbell. Which she hurried off to answer.
‘I’m not,’ Jenson began. ‘I’m not coming. You can’t make me.’ Then I watched his face fall further. ‘Oh, God,’ he said, in his world-weary voice, seeing Marie approaching down the hall. ‘God! What is she doin’ here?’
But Marie was impressive. While the neighbour – Mrs Clark – and I swapped phone numbers, in case it happened again, she calmly dealt with the situation like a pro. Within minutes Jenson had turned from a furious whirling dervish to, if not a happy, at least a calm and reasonably compliant bunny, prepared to accept, albeit grudgingly, the way things had to be.
‘But when can I see her?’ he asked mournfully, and my heart really went out to him. He’d gone to all that trouble (and what, come to think of it, had happened to his sister?) yet he’d missed his mum by minutes. And now he was being told he had to go straight back home with me. I think I would have kicked off, under the circumstances.
‘Well,’ Marie said, ‘I will have to double-check this, obviously, but if you go with Casey now,’ she glanced at me, ‘then I think I’m pretty safe in promising that you will be able to see Mum after school tomorrow. Assuming you go to school, that is. And assuming you stay in school, as well. No running off, or Mum will just get into more trouble. D’you understand that?’
Jenson looked crushed suddenly, and I wished Marie hadn’t placed such emphasis on the word ‘more’ there. Because Jenson had obviously leapt on it immediately. And I watched his eyes begin to fill with tears again. ‘So is it my fault?’ he said brokenly. ‘Is she in trouble cos I ran off from school today – is that it?’
‘Good lord, no!’ Marie reassured him. ‘No, not at all, Jenson.’ She took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Of course you shouldn’t have run off – you know that, don’t you?’ Jenson nodded. ‘You should have done as Casey and Mike said, shouldn’t you?’ He nodded again. ‘But the judge decided what he decided before he even knew that. It’s not your fault, Jenson. It was because Mum went on holiday, that was all. Because you’re too young to be left – both of you; you and Carley are both too young, and she should have realised it wasn’t appropriate to do that … that’s all.’
Jenson turned to me now, wiping a sleeve across the end of his nose, obviously keen not to get either himself or his mother into any further trouble. ‘I’m sorry for running off, Casey,’ he said forlornly. Which made me want to scoop him up and hug him, but I resisted. It would probably just set him off crying all over again.
‘That’s okay, sweetie,’ I said instead. ‘You just gave us all a bit of a fright, that’s all. No harm done.’ I ruffled his hair. ‘As long as you don’t do it again, okay? Anyway, let’s have this drink, shall we? Then we’ll get you back to ours. Honestly, I can’t believe you were all set to leave us without your new DS!’
Which raised a smile at last.
And Jenson did seem to cheer up as we headed back to our house, and delighted in explaining to me how he’d figured out his escape plan.
‘I know the main gates get locked,’ he explained. ‘They have to do that cos of paedophiles and serial killers and that – so when it was lunchtime I went to the fence round the field. It’s a long fence, and there’s always bits where it’s a bit broken and that. An’ most of it leads on to a big road round the back, and it’s good because the offices an’ that are on the other side, so they can’t see you. An’ I found a place really easy, so that bit was okay …’
‘And off you went.’
‘No, I couldn’a gone then. Cos of the afternoon register. So I had to wait till I got a chance –’
‘Which you were lucky to get, by all accounts.’
He looked sheepish. ‘Yeah, well … an’ so I had to take it, didn’t I? An’ then I just legged it over the field, took my school sweatshirt off, so no one would tell I was a school kid, and legged it all the way home.’
If I’d suppressed a smile at ‘paedophiles and serial killers an’ that’, I was hard pushed to do so at his delightful 9-year-old reasoning that if he took off his sweatshirt no one would know he was a ‘school kid’. An image came to mind, then, of an alternative universe. One in which there were two grades of child – the normal, school-going kind, and an underclass of other kids, who were occupied differently. Little chimney sweeps, vagabonds and Dickensian-style urchins, who roamed the streets when the rest were doing their sums. ‘So,’ I asked, ‘what about your sister? What about Carley?’
The made him scowl. ‘She an’ Mum had already gone – I knew they would! I just knew it!’
‘Gone where?’
Jenson shrugged. ‘Round Gary’s, most probly. I bet Carley didn’t think I’d do it. But I did!’
I decided not to probe further into the machinations of Jenson’s family. Best not to inflame things further and get him all wound up again. But one thing was for sure – it didn’t augur well for the outcome, in terms of getting Jenson home again. I had just the one impression of his mum so far – irresponsible. No, actually, two. Irresponsible and neglectful. And just what was the business with ‘the little one’ all about?
I pulled up outside the house and asked Jenson what he’d like for tea. I would find out soon enough, no doubt. Or wouldn’t. Either way, what would be would be.
Because I hadn’t been expecting to hear anything from anyone again till the following morning, when the house phone rang later I was sure that this time it had to be my mother. I hadn’t even heard it, in fact, because I was clearing up the dinner things while listening to my favourite fifties and sixties golden-oldie radio station. As this was generally the signal for anyone else in the house to scarper, I whacked it up loud and invariably sang along.
So the first I knew of the call was when Jenson appeared in the kitchen doorway, just in time to catch my interpretation of a jaunty Sandie Shaw number.
‘Oh!’ I said, seeing him and turning the radio down. There was something of a shocked expression on his face, and I felt slightly self-conscious to have been caught jigging around – or what did they call it now, throwing shapes? – in my kitchen. And judging by the way he was looking at me, so did he. ‘Sorry, love,’ I added,
wiping my hands and taking the phone from him. He gave me a priceless head shake and returned to watching TV with Mike.
‘Casey?’ It wasn’t my mum. It was John Fulshaw. ‘Sorry to call you at this hour,’ he said. ‘I know I’m making something of a habit of bothering you just lately. I was going to leave a message on your mobile. But then I realised I’m going to be tied up in a meeting till lunchtime tomorrow, and I really need to run this by you as a matter of urgency.’
My ears pricked up. Did this mean Jenson was about to leave us? Or had the situation worsened in some way? But he’d used the words ‘run by you’, which didn’t seem to fit either.
‘What’s happened?’ I said, intrigued.
‘Nothing’s happened exactly. It’s just that we have a bit of a dilemma. We have this boy, you see, Georgie –’
‘Another boy?’ I was confused now. And then something struck me. Was this something to do with Jenson’s family? Was this the little one the neighbour had attested to?
‘Another boy,’ John confirmed. ‘To be honest, we have had you and Mike in mind for him for a while now.’
‘Oh!’ I said, re-jigging my train of thought completely. This was obviously a different boy. A potential foster placement. ‘So he’s one of the ones you mentioned the other day, is he?’
‘Exactly,’ confirmed John. ‘Except it’s looking like we need to place him sooner rather than later. He has his problems, Casey – this is going to be something a bit different for you.’
‘In what way?’ I wanted to know. I was even more intrigued now, prickle on the back of the neck intrigued.
‘He has a degree of autism, to be precise about it. A fair degree of it. Which presents its own challenges, as I’m sure you’re aware.’
Which I knew it did and would. But there was obviously more to it than that. I was most interested to know why he’d been placed in care. ‘What’s his family situation?’
‘There is none. No family. He’s been in children’s homes since he was a toddler. Very young mother. Still in her mid-teens. Simply couldn’t cope with him. And, from what I’ve seen of the file – to be honest, I’ve barely scratched the surface – the family weren’t supportive. Well, you can imagine the scenario, can’t you? Without that kind of support it must have been a big ask for her. So, sadly, the girl put him into care herself.’
I took a moment to digest that, and to wonder how it must have felt. What a tragedy, for all concerned. ‘Oh, John, that’s so sad …’
‘Isn’t it? But also a fact of life, unfortunately. But don’t run away with the idea that this is a kid with a load of baggage. He’s been in the same children’s home since he was 2 and knows no other life. And is a contented little soul, by all accounts. Well, was. That happy state of affairs might not continue. As I say, the home’s closing down, and he needs a new one pronto. They’ve been looking for a long-term foster home for him for a while now.’
‘What, as in us?’ Long-term foster care wasn’t in our remit. Our job was to provide short placements – no more than nine months or so, usually, to set the behaviourally challenged kids up so they were fit for long-term fostering.
‘No, no,’ John said. ‘That was never the plan, obviously. He’s 9 – same age as Jenson – and he needs somewhere he can stay till he’s 18. In an ideal world, at any rate. So in the meantime we’d earmarked you and Mike as perhaps the perfect interim placement. With your understanding of Asperger’s – and I know it’s not anywhere near the same degree of disability – we thought you’d be better placed to take care of him than most. And best of all, he’s local – and we’d like to keep him local, if at all possible. It will be enough of an upheaval leaving his home as it is, without changing his whole environment as well …’
‘And you don’t think another children’s home is the answer?’
‘I wish! Because he is perfectly settled. Funny, isn’t it? That the very things that make children’s homes less than ideal for most kids mean they’re perfect places for children like Georgie. He loves the routine, loves the privacy, and loves the institutionalised nature of it. And he hates change, obviously. But since this whole drive to try and move kids into family situations … Sounds crazy, but they’re becoming as rare as hens’ teeth. Ones that can accommodate a child like Georgie, at any rate.’
Which was true. Children’s homes had become deeply unpopular in recent years. And with good reason – the statistics regarding the life chances of kids who were raised in them made for depressing reading in the extreme. But John was spot on – a child such as he was describing, with their complex needs and lack of emotional challenges, could often thrive in such an institutionalised environment. Plus he had obviously never known a family of his own.
‘So,’ I said, ‘what’s the matter of urgency in this equation?’
‘The home is closing imminently – they’ve moved it forward a couple of weeks. Which means that, ideally, we need to place him now, this minute. Bless him – he’s the only kid left in there, Casey.’
My heart melted, hearing that. The poor kid. He must be scared witless with all that upheaval going on around him. And to be the only child left – it must be horrible. And, of course, I thought immediately of Kieron.
‘How severe is his autism,’ I asked John, ‘in practical terms?’
‘Well, I remember reading that he’s in mainstream school, supported by a specialist teaching assistant, so that says a lot. And knowing you and Mike, I’m sure there’s nothing you can’t handle. I can call in tomorrow, if you like, and we can run through the paperwork in more detail, but I thought that with Jenson probably off your hands within the week it might be doable. Just a short overlap with the both of them …’
‘It’s okay,’ I said, ‘you don’t need to do a big sell. Of course we’ll take him, John.’
He chuckled. ‘Hadn’t you better speak to Mike first?’
So I did speak to Mike, and, of course, he did his usual Mike thing.
‘Are you sure you can manage both of them?’ he said. ‘It could potentially be quite challenging. If this kid’s used to being alone, and being in a home, he might find that difficult.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but I’m sure there won’t be anything that’ll faze me. Not with a couple of 9-year-olds.’
Mike gave me one of his old-fashioned looks. He knew as well as I that he could name at least two boys we’d fostered – no, three, come to think of it – who fitted that description. And there had been plenty to faze me. To faze both of us.
‘And remember,’ he said, playing up to his established role of calmer-downer, ‘autism is not the same as Asperger’s, Case.’
‘I know that!’
‘And what if they don’t get on? You’ve considered that scenario, have you?’
‘Of course I have,’ I countered. ‘And we can cross that bridge when we come to it. Anyway, why must you always think of the worst?’
‘I’m glad you mentioned that,’ Mike said, ‘because it might be a bridge we have to cross. Suppose Jenson turns out to be with us for longer than we thought? I’m just trying to make you see all the angles, love, that’s all.’
Which was fine. That was his job, and it was good that I had him to do it. But, at the same time, I had my job. To look always on the bright side. And, being well practised now in such situations, I had answers good and ready for all his supplementary questions as well.
‘After all,’ I said gaily, when Mike finally allowed me to call John back, ‘how difficult can two little boys be?’
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Prologue
His little brothers, the boy saw, were both covered in shit. They’d removed their full nappies and smeared each other in it, while their mother’s dog – a spiteful brown terrier – was busy licking what remained from the bars of their shared cot.
He shooed the dog away and, gagging now, lifted bot
h boys out, and then went to fetch a quilt from his mother’s bedroom. Where had she gone this time? Why was she never there?
He took the boys downstairs, used the quilt to wrap them up warmly on the couch, and tuned the TV to a channel that was showing cartoons. ‘We’re hungry,’ the older one kept repeating plaintively. ‘We’re hungry, Justin. Please Justin. Find us some food.’
There was nothing. There never was. Though he looked for some anyway. In all the cupboards. In the drawers. In the big dirty fridge. He felt tears spring in his eyes. And he also felt anger. He looked at his little brothers, at their hopeful, expectant faces. What was he supposed to feed them with? What was he supposed to do?
Then, suddenly, in that instant of despair, there came clarity. He didn’t have to think. He knew exactly what to do. As if on autopilot now, he took his brothers out into the front garden, sat them down on the grass – still wrapped in the grubby quilt – and told them to stay where they were.
He then returned to the house and looked around the living room for the lighter. Picking it up, he calmly flicked it at the couch. He continued to do this till the couch began burning and then he went and set fire to the curtains.
The dog came downstairs then, its face all smeared with the contents of the brothers’ nappies. The boy ran to the kitchen, to the cupboard under the sink, where there was a container of fluid which he knew was for the lighter. Grabbing this, he returned to the living room again, and squirted the fuel all over the animal’s filthy face.
Taking one last look around, he walked out of the front door, closing it carefully behind him. He then joined his brothers under the quilt, on the grass, and calmly watched while both home and dog perished.
His mother was located, by the police, three hours later. She’d apparently spent the day at a friend’s house. The little boy was just five and a half years old.
Chapter 1
Funny the little details that tend to stick in your mind, isn’t it? The day Justin, the first foster child to ever be placed with us, was due to arrive – a bright but chilly day on the last Saturday before Christmas – all I kept going back to were the same old two things. One of them was just how desperate the social worker seemed to be that we should agree to have him, and the other was the fact that I had black hair.