Too Hurt to Stay: The True Story of a Troubled Boy’s Desperate Search for a Loving Home

by Casey Watson

  But I was stopped in my tracks even before I could get so much as a word out. John wasn’t, it turned out, calling to find out about the weekend. Quite the opposite. It was in fact to fill me in.

  ‘I’ve got bad news, I’m afraid,’ was almost the first thing he said to me, knocking my happy mood straight into touch.

  ‘Bad?’ I asked, noticing the heavy sigh that had gone with it. ‘What’s happened? How bad is bad, John?’

  ‘Pretty bad,’ he said. ‘Bottom line, Casey, is that I’ve had Glenn on the phone for half an hour this morning. Seems the Herringtons were on to social services first thing. They’ve decided they don’t want Spencer back.’

  ‘What?’ I gasped, stunned. ‘What, ever?’

  ‘I know,’ John said. ‘I can hardly believe it myself. But they’re adamant, Glenn says, especially after this weekend.’

  This brought me up short. ‘But how can that be? What are you talking about? The visit went so well. Well, compared to the last two, for sure. Spencer was so happy when we picked him up.’

  ‘Er, that’s not quite the way the Herringtons have described it, Casey. According to them it was a nightmare, and they’re now saying seeing him is having a detrimental effect on the other kids.’

  Oh, and her drinking isn’t? I thought, though I bit my tongue and didn’t say it. But I was aghast at this development. How could there be so much disparity between what they said and Spencer said? ‘How?’ I asked John. ‘How was it a nightmare?’

  ‘As in he bit his little sister on the face,’ John explained. ‘As in he threw hot spaghetti at one of his brothers. They’re adamant, Casey. No point in us railing against it. Got to think of what’s going to be best for young Spencer. No point trying to get him home if they’ve completely washed their hands of him.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, feeling the upset and anger throb like a pulse in my temple. How could they do that? How could they just abandon their own flesh and blood? All too easily, came the reply of the realist inside me. Happened all the time. Hadn’t I seen it first hand? ‘But what now? And how am I going to tell him? You know he’s going to react …’

  ‘Pretty badly, I know. Poor kid. But don’t worry. I’m not going to leave you to deal with that on your own. Wouldn’t be fair. No, we’re going to have to start looking for a long-term placement for him. But don’t you break it to him. That needs to come from me. How about I come over for when you get back from the school run this afternoon? Would that be okay for you? Softly, softly, of course. I won’t lay it on the line in one hit. Oh, and I almost forgot. Did he say anything to you about a guinea pig? Apparently they’re short of one of theirs and Kerry Herrington’s saying Spencer might have let it out of the cage on purpose.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t even know they had any bloody guinea pigs!’ I felt a fleeting and mirthless smile cross my features. What irony. ‘They’re clearly as good at keeping an eye on guinea pigs as they are children, eh, John? But no.’ I finished, thinking, Well, tough, frankly Kerry … ‘He didn’t come back with one stuffed up his jumper, if that’s what they expected … I think I would have noticed if he had done, don’t you?’

  Maybe it took itself off to social services, I thought wryly. Unprofessional, I knew, because Kerry Herrington clearly needed help. But Spencer needed more help. So I couldn’t help it.

  Upset though I was as the hours ticked by till home time, I grew more resigned. Yes, I’d be left to pick up the pieces in the short term, which I could hardly bear to think about, but, ultimately, if his parents – particularly his mother – didn’t want him then Spencer would be better off without them. If they’d truly set their minds on it there was nothing I could do, and, in any case, I’d seen the sort of damage that could be done to a child when they were allowed to keep hoping when all hope was lost. Or, worse, kept being given hope by parents who seesawed between wanting their kid back and then changing their minds again. If this was the final cut, better it happen and be done with it, so that poor Spencer could have a shot at building a new, more settled life. Still, my mood was at least productive. I polished the whole house into sparkling submission, though no amount of furious dusting could help me answer the simple question – why?

  I hated picking him up. I felt so devious and dishonest, responding to his chirpy chatter about his day with an equally jolly manner of my own, pretending everything was normal, when ‘normal’ was about as far removed from this child’s life as it was possible to be.

  ‘What’s he want?’ Spencer asked as we pulled up outside the house to see John, who’d now spotted us, get out of his car. He sighed theatrically. ‘What have I done now?’

  ‘I don’t know love,’ I lied, keeping my voice light, though my stomach was churning. As well it might. There was no doubt that in a very short time the rest of the day was going to morph into an emotional nightmare. ‘Nothing, I’m sure,’ I said. ‘Anyway, we’ll see, won’t we? Why don’t you go straight up and get out of your uniform while I get you a drink and see why he’s here?’

  Spencer trotted off happily enough. He was clearly not that bothered by John’s arrival, which made the disparity between the two reports of the home visit feel even stranger. If he’d done what they’d said, surely alarm bells would be ringing? Or was this all another facet of the sociopath tag? I didn’t know it, but I was about to have my mind somewhat concentrated in that regard, and how.

  I gathered milk and biscuits, then pulled down mugs and brewed coffee, while John stood, hands in pockets, looking every inch the man with a necessary but deeply unpleasant job to do. And it was a look I could see was beginning to impact on Spencer as he returned to the kitchen and looked at us both.

  ‘Let’s go and all of us sit at the table, shall we?’ I told him. ‘Have a snack while John has a little chat with us.’

  Spencer sat, as directed, now looking plainly anxious. I was grateful that John didn’t beat around the bush. ‘Spencer,’ he began, ‘there are some things I have to say to you, but two things first – one is that you need to listen to what I’m going to say very carefully, and the other is that you understand that none of this is your fault, okay?’ Spencer nodded silently, his big brown eyes looking huge in his pale face. I watched his hand gripping his glass a little harder.

  ‘So Spencer, the thing is,’ John began, ‘that for the time being the contact sessions with your family have to stop …’ He paused, as if waiting for a response, but there was none. Spencer just continued to watch him, immobile. ‘They haven’t been going too well, you see, have they? And, well, your mum hasn’t been coping as well as we’d hoped. The thing is, Spencer, that, well, until the grown-ups work everything out, you might have to stay in care … will have to stay in care for longer than we’d hoped, which will mean’ – he glanced at me now – ‘us finding you a different, long-term family. A family who are used to taking care of kids for longer periods than Casey and Mike do, and who …’

  It was like a bomb had been detonated, so completely was the sound of John’s voice drowned out. ‘Nooooo!’ Spencer roared. ‘Nooo!’ he raged, leaping to his feet and sending his glass of milk flying. ‘Fuck that! Fuck you! I’m going home and you can’t stop me!’ He launched himself at John then, punching him and kicking him while screaming obscenities. ‘Fuck you! I hate you! I fucking hate you all!’

  John did his best to defend himself and to try and restrain Spencer, while I jumped up and tried to calm him down too. Within moments John had Spencer pinned against him, his body facing outwards, his legs still thrashing out like pistons and his feet catching me sporadically, as he kicked out. ‘Come on, love,’ I pleaded with him. ‘This won’t help, will it? Spencer, you’re going to hurt yourself. Please, love. Please stop. It’s not John’s fault.’

  ‘I hate you!’ he screamed at me. ‘I hate you. I hate you! You’re s’posed to fix me but you’re rubbish. You can’t fix no kids. You’re stupid and I hate you! I HATE you!’

  The tears sprang in my eyes as I watched his fa
ce contort, deformed by the pain that was coursing through his body. How much hurt could one small child endure, for God’s sake? How devastating must it be to be told your parents don’t want you? Just you. Not your siblings. Just you. You alone. Discarded. And so easily. Just by means of a phone call, leaving the Johns of the world – not to mention the likes of me and Mike – to deal with the devastating fall-out.

  ‘Love,’ I kept repeating, ‘please stop. This isn’t John’s fault. Please love, calm down so we can talk all this through. Try to explain things to you …’

  ‘Like what?’ he yelled, tears streaming down scarlet cheeks now. He was still jerking himself backwards, trying to hurt John. ‘Like nobody wants me? Well, fine. I don’t need no one. I can take care of myself. Let me go an’ I can go an’ get my stuff and get out of here, and you can tell my mum I’m glad what I did to the fucking guinea pig!’

  The guinea pig. I looked at John. Oh, God, so it was true. Spencer’s expression confirmed it. His eyes were wild.

  ‘Spencer …’ I started.

  ‘Yeah, I took it,’ he screeched. ‘An’ it’s dead an’ I’m glad!’

  As he said this John must have loosened his grip temporarily, because Spencer suddenly broke free and thundered off up the stairs. John, catching his breath, as I was, shook his head.

  ‘Casey, leave him. He can’t get out from up there, can he?’

  ‘Actually, he can,’ I corrected him. ‘Through the skylight, remember?’

  I headed out of the room and started up the stairs. I soon realised that Spencer hadn’t gone into his bedroom. He’d gone into the bathroom. Perhaps he was being sick. It wouldn’t have surprised me at all. He was in such a state.

  But it at least meant he wasn’t about to scarper again. ‘Oh, God, John,’ I said, turning, as he followed me up the stairs. ‘Oh God – something’s just occurred to me. The box –’

  ‘What box?’

  ‘The box he brought back on Saturday,’ I panted. ‘The box he said was full of his dinosaur books. It’s in the shed …’

  John frowned. ‘Okay, you go up and deal with Spencer,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to help anything. I’m the messenger, remember? You go and talk to him and I’ll go out to the shed and have a look.’ He ploughed his hair back into place. He looked like he’d just lost a prize fight. Up on the landing, the bathroom door, predictably, was locked. I could hear Spencer sobbing but he wouldn’t respond to me. I racked my brains for ways he could harm himself in there, but could find none except the obvious, because we’d been fostering too long now to be anything less than hyper-vigilant in such matters. And I could hear no water running, in any case. My hunch was that Spencer wouldn’t do that to himself anyway. Perhaps he just needed to cry it out for a bit. Which was fine. I could sit here for as long as that took.

  I was still listening at the door when John reappeared down in the hall with the box. His expression was questioning as he started up the stairs again. ‘This it?’

  I nodded dumbly as he approached. ‘I can hardly bear to –’

  ‘Phew. You won’t have to,’ he said, opening it and as he did so flapping his hand to stir the air in front of his face. Sure enough, one guinea pig. Entombed. And very dead.

  The following few days were just terrible. It had taken over an hour to coax Spencer out of the bathroom, and he was in such a state I couldn’t even begin to think about bringing up the guinea pig. By the time I’d got him out, I had already sent John away, and asked him to deal with the poor animal before he left.

  But it weighed heavily. First there’d been the little girl whose head Spencer had calmly held under the water, and now this. This horrible interment of a family pet. It was a chilling image, a chilling concept. Perhaps the psychologist was right. Perhaps Spencer was a sociopath. Perhaps he had been born evil after all.

  I hated my thoughts, but what sort of person could do that? The answer, of course, was staring me in the face. A very hurt, profoundly damaged child, that’s who. Of which I’d already had experience in our first foster child, Justin. Some kids lash out, some kids self-harm, some do both. Justin, aged five, had burned down his family home, deliberately killing his mother’s much-loved dog in the process, to pay her back for destroying his own, then short, life, not only through cruelty and staggering neglect but also by making him perform sexual favours for her pushers, to get her hands on her drugs.

  No, I thought, you didn’t need to be a sociopath to do the things Spencer had done. Just be very, very damaged and distressed.

  But was it a life sentence? Not necessarily. Justin was fine now. Though he was never going to fully integrate in the wider world of close relationships, much less within his family, he was a functioning, working adult with a decent quality of life now – and still very much a part of our family. Whatever ailed Spencer, we shouldn’t give up hope.

  Nevertheless, bearing witness first hand to what he’d done made it hard to function normally around him. We also decided not to tell Kieron, which made it even harder. We knew he’d be appalled. I hated being the keeper of such a horrible secret.

  Spencer himself kept his counsel. He was able to calm down sufficiently by the following afternoon that John was able to pop back round, sit down with him and talk to him both about what he’d done to the guinea pig – which he approached with great delicacy – and what would happen, in the short term, to Spencer himself.

  But I could see Spencer withdrawing into himself, slowly but oh so surely. Saw his glazed expression, concealing I’m sure a maelstrom of feelings, which he’d clearly decided there was no longer any point in sharing. He went to school each day, worked hard – they said so daily – and came home again, and interacted with us superficially normally. But it was as if the door that I’d been ever so slowly inching open had now been locked again, and I no longer had a key. And perhaps I never would now. It certainly seemed so.

  John, in the meantime, had been busy. Given the incident with the guinea pig and the need to prepare a report ready for a new placement, he’d arranged with Glenn that Spencer be seen again by the psychologist, in an attempt to learn anything extra that could be fathomed about what was going on in his head.

  ‘And what about Penny?’ I asked him, when he called to run through the latest update. The one thing Spencer had asked me was when he might next be going swimming.

  ‘Well, for the time being they’ve decided to put that on hold. Her workload’s huge as it is, and until we’re completely sure what we’re dealing with … well, you know how things are with the budget. Though, fingers crossed, once we get the latest report back from the psychologist … Which brings me to the next thing.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Which was – and we’d known this was coming: how could it not be? – that John wanted to know if Mike and I would hang on to Spencer for a little while longer.

  ‘What with everything,’ he said, apologetically, ‘it’s going to be tricky, as you can imagine now, moving forward.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘Of course. Finding suitably robust and experienced carers will be a challenge, we appreciate that. Especially ones young enough and energetic enough to cope with him. He’s not the sort of child who’s going to work well with an older couple, I don’t think.’

  ‘Well, actually, it’s not that,’ he said. ‘It’s really that things have changed now.’ With which words he then delivered his final blow. ‘We’re not looking for mainstream foster carers,’ he said. ‘Not any more. You’ve probably guessed, haven’t you?’

  ‘No,’ I said. Because I hadn’t. ‘You’re not looking for long-term specialists?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It was an option, but, well, we’re all agreed now. No. It’s been a hard decision to reach, but the consensus is that we have little choice, given everything that’s happened. We’re looking to find him – well, for the foreseeable future anyway – a place in a secure unit somewhere.’

  I was aghast. He was eight! It simply hadn’t occurred to me t
hat someone so young could be considered for somewhere like that. They were places for violent, disturbed teenagers, weren’t they? Dangerous adolescents. I said as much to John.

  ‘We’ve no choice,’ he told me again. ‘This is a child who already displays very dangerous behaviours. To do anything else would be irresponsible. Fire-fighting, really. It wouldn’t be fair to place him just anywhere, you know that.’

  And the tragedy was that I did. He was right. As much as others would need protection from Spencer, he really did need protection from himself. And as John explained, these places were set up to deal with these extreme kids. They had resources to which the fostering service might never have access.

  ‘Best place,’ John finished. ‘For now, at least. You know that.’

  And I did, but I couldn’t help but think about that guinea pig. Once Spencer was incarcerated in such a place, in that system, what chance was there he’d ever live a normal life again? Minuscule, we both knew. I was heartbroken.

  Chapter 19

  If I was heartbroken, Spencer was just, well, broken. Hurtling in that direction, anyway. It really seemed that now he knew he wasn’t going home again, he was determined to show us just how ‘evil’ he could be, doing that thing that, distressingly, children could do so well: obliging everyone who thought only the very worst of him, by turning into the monster he’d now officially been labelled. He really did seem to be on a path to self-destruction. As the next few days passed – in something of a haze for me – it seemed there was a constant stream of misdemeanours being reported by the neighbours. He broke two cars’ wing mirrors; he kicked a cat; he beat another child up. Like Pavlov’s dogs, I too was becoming conditioned – to be traumatised every time I heard the doorbell.

  As his carers, Mike and my role in the current situation was clear. While John and Glenn began exploring the options in terms of finding a secure unit that would take such a young boy, we had to stick rigidly, as we’d been doing, to the behaviour modification programme, however hollow or pointless it now seemed.