by John Young
He pauses to sit on the table closer to me, as if that will make his chat friendlier and easier to accept. I move my chair back to avoid any condescension or imposed sociability. I’ve lost control of my life again. This guy is supposed to be on my side, but he’s really part of the problem – he’s not going to win me over by being all pally. While I gripe about him in my head, he continues his well-rehearsed advice.
“You’ll likely be taken into care until such a time that it is safe for you to go home or an alternative home is found for you. Do you understand, Connor?”
I don’t understand. I just want to go home. I look after myself well enough when Mum isn’t there.
I begin to worry that she is really ill.
“When can I go see my mum?”
“I can’t say when. Rest assured, you will be able to see her soon.”
I swear at him. ‘Rest assured?’ He may as well have told me I’ll never see her again. I feel even more alone and frightened than I did when I first arrived. What’s happened? She’s been there through Erica dying, Dad being taken away and then me getting cancer – why is it too much now? My panicked aggression is taking over, so I try to regain control. I nod, remembering that the thick silver lining on this current black cloud of mine is that wherever I’m sent, Skeates won’t be there.
“OK, let’s go,” he says.
He leads me into a room. I’m expecting to find a pompous little shit in a wig behind a large desk. Instead, I’m faced with a boring room containing a table, soft chairs, biscuits, and three smiles with first names, wearing comfy clothes. Janet, Craig and Barbara invite us to sit around the table. We are joined by a Children’s Panel reporter and a lady from social services. I guess the chummy ambience is to make the process seem trusting and friendly, which it doesn’t. You can’t dress up hell as a sweetshop.
The hearing passes me by and I spend the time counting the tiled carpet squares and looking at the dog poo on the side of Barbara’s loafers. She must have a wee black dog at home because I can see thick black hairs on her tights.
“Connor, ahem, Connor,” says Blair after his speech.
I look up.
“Did you understand that?”
I shrug. They take that as a yes and I’m shown back to the interview room. Blair sees my blank face and tries to appease me without understanding what’s really going on in my head.
“There will be others in the same position as you at Dachaigh House, so don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” He sees my concern and carries on soft-soaping me. “It isn’t like it used to be, you’ll be well looked after.” He smiles, which adds to the sense of doom.
‘Well looked after’ – that could mean anything. I don’t care for his chat. I just wish my Dad was here. If he was, I would go home with him and Mum wouldn’t be off the rails. Though I wonder what I would say to him after all this time.
Blair leaves me with a woman in a uniform. She smiles at me, she’s pretty. A few minutes later I’m ushered out the front of the council building to a new beginning. Weirdly, I have to say that I’m suddenly a little excited. Maybe it’s my body confusing the adrenaline from the fear as something good? My small bag of gear is in the bus already and I sit behind the driver. The uniform sits on the other side, behind the front passenger seat, holding a large paper bag from a chemist. I recognise the shape and size and guess she has my meds, so I know I’m going somewhere for the foreseeable future. Despite my natural instinct to hate the system. I’m forever surprised at how efficient it can be. Like, how do they know what medicines I take? Am I betraying my dad by feeling OK with this? It’s the same system that took him away!
Then it dawns on me: the other misfits in care will see me limping about and it’s back to square one again, trying to fit in like on my first day at high school. Not that I can do anything about it, I’m in the system now.
The journey isn’t long; Dachaigh House is just on the other side of Stornoway. We arrive at what looks like a school building. I’m escorted inside by the lady in uniform, who talks kindly all the way. Rambling and well-meaning. I like her, even though she’s part of the system too.
The man at the desk takes her papers and smiles at me. “Hi Connor, can you take a seat there please?”
I sit on a soft, short-legged chair and twiddle my hands nervously while wondering what sort of demented headcases are locked up in Dachaigh House.
“These are for Connor. His medication has to be taken every morning and evening, so make sure that it’s on the rota,” she says to the desk man. He takes them, places them into a plastic container. He prints off a big red label, sticks it on the front, and thanks her in Gaelic.
“Tapadh leat, Elise.”
Elise the uniform winks, says good luck to me and returns to the bus.
I twiddle my thumbs and count carpet tiles again. The waiting area is quiet, just the soporific hum of air con and distant phones ringing to lift the sound away from silence. Twenty-five by thirty tiles, alternate green and brown squares, two hundred thumb twiddles without touching. Raised voices crush the peace. I look towards the source, the handle on the door to my right twists down. More shouts, swearing this time.
“No!” I say aloud.
My heart begins to thump as I recognise the voice. That slightly high-pitched island drawl is unmistakable. Even so, I try to dismiss the thought as some cruel joke. As the door opens I realise that it’s fate having the laughs. My new beginning turns to a nightmare.
Out comes Skeates.
I don’t believe it. I’m too shocked to understand or say anything. As Skeates nears, he glances at me as if he’s never seen me before. I look down and don’t look up again. I hear his steps growing louder. I wait for a punch, or a vicious threat. It doesn’t happen. His footsteps fade away.
Chapter 6
Underdogs
Skeates has ignored me since we arrived at Dachaigh House more than a week ago. It’s like he never knew me. Ever. I want to take that as a good thing. Maybe I can get on with my new life? Or maybe he’s plotting something? Maybe he’s ashamed that we went to the same school.
The funny thing is, I feel hurt, disappointed. I find this unsettling – as if being ignored is worse that being bullied. Skeates was the man about school, the cool one, the hard one. People around him felt cool and hard too. His independence, confidence and dark, crass humour are characteristics that kids admire. And any attention, even negative attention, is better than being a nobody.
I know he’s up to something. But there are new things to think about so most of the time I don’t dwell on him. Maybe that chapter of my life is over.
I got to see my mum in hospital the other day, escorted by one of the Dachaigh staff. Emma came too. I was really glad of that because although Mum seemed fine and happy to see me, it was like she wasn’t really there. A cloudy veil of sedatives hid her personality. I got really scared on the way home and would have felt very alone without Emma teasing me.
Nice of them to let you out for the day.
Should you not be in handcuffs?
I never knew any criminals before, Connor!
Will the men in white coats be waiting for you?
We both roared with laughter, and being in care suddenly seemed, for a while, to be no big deal. When she left me back at Dachaigh House, smiling and waving as she departed, I wondered why I ever thought she was miserable.
Mrs MacDonald called to Dachaigh twice, too, but thankfully didn’t stay long. Everything at Dachaigh operates on a timetable and we never deviate from it. So far I’ve stayed out of bother. I like it a lot more than I thought I would, and we’re pretty much left alone as long as the rules are followed. Bed at 9 p.m., up at 7 a.m., lessons, activities, no messing about. We’re fed and well catered for. I feel stronger and may even have put on a bit of weight.
The teachers and staff are all OK, they just do their job and go home. There are other people to worry about, other guests, inmates, boys that have violent tendencies. I’ve avoided
them so far and am still trying to glean info on them from my roommate, Hamish. He’s a tall, gangly ginger guy from Benbecula. His mum used to take him out shoplifting on the mainland instead of school, so the Children’s Panel put him in here and the Sheriff put his mum in prison in the hope it would break the habit. We share a bunk room, with our own desk, sink and wardrobes. He’s lanky and his feet stick out the bottom of his bed through the wooden slats. It looks dead funny to me. I have loads of room ’cause I’m tiny in comparison. Hamish is quiet and nervy, but jokey too. I think he would normally be really chatty, but he keeps his mouth shut in here.
“Who’re they, Hamish?” I ask him as we sit down for lunch.
“Don’t ask about them,” he says, deliberately not looking to where I point.
“I recognise them from about the town.” I shrug.
“Naw seriously, Connor, they’re bad lads. That big one is called Cyclops, the one with all the tattoos is Gordo. They’ll end up in prison eventually, this is just a pit stop for them. I heard they’d been bringing in drugs through the port. Serious guys, Connor. They’ll look out for a softy, a runner to do their dirty work for them and more. Don’t give them any cause to hate you.”
I shrug again. I’m life-limited anyway, so I have nothing to fear from them. I only asked because Skeates is making a move towards them. I watch his progress over my lunch of slimy potatoes, some sort of meat stew and carrots.
Skeates is trying to look hard. He stands a bit away from them, rolling his shoulders round and round, then circling his head.
“Do you know him?” asks Hamish.
“Yeah, Skeates. He was at my school. A real header.”
“He must be to talk to them.”
The room gradually goes quiet as everyone senses a change in atmosphere. The silence accelerates until not even the scrape of a plate can be heard. Auto-functions, like blinking and breathing are on hold.
“You owe me,” says Skeates.
Cyclops looks to his tattooed mate Gordo – he must be chief backup. Skeates will have sussed that out too. Cyclops tells Skeates what to do with his ‘owe me’.
Skeates jumps him and the whole place goes into meltdown.
Cyclops is hard alright, but no match for Skeates. I hate to admit it, but I have to admire Skeates. I’m almost chuffed to know him, despite the history between us. I start screaming for Skeates to finish the guy off, like I’m possessed or something. I can’t explain why I shout for him, but I do. The hard men of Dachaigh, the ones everyone stays away from, the ones who are on their way to a career of serious crime and violence, are being faced down by my school ‘mate’. Surely I can be proud of that?
“Skeates! Skeates! Skeates!” I shout.
Out of the corner of my eye, amongst the chaos, I see Gordo about to join in the fray. Skeates won’t survive this. He kicks Skeates over and Cyclops jumps on top. Skeates is finished. I hate to watch the underdog getting a beating, outnumbered and defenceless. It strikes a note with me. Skeates yells as he’s kicked. Weirdly, I really want to help him.
“Aw sod it,” I say, as a rush of pure and stupid adrenaline takes possession of my body. I unclip my caliper and rip off my boot. I take it in both hands and crack the caliper down on Gordo’s head. He’s stunned, and the buckle cuts his face. It’s no doubt painful, but he gets his wits back and turns on me. I leap on him like that baby alien grips John Hurt’s face in the Alien film and I’m lost in the torment of the whole thing.
Suddenly, I’m grabbed from behind, my arms swinging wildly, then more hands grip me tightly and push me to the ground. Skeates is dragged up, still holding onto Cyclops, and they are wrestled apart.
The whole thing is over – barring the cleaning up, the hospital work on Cyclops and the questions about what to do about me and Skeates, who is now grinning at me, giving me the big thumbs up.
And I’m chuffed to bits. No idea why. Skeates is still a headcase.
Chapter 7
Common Denominator
Skeates and I sit on the stumpy chairs in the waiting area at the front of Dachaigh House. Like big boys on small bikes, our knees are up round our ears. Cyclops and Gordo have been moved to another house and Skeates and I wait to return to the Children’s Panel. He’s convinced we’ll be sent somewhere more secure.
The atmosphere has changed between us, although I haven’t figured out what it means.
“Must be Friday chairs,” I say, to break the ice.
Skeates turns slowly. He glares. A grin slowly cracks across his face. It’s not the evil grin that I’m used to.
“Friday chairs?”
“You know, made at the end of a shitty week when all the guys want to go home?”
“Aye, or made by wee folk with big arses,” he says.
We both laugh.
Skeates is wearing his usual gear: jeans, white shirt, sweater and dark jacket. I’m wearing my dad’s Proclaimers t-shirt again, and black Harrington jacket. I’m used to the t-shirt now and I worry that if I leave it about someone will nick it. I wear it like it’s a good luck charm.
Skeates laughs at me. “Proclaimers, what are you like?”
“It’s my dad’s.”
He nods, like he understands something. Like our lives have a connection, a common denominator. I always look for a connection. Take me and Emo, for example: our common denominator is that we’re both social outcasts.
“Why’d you jump on the back of that scrap, Connor?” he asks.
“They would have finished you off.”
“And? You must hate me, so why step in?”
“Naw, I hate people pushing their weight about. You looked like you needed help.”
“You what?”
I shrug.
“You’re nuts. You could have got yourself killed.”
I shrug again. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I didn’t really think about it. I just leapt.”
“I would’ve had them, but thanks anyway.”
I laugh.
“I would’ve, straight up. They would’ve been toast.”
“Yeah,” I say, slightly panicked about how to keep the chat going now that it’s started. I haven’t figured out yet why I want to talk to him. He’s someone I know, someone who was king of the school and now he is in the same shit as me – another common denominator.
“Why haven’t your parents weighed in?” I ask him.
“My dad’s dead and my mum left,” says Skeates, matter-of-factly.
Dead dad, that’s worse than dad in prison. I’m about to enquire further when he asks, “What about your mum?”
“She’s in hospital in Inverness.” I didn’t want to tell him why. I don’t know why. Mental health is mental.
“It’s Young Offenders for us,” Skeates says.
I turn and stare at him while he carries on his chat.
“We’re lost causes, Connor, their only aim is to lock us up.”
I shrug. “Come on, Skeates, we’re only fifteen.”
“Being in Dachaigh House, a secure unit, with a Reporter on our case, and two charges of violence, Young Offenders is the next step. There’s nowhere else for us to go.”
I don’t like his downer. Right now even Emo would look chirpier than Skeates. I wonder about her for a moment. She would know what to say to the suits and I think she’d like my plan, which is to argue that I was defending a friend who had been attacked. I start to text her what’s happened but decide not to. I sneak a picture of Skeates with my phone and send it to her with the caption:
“I’m at the zoo.”
She replies right away:
“I love the monkey enclosure! Give him a banana”
“Why did you jump Cyclops if you knew what would happen?” I ask Skeates.
“His brother robbed my house the day you attacked me. He heard I was in hospital with concussion.”
“Concussion?”
He laughs, “Yeah, when you jumped me in physics I toppled off the stool and cracked ma napper on the flo
or.”
“No shit?”
He nods.
“Sorry like.”
“Sod it. I was being a dobber.”
“Too right you were,” I laugh.
“Back to now,” he says, “all they care about is putting us somewhere, anywhere, as long as they don’t hear from us again. We’re stuffed, Connor.”
I shrug again.
“They won’t send us to Young Offenders, we’re just kids.” I say this unconvincingly, now less sure. He gives me his stupid gullible look as I to try to persuade him otherwise, even though he has loads more experience of the law than me. “Prisons are full of crims and kids need direction, so they won’t send us to prison. Anyway, we have our lawyers.” I think, as I say that, how cool it sounds. Then I remember my drippy lawyer, Blair, and my confidence goes and my voice falters. “They’ll tell the panel all about us – you know all the stuff that makes us what we are? It isn’t our fault. We need help, not prison.”
He shakes his head and snorts. “It’s too late.” He looks me in the eyes. “You won’t last a second in a Young Offender Institute.”
I drop my head, hoping he’s wrong.
We sit in silence. I hate dwelling on bad shit so I say anything to keep the chat alive. Although my choice of subject isn’t too chirpy either. “Sorry about your dad.”
“Don’t be, the guy was a right roaster. I didn’t know him, he came and went when he felt like it. Beat my mum up and took whatever he wanted and left. Mum never talked about him, she never took his name or gave it to me, we moved around a lot. End of story.”
“Where’s your mum now?”
“I heard she was in Aberdeen. She left a few years ago; she took off bit by bit over a few years. One day she never returned. I don’t blame her. Anyway, she set me up with some money and paid the bills, at least until recently.”
A bus arrives and the driver chats with the security man at the desk. Elise, the same sexy uniformed lady that brought me here, follows him in. She waves hi and warm-smiles me again, and the two of them enter an office to do paperwork or have a cuppa.