by Tom Grieves
‘I’ll go.’ He walked out stiffly, collecting his coat. She heard the front door click shut, then she put the kettle on and got back to her marking.
Each day that she parked her battered old car, she wondered if it would be the day that Toby returned. At first she considered the idea with butterflies in her stomach, but after a while she wondered about it idly; ready for him when he did come back, but less expectant. As she turned off the engine, she made a mental note to check on whether they were planning on moving him again. But by the time she was locking the doors, her mind had already slipped forward to how she could persuade Shontayne and Marika to read the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet without causing a riot.
She nearly tripped over Paul Robertson, a spindly lad, who stood in front of her, eager for attention.
‘Not now, Paul.’
‘I got a message, Miss.’
‘Take it to reception.’
‘Can’t. Terry said I have to say it to your face.’
‘Who?’
‘Terry. He said I was to say it when no one could hear. It’s a bit weird too, like. But I’ve got to say it word for word or I don’t get the money.’
‘Alright, I’m listening.’
Paul frowned, concentrating hard. ‘Okay, here goes. Dear Miss. Do not call me. I’ll find you. Your boy is a fuck-load of trouble. Seriously. Seriously. Seriously. Seriously.’ He smiled, embarrassed. ‘He said I had to say “seriously” four times or you wouldn’t get it. And sorry about the swearing, but he said that was important too.’ He stuffed his hands in his pockets and waited.
‘Am I supposed to give you some sort of message back?’
‘Dunno. Don’t think so.’ He was bored already. ‘See ya, Miss.’ He wandered off. Anna watched him saunter down the corridor. He winked at a girl who shouted angrily at him in return. Anna felt sick.
The nausea faded over the day but rose again when she got home and opened one of her pupil’s books for marking, only for a note to fall into her lap. On it was a postcode, a time (the middle of the night) and the letter T. All typed. She wanted to feel excited, as though she were on an adventure, but she just felt stressed. Stressed and deeply inadequate.
She left the flat later and went cautiously to her car, typed the postcode into the satnav, then drove for nearly an hour. She parked near a narrow footbridge which crossed a motorway. Trucks and cars roared past beneath. There were no street lamps. The bridge appeared deserted as she walked towards it and she assumed that Terry hadn’t got there yet. But then a lorry growled beneath her and its headlamps picked the lad out, his hooded top pulled over his head at the far end of the bridge. He was just a shadow and once the truck passed, he was almost invisible again. Anna pulled her coat around her and went over to him.
‘Agent T, I presume.’ He didn’t reply, so she felt compelled to talk. ‘Licensed to drag me to the back of beyond.’
‘Someone’s trying to trace me,’ Terry said sharply. ‘I do some digging on your boy like you asked and now they’re after me.’
‘Who is?’
‘Oddly, I’m not planning to get close enough to them to find out. If I wasn’t so fucking clever I’d be somewhere between Guantanamo and Diego Garcia right now, and I don’t look good in an orange jumpsuit, you know.’
‘Oh come on!’
‘No, shut up!’ She was shocked by the outburst. ‘They know we’re meeting now. They’ll have something in your satnav; they’ll be watching. They might have something stitched into your clothes or in your shoes, but the cars, that noise is screwing that up. Now you’re easy for them. They can have you whenever they want. But they’re not having me.’
Anna couldn’t help but smile. ‘It’s nerves,’ she insisted.
‘You need to take this a shit-load more seriously.’
‘It’s nerves! I’m not really smiling.’
‘If you thought the same as me, then you wouldn’t smile at all, however nervous you were. These people, they don’t stop because you’re a nice little teacher.’
Anna looked down and nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Have you thought about why that boy is covered in scars? What they’re doing to him?’
‘You’ve found something, haven’t you?’
‘The little guy never beats the system, Anna. Never.’
‘Terry—’
‘If you stop now, let them know you’re spooked and want to look the other way, then maybe they’ll ignore you.’
‘Terry.’
He paused, looked away from her, down at the cars which zoomed past below. It was a while before he spoke again.
‘I’m going through it again like you asked, one last time and I find this article in the paper. Totally normal, and cos it’s totally normal I’m about to skip over it, but there’s one thing that stops me, that’s odd – the photos are missing. Article’s there, I found it on three different sites, but the photos have been removed each time. Why do that? Cos the photos are of a three-year-old boy. Called Toby.’
‘You found him!’
‘They think they can control the internet,’ he said angrily. ‘The fucking arrogance! They think they can control the greatest democratic creation in the last millennia, the fucking, fucking … just shut us down …’ He reached into his bag. ‘They think they can control us because we’re lazy and stupid and we won’t be bothered to do it in the old-fashioned way …’ He held up a collection of newspapers. Held them up like trophies. ‘Well fuck ’em.’ And now he allowed himself a smile. ‘Read all about it.’
*
Toby listened as his mother lovingly explained the reasons she thought that it was time he went back to school. He’d been so happy at home, cocooned away from the bullies and careless teachers, but the law was the law, she told him, and he could only hide away for so long.
‘You’ll fall too far behind if you miss any more and then we’ll have to drop you down a year. And you’d hate that.’
He wasn’t sure if he would. He hated school in whatever form it came, but he nodded anyway.
‘It’s not right, really, for me to be the only person you spend your time with. I’m not good at computer games and all those things that you like.’ She took his hand. ‘You need to live.’
He nodded, even though he wanted to argue that this wasn’t what he wanted to do at all. ‘Living’ had, for as long as he remembered, been a complete fucking disaster. But he didn’t want to let her down. She’d packed his things and he walked, head down, to the door where Michael was waiting for him. His father placed a hand gently on his son’s shoulder.
‘Come on, then.’ The two adults stared at the boy. When he looked up, he seemed close to crying.
‘It’s only school, my love.’ His mother pulled him tight to her. ‘I’ll be here at the end of the day. What would you like for dinner? You can choose. A favourite, anything you want. How about it?’
He smiled through the tears. ‘Can I have steak?’
‘Of course you can.’
‘And chips?’
‘A whole plateful!’
He grabbed his bags and took them to the back of the car. He dumped them into the boot, shutting the car door with a confident slam. His hands felt suddenly light without the heavy bags and he didn’t know what to do with them. He noticed a scar that ran horizontally across his fingers. It looked like they’d been shut in a door, or attacked with a blade or … he couldn’t remember. He looked up and saw his parents watching him.
‘Pepper sauce on the steak?’ called his mother.
‘You bet!’ He gave her two thumbs up and felt stupid and childish as he did so.
‘Let’s go then, beat the traffic,’ said his dad, striding past him to the car. ‘You can choose the music today.’
‘Choose something really loud!’ his mother called out, egging him on.
‘Ready to feel your ears bleed, Dad?’
‘Lord help me!’
*
Anna caught sight of Toby by pure chance. She was h
eading off to class because the bell was due to ring soon and only happened to glance out of the window to see him heading through the gates. Immediately she turned heel, grabbed a small folder from a locked drawer in the staffroom and went to find him.
He was skulking in the corridor, clearly waiting for the bell to ring before he entered his class. It was a classic sign of a child trying to avoid bullying. She went up to him and stood by his side as he peered nervously into the classroom.
‘Toby.’
‘Oh hi, Miss.’
‘I didn’t know you were back today.’
‘No. Me neither.’
‘Come with me.’ She walked down the corridor, expecting him to follow, but Toby didn’t move and she had to go back to him. ‘Toby. Come on.’ He hesitated, so she grabbed him by the wrist. ‘Come on.’
She pushed open the door to a small, cramped music room. Music wasn’t the school’s strongest department and this solitary practice room was grubby and stuffy. She felt jittery as she closed door and turned to face the boy.
‘Miss?’
‘Sit down.’ Toby did as he was told. Anna reached into her bag and pulled out a newspaper.
‘Teddy bear,’ was all she said. If he knew what she was alluding to, his face showed no sign of it. He just waited, politely, for her to continue. She flicked through the pages, found the one she wanted and placed it on the music stand so they could both see it. The big headline announced MIRACLE CHILD SURVIVES HORROR CRASH on faded, yellowing paper. Below it was a photograph of a car which had smashed into a tree: a mangle of crumpled metal. Two policemen stood by the car. One of them held a small boy in his arms. The boy, three years old, was laughing. Next to him, the other policeman held up a teddy bear – he held it aloft like a trophy and the little boy was staring up at the bear and laughing. His smiling features contrasted sharply with the bleakness of the accident. Although you couldn’t see them, the photograph seemed to imply that there were people inside the destroyed vehicle. Dead people. Dead parents.
‘See the small boy?’ she asked. Toby nodded. His mouth was agape, his eyes locked onto the photograph. ‘He’s three. His parents were killed instantly in the crash, but he wasn’t hurt.’
Anna took out another newspaper cutting. She passed it to Toby who took it and stared down at it.
‘Here he is again. In hospital after getting the all-clear. Can you see that small scar by his right eye?’
Toby’s hand instinctively went to his own eye. To his own identical scar. Anna knew she didn’t need to say any more. She waited, resting against the battered piano. He looked up again at the newspaper article on the music stand, then at the paper in his hands. His head stayed down for a long time and just as she was about to speak, Anna saw a tear splash onto the paper.
‘Can you remember what happened to you after that, Toby?’
He didn’t reply.
‘Toby?’
‘I remember this.’ He spoke with his head down, more to himself than to her. ‘I’m sure … I think … the teddy was called Lolo.’
‘Your real name is Toby Warner. Here.’ She handed him a birth certificate. ‘Those names there, those are your real parents.’ He looked at the piece of paper, running his finger over its fine calligraphy. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
He looked up at her as if he hadn’t noticed her for a while. ‘This is just a piece of paper,’ he said.
‘I think it’s the truth.’
‘What were they like, Mr and Mrs Warner?’
‘I don’t know much. He was a plumber. She—’
‘Did I go to their bed in the night when I was scared?’
Anna paused, took a breath. ‘You had no other family beyond them. Their parents were dead and your father had an estranged brother who lived in Australia, who had never met you. It took the police a year to find him and tell him the news.’
‘Did they read to me? Was she, Mrs Warner, did she rub my hair to help me sleep?’
‘I think Michael and Laura—’
‘Mum and Dad.’
Anna didn’t know what to say. She knew the photos carried such a punch that the information was like a screaming siren. She knew that this poor boy needed and craved love. And why shouldn’t he?
‘I’m sorry. I just want to help. Stop you from being hurt. They’re not your real parents, Toby.’
He handed the birth certificate back to her in silence, then with a sad smile he said, ‘It’s too weird, all this, isn’t it? Which do you think is the weirdest? Is it that I’m a messed-up kid who keeps getting into trouble and drives his dad mad? A bit of an attention seeker. Or is that I’m … what? Snatched? That my mum isn’t real, that she’s hurting me? On purpose? She makes me spaghetti bolognese and apple crumble and then tortures me when I go to bed? Which sounds the craziest to you, Miss?’
‘Toby—’
‘No. No, I’m sorry, you’re a nice lady, dead nice for a teacher, but Mum and Dad, they’re … they’re mine. Sorry. You’ve been really kind but this … Sorry. I’m sorry.’
And with that, he stumbled out of the room just as the bell rang. Anna came into the corridor as he disappeared into class. She heard a boy shout ‘Fucking hell, it’s back!’ and a roar of laughter from within the class before the teacher inside cooled the hysterics. Soon the corridor was empty and her own class awaited. She sagged at the thought, then saw that Kath was watching her from the other side of the corridor.
‘Kath. Hi.’
‘Hey. What was that?’
‘What?’
‘You and that boy.’
‘Oh. Me not following your advice again. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Right,’ said Kath, frowning. When she spoke again, it was quieter. ‘I do, though. You should be careful.’
‘Yeah, well …’ Anna crumpled the newspapers in her hands and started to walk towards her classroom. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway.’
‘Why not?’ her friend asked, walking with her.
‘Whole thing’s a waste of time.’ Anna wondered how Toby could turn his back on her, on the truth as simply as that. She wanted to kick him. But something about his refusal was also a relief for her. This could all go away now.
Kath seemed pleased by this. Relieved, almost. Anna wondered why she should care, but then she saw two girls outside her class shouting and she forgot about her almost immediately.
*
Toby didn’t even glance in Anna’s direction as he walked out of the school gates at the end of the day. His father was waiting for him as he always did and greeted him warmly. They laughed together about nonsense during the drive home and his mother gave him a long, tight hug at the front door. He dismissed their concerns about the abuse he’d received that day as a trifle and chomped happily on the steak he’d been promised. That night, he lay in his bed with his hands behind his head, content. Ghosts laid to rest. He turned off the bedside light, closed his eyes and didn’t move for ages, until a restless muscle made him twitch and his eyes flickered open.
He stared at the ceiling as the house got darker and quieter. He heard his father brushing his teeth, heard the loo flush. He listened to a murmured conversation about groceries from his parents’ bedroom. And then the house hunkered down for the night. Outside, all was quiet.
Toby tried to hold his eyes shut. But a whisper fluttered, featherlike, across his thoughts. It twisted and turned. Toby Warner.
Eventually he could resist it no more. He pulled the covers off. Silently he tiptoed out of the bedroom. He paused on the landing, listening. He heard his father’s heavy breathing and, emboldened, he slipped downstairs.
He walked into the dark kitchen, not sure what he was looking for. There was a big clock on the wall which ticked with an old-fashioned tock. Everything had been cleaned, tidied and put in its rightful place. He opened a drawer; it was full of familiar items – wooden spoons, a corkscrew, a ladle. He stared at them, then slid the drawer shut, enjoying the order, the silence, the reassurance of the clock’s he
artbeat.
In the living room, he sat on the carpet in the middle of the room. He collected the framed photographs of him and his parents that adorned every available surface and laid them out in a circle around him. One by one he inspected each photograph. He saw his grinning face between his parents on a beach in Cornwall, outside a museum in London, at the top of a fell in the Lake District. He stroked the frames, as though they were friends or pets.
His father’s office was even tidier than the kitchen. A computer lay on a curved desk that they had bought in Ikea. Small piles of carefully organised paperwork sat in neat rectangles. All present and correct. Toby spun around in the office chair. There were graphs on the walls, a photograph of his parents on their wedding day, a paperweight and a stack of biros. Another photograph showed his dad on a fishing trip with some buddies that Toby didn’t know. He held up a gigantic fish, laughing, exuberant. There was a joy and wildness in his features that Toby had never seen. Toby ran his hand along the bookshelf, but it was all work stuff which bored him. He slumped in front of the desk and pulled open the drawers which had nothing of interest inside. Except one. Which was locked. Toby glanced around, irritated. Then he remembered a set of keys his father always had attached to his belt.
The keys lay next to the telephone on his father’s bedside table. The room was dark, with heavy curtains and a deep carpet that allowed Toby to slip into the room unnoticed. He watched his dad sleeping. It was something he’d never done before. His father’s face was only inches from the keys on the bedside table and Toby felt a jolt of nerves. But he reached forward regardless and put his hand around them, clutching the keys tight to avoid any clinking. Carefully he raised his hand … and took five slow steps backwards and away to the relative safety of the landing.
Back in the study, he could feel his heart beating hard – he could actually see his T-shirt vibrate to the rhythm of his heartbeat. He looked at it for a while before sitting back in the chair, placing the key in the lock and turning it. He pulled the draw open and stared inside. Everything was neatly arranged. Some sterile cloths and wipes in one corner. Next to them were several small bottles. Toby pulled them out, one at a time, returning them to their exact original position. They had different contents. Some had pills, white and smooth. Others had liquids – pale yellow in some, colourless in others. They were labelled with names Toby didn’t understand: ‘Sinemet’ and ‘Amantidine’. It was hard to understand the chemical phrases, but the word ‘anaesthetic’ and ‘disinfectant’ stood out. He carefully opened a bottle and sniffed. The smell reminded him of his wounds in the morning. At the back of the drawer were several small, white, rectangular paper boxes. Toby took one and opened it. From inside, a syringe slipped out onto his open hand. Each box contained ten syringes. The box he held was half empty.